my grandpa and pink daisy razors...

Most important of the two, my grandpa. Today is his birthday. He is wonderful grandpa. Whenever I see him or talk to him he greets me with a hug and tells me I am his prettiest granddaughter. There are 6 of us granddaughters in total and he tells them the same thing, but I think it is so cute. He wears hearing aids and I am pretty sure he uses this "ailment" to his advantage whenever possible. I watch my grandma, who is 2 feet away in the other recliner talk to him while he continues to stare at the TV completely ignoring her until she swipes at him and says "Did you hear what I just said?" and he jolts upright and says "I am sorry did you say something?" with this bewildered look on his face. I know he hears her, I have used this same move before. I love him.

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Today is also my 13th leg shaving anniversary. Yes, I know the date. This was a big deal in my tween years. Being of Mexican heritage (which I can thank my grandpa for) I was destined from the beginning to be a hairy beast. I was so embarrassed as a kid, I had these skinny little sasquatch legs and my mom wouldn't let me shave them. I begged and I pleaded with her beginning the summer before 6th grade, but she wouldn't give in.
Most kids would just go and do it themselves, but the threat of TV restriction for the rest of my teen years and the idea of carving a line down my leg if I slipped up kept any pre-emptive hair removal at bay. So I decided I would just wear pants for the rest of my life.
Then one day, after explaining to my mom how I couldn't continue to hide the fact that I was the missing link on the approaching 6th grade trip to Catalina, she finally caved. It was the night after my grandpa's celebratory birthday dinner, probably at Sizzler. As happy as I was to rid my legs of these keratinous filaments, I was scared to death of the possibility of slicing a major artery or losing a foot. I had heard horror stories from my friends at sleepovers whose smooth legs were scared up and down from razor mishaps. The marks of grown women, I was terribly jealous. All I had were bruises that were barely visible through the dark forest.
My mom handed me the little pink razor with daisies down the handle and it didn't look so bad. I made her do the first couple of strips, but once I realized the tub wasn't filling with blood I took over. Apparently there was a catch, I couldn't go above the knee. What? Stupid I know, but I think this was my mom's clever thinking to keep me in shorts with no shorter than an 8 inch inseam. Now, I was the hairy kneed girl, great. My legs looked like the island of Hispaniola. But even after just my two calves, it looked like we had just bathed a litter chocolate lab puppies.
I remember getting into bed that night and having the skin on my legs touch the sheets for the first time, I kept repositioning my legs all night just to feel the softness of my 150-thread count heart patterned covers. I was so happy, it was going to be 90 degrees the next day and I could finally wear shorts to school.