I remember my shaving initiation quite differently. I was thirteen years old and, no doubt, quite hairy. I'm sure the other kids stared at me in gym class, but I really didn't notice. I lived in a world inside my own head, where I didn't have to worry about things like body hair because I was appreciated for my intellect. I was an accomplished playwright in this world, as well being a Wimbledon champion and a pediatrician. I didn't venture out much.

It was a total shock for me when my mother approached me one day with her old electric razor, imported from the old country, a delicate beige plastic wand. “You have to shave your armpits now,” she said, “otherwise you'll get smelly.”

But no one smells me. They're too busy applauding my latest masterpiece. And besides, I'm going to be six-foot-two when I grow up and then I'll just smack anyone who doesn't like the way I smell.
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