'This might hurt a little,’ said the therapist ahead of my first session of laser hair removal back in the early 2000s (in the same way that childbirth can feel mildly uncomfortable, it turns out). I left the session with blister-like bumps over every inch of my legs, from upper thigh to ankle, and breathing in the smell of singed hair, but also with a feeling of complete euphoria at my new state of hairlessness. Let me explain...
As an early millennial, I grew up on a diet of dubious body goals that included (but were not limited to) Kate Moss’s legs, Britney’s abs, J.Lo’s bum, Jennifer Aniston’s, well, everything. And something all these women had in common (as well as their wretchedly unattainable figures) was their lack of body hair. Each and every one of them was blissfully bald from the neck down.
Women, we were being told, do not have body hair. The Brazilian wax had a moment, then was hotly succeeded by the Hollywood. A whole generation of boys grew up with FHM covers as their yardstick by which to measure female hairiness, or lack thereof. To parade a pube in public was akin to dropping the c-bomb, while sightings of female armpit hair literally made front-page news: Julia Roberts at the Notting Hill premiere being a case in point.
The 1990s and 2000s were not, unfortunately for me, decades for the hirsute. Half of my heritage is Italian, so, along with the bonus of slightly olive skin, I took a hit by being, on the whole, hairier than average. Such is life; such are genetics. And as much as I grew up wanting to be all European and casual about my body hair – particularly as my parents championed such an attitude – I was not.
I wanted to be the girls on the FHM covers, who, I presumed, could lark around in a bikini without a second thought about pre-swimwear de-fuzzing. Somewhere in my genome sequencing, however, I was gifted the really-hairy gene and, for laughs, it was combined with the very-sensitive-skin gene. This made pre-swimwear hair removal a military operation. Hours were devoted to it, because in a world where body hair was not okay, I became obsessed with ridding myself of it.
At age 12, I was shaving with Bic razors borrowed from my dad and soap (soap!). This evolved to Veet cold wax strips (at 14, no one was paying for me to get the job done professionally at a salon). I became pretty handy with the strips, the necessary contortions, the aftercare. But the sensitivity of my skin meant that, before long, my ingrowing hairs were becoming so bad they were leaving scars that wouldn’t fade.
Then followed many years of misery and shame; finding excuses not to be in situations that required shorts or bikini bottoms, opting out of holidays, spending summer covered up and, at points, feeling pretty low. I wish, at the time, I’d had the wisdom and confidence to understand that it wasn’t me who was wrong; that societal expectations of women and their bodies were utterly absurd. But I was 17, so I didn’t.
Today, thank goodness, it’s a different landscape. In 2021, a YouGov poll showed that while 56% of women aged 40 to 59 still prefer to remove their armpit hair, only 26% of their 16- to 24-year-old counterparts agree. Global brands such as Nike, meanwhile, are running campaigns that feature women with fuzz, and endless influencers are championing #bodyhair on social media. There’s even a movement called Januhairy that encourages body hair growth and general positivity around the topic throughout the month of January.
Teenage me had none of this, and was hellbent on removing every bit of hair. By my early 20s, I’d been introduced to the concept of permanent laser hair removal. I saved up enough money, and every six weeks went to Sk:n Clinics in Harley Street to be treated. From the very first session, I saw a huge reduction in my hair growth. At the time, laser hair removal was in its (excruciatingly painful) infancy, and was not as nuanced as it is today, working best on dark hair against fairer skin. I fitted this profile perfectly, and the treatment was so successful I didn’t bother returning for the sixth and final session. It was honestly, truly life-changing.
Today, much has advanced. Sk:n Clinics is still a leading light in permanent hair removal, alongside many independent practitioners. The key, with smaller clinics, is knowing what tech to look for, and the current gold standard is the Alma Soprano Titanium laser. ‘This machine is a real breakthrough in laser hair removal technology,’ explains aesthetic doctor Tapan Patel. ‘Unlike any other, it combines three different laser wavelengths in one applicator [for the laser literate, the Alexandrite 755nm, Diode810nm and ND:Yag 1064nm]. Combining these allows us to treat the hair follicle at different depths, making it suitable for fine hairs and hair that’s light in colour,’ he says.
'I'd opt out of holidays and spend summer covered up, feeling low'
It also has a cooling applicator that makes the treatment virtually painless and, critically, it can be used on all skin tones, as well as tanned or sun-exposed skin. ‘It’s the only such device that is clinically proven to treat tanned skin safely,’ says Patel, ‘which gives us the flexibility to treat all skin types, all year round.’ Having said this, the majority of – still very effective – lasers don’t work to this principle; UV exposure after a session can result in hyperpigmentation, so winter and early spring are still the best times to undertake the procedure, ahead of bare-leg season.
And then there’s the speed of the treatment. ‘In the 2000s, the lasers, as well as being risky for darker skin types and really painful, were slower,’ explains aesthetic practitioner Nilam Holmes. ‘A full leg would have taken me an hour and a half of single shots over and over again, whereas now it takes me less than 20 minutes, because it’s done in one continuous motion. Six to 10 sessions, with four to six weeks in between each one (depending on the area being treated), and you’re done.’ What hasn’t changed is that if you commit to a course of laser hair removal, you must give up waxing and epilating, because the laser needs the root of the hair intact in order to zap it – only shaving is allowed between sessions.
As I sit here and write about championing hair removal, there is a part of me that’s cross with myself, that wishes I was someone who was happy to embrace their body hair, and I was writing about that. But I’m also a realist, and as a hardened product of the 1990s and 2000s, embracing my hairiness just isn’t going to happen for me. I have tried to ease up on bleaching the moustache, shaving the armpits, waxing the bikini line (although, honestly, this is mostly more down to laziness than a conscious stab at a socio-political statement). But fuzz makes me uncomfortable, and having permanent hair removal on my legs, at least, has allowed me personally (perhaps ironically) to feel liberated and confident.
Nevertheless, when I’m on the Tube and catch a glimpse of a hairy ankle, an unshaved armpit or a defiant monobrow, I get a thrill of excitement for the generation incoming; a generation set on individualism that gives absolutely no f*cks about what others think of them. I marvel at their self-assurance and their bravery, and the power they probably don’t even know it gives them. It is only hair but, after all, hair is everything.
