Grabbing the razor, I stuck it in my pocket and headed for the barn.

It was late afternoon on a Sunday.

Earlier in the day, I’d been to Sunday School. I wore a wispy burgundy dress with black patent heels. Hoping to socialize, I joined a group of tweens my age. That’s when the earth shattered below me as a “friend” commented on the hair sticking out of my pantyhose.

“Don’t you shave your legs yet?”

I looked down in horror to see I had dark long hair, thick as an alpaca, poking out through my hose.

Twelve is an awkward age. Tweenager NOT yet Teenager.

All through church I devised a plan. (While praying of course.)

Back to the razor in my pocket.

Cutting across the garden, the tall corn shielded me from the house. As I reached the outside water spigot at the barn, I grabbed the bucket we used to fill the cattle troughs. Filling it halfway, I slipped around the corner to the feed room to be out of sight and began the removal. How hard could this be? I’d watched my dad shave every day.

Yowl… that water is cold!

Plunging my leg into the bucket, I used Lava soap as shaving cream, pulled the single edge razor from my pocket and swiped it up my leg hair. It was a hap-hazard process, but I finish with few flesh wounds!

Mom figured out what I’d done. Luckily, she decided to give me tips on how to shave while in a warm shower thus improving my skills. The following Sunday, I’ll be ready with cleanly shaven legs. Dang. I cut myself!

Wearing a band aid under pantyhose – a sure sign of inexperience.

No matter… I’d crossed a rite of passage anyway.