It was what grown-ups did and I was eager to grow up. 

I was told never to bother shaving much above the knee because “no one would see that high, anyway.” This was the same person who’d taken me to swim lessons my whole life – in a bathing suit. But, that’s what happens when you’re raised in the 90’s by someone who was born in the 20’s. I realized she wasn’t talking about someone seeing above the knee but someone feeling there. It made me realize that someday I did want someone to “see” above my knees.

I practiced with the protective cover on the razor. I cut my knees every time after I took it off. And I began to hate the process almost right after I learned. It made me realize that growing up wasn’t what I’d thought it would be.

Girls told me it was gross that I didn’t do it more often. Girls told me it didn’t matter because my hair was so light you couldn’t tell it was there, anyway. Guys never said a thing. I think that’s when I realized that I wasn’t doing it for men,  though that was the implication. Even now, I don’t do it for the husband who has definitely seen above my knees. He was the first man to make a comment, though the comment was just a Chewbacca quote. 

I do it for other women who will judge me. For bosses who might notice and consider it “outside dress code.” I do it for myself a little. I prefer the smoothness, especially in my underarms. But I know where I learned to have that preference and all the ‘whys’ attached to it. 

So I spend the money on the products and the time contorting myself in the shower to remove hair that grows there naturally. And I realize how much being an adult is just spending money and doing things because it’s what others expect. Then I get a little mad and don’t shave for a couple of weeks. Until a co-worker glances at my legs a little too long. 

Maybe I’ll grow up one day and just stop.

I’ve had so many by now. Khakis with polos of varied colors, aprons, black dress pants, jeans and branded t-shirt, business casual, and business casual with a scrub jacket, steel-toed boots with clothes I can move in and get dirty. A hat to keep hair out of food or a ponytail to keep it from getting caught in a machine. But the uniform has never been the clothing.

It’s the face I throw on to smile to the faces of people who belittle me. It’s the voice I select from my toolbox; a yell to be heard over noise, a soft tone to quietly comfort where too much yelling has already been used, telephone customer service voice with the smile you have to hear.

The uniform is a way of standing, a roll of the shoulders, fake confidence, a “go—on” nod, and pointing with an open hand. It’s a persona taken from a mental closet and worn too long. It’s a mask that covers the truth; I don’t know if I’m where I’m meant to be, but I’m doing the best I can while I’m here.

I wear them even outside of work. I’m not sure how I look without one.