Introduction

The aim of this paper is to explore bodies, pleasure and power through an investigation of the phenomenon that is depilation. I was motivated to look into this aspect of the social world because it seemed that relatively little academic attention had been focused on a collection of practices so prevalent in contemporary Western society. I wanted to investigate the pleasures that can be associated with having hairless skin and try to develop an alternative approach to understanding depilatory practices. The theoretical material provided by Michel Foucault, Alphonso Lingis and a number of feminist writers, establishes a framework upon which I develop my argument that body hair removal can be understood as a pleasurable practice that does not necessarily render individuals submissive to the operations of power.

The inspiration for the title, Grin and Bare It came to me because it is a phrase that has a number of connotations pertinent to the issues I explore in this thesis. Firstly, ‘grin and bare it’ aptly describes the general feminist position on body hair removal. The literature portrays depilation as a procedure that women are forced to undergo in order to conform to patriarchal standards of femininity. Women must grit their teeth and put up with the pain and inconvenience associated with ridding their body of hair. In Chapter One, I provide an overview of the existing studies into depilatory practices and outline a number of feminist arguments in relation to the topic. Academic studies concentrating specifically on depilation are scarce and limited in their scope and the feminist literature tends to only mention body hair in passing. For these authors, women depilate to fit in with dominant cultural expectations. This conformity is heavily linked to the notion that women are unhappy with their bodies. I begin this thesis by arguing that their assertions provide a limited account of body hair removal. I demonstrate that they tend to portray it as a practice that signifies women’s subordination to power and that this disallows other perspectives on the topic.

In Chapter Two, I delve into an analysis of Michel Foucault to understand depilation and the operations of power in a broader sense. Foucault understands bodies as disciplined by many techniques of power, including those we exercise over ourselves. I explore the idea that body hair removal is a self-disciplining behaviour that we carry out in the knowledge that someone will be looking at us. In other words, it is procedure individuals undergo because they know they will be baring their skin. So, “grin and bare it” also evokes the baring of flesh associated with depilatory practices. Foucault’s work provides a fitting theoretical framework for my argument that practices of body hair removal do not signify an individual’s subordination to power. In contrast to much of the feminist literature that portrays practices like depilation as oppressive, I argue that Foucault’s understanding of power as productive allows us to view depilation as something that can instil a person with a certain level of skill as well as constitute an individual’s subjectivity.

However, because Foucault neglects to account for gender differences in society, I appropriate the work of the feminist writers Judith Butler and Elizabeth Grosz in order to explore the gendered aspects of body hair removal. I investigate the notion that practices of depilation are signs that an individual has internalised certain gender norms. However, using Judith Butler, I problematise the idea that depilation can be linked to a person’s gendered subjectivity as an inner self. Rather than uncovering an innermost gendered self – baring the soul – depilatory practices are repeated stylisations of the body. They are performances that come to construct categories of gender. Engaging with the work of Grosz, my thesis draws out the ways in which practices of depilation are also a form of social marking linked closely with power and gender. I explore the ways in which hairless (and hairy) inscriptions convey very different meanings depending on the type of body they are etched onto.

In Chapter Three, I extend the metaphor of bodily inscription to include tattooing. Through Nikki Sullivan’s exploration of tattooing and subjectivity, I demonstrate that while Foucault’s theories are useful to some extent, they also have limitations for my study. I therefore draw on the writing of Alphonso Lingis who provides an avenue to develop my argument that depilation can be pleasurable. Appropriating his account of the non-functional, but visually pleasing aspects of the markings on sea-creatures and the muscles of bodybuilders, I demonstrate the aesthetic pleasures associated with body hair removal. I argue that creating hairless skin can be motivated by the desire to expose one’s body to the world, which brings to mind another dimension of the phrase ‘grin and bare it’. ‘Grin’ connotes the pleasure and excitement that can be derived from having smooth, hairless skin. The major focus of this thesis, the pleasurable side of body hair removal, is elaborated in this chapter. I explore Lingis’ idea that tattooing and scarification extend the erogenous zones on the body. I argue that, in a similar way, depilation can work to enhance and intensify sexual enjoyment. In particular, the removal of pubic hair can be understood as a practice motivated by the desire to magnify sensations on the surface of the skin. Removing body hair need not be thought of as a tiresome burden. Many people may enjoy the experience as it can offer opportunities for them to interact with their own bodies. Instead of focusing on the potentially oppressive aspects of depilation, I examine the aspects of body hair removal that might be pleasurable for many people. Using examples from the media and adapting the theories of Foucault, Butler, Grosz, Sullivan and Lingis, I attempt to provide an alternative approach to the fascinating and widespread phenomenon of hair removal.

CHAPTER ONE

repressed bodies

I plunge the knife into the warm, sticky liquid. Carefully, I spread on a thin film to coat the hairs that have been growing on my legs for the past two months. Tentatively, but with a definite sense of excitement, I attach the first cotton strip and wait for the wax to cool. I pause for a moment, gritting my teeth in anticipation of the pain. Then I do it – in one motion, I rapidly tear the cotton. It’s done! My skin stings slightly, but it feels alive. Applying moisturising lotion, I run my hands over my legs and revel in their smoothness.

Feminist authors tend to portray the removal of body hair as a time-consuming chore that women carry out in order to conform to patriarchal ideals of feminine beauty. Shaving, waxing and plucking are activities women must “struggle” with daily to achieve an acceptable level of femininity. Depilatory practices are seen as oppressive because they signal that a woman’s body is never good enough. I will argue in this chapter that this kind of argument is reductive. It obscures the pleasures that can be experienced in the removal of body hair, it renders women as passive victims of social pressures and it ignores the fact that many men engage in hair removal practices. I will not attempt to deny the existence of a social norm requiring women in Western society to have hairless skin. Instead, I want to offer alternative ways of looking at the phenomenon than the rather narrow view put forward by the existing studies and most feminist literature that mentions body hair. This chapter provides an overview of the existing research into hair removal practices, outlines the feminist critique of depilation and analyses some of the problematic assumptions within the literature. In later chapters I will develop alternative and more positive approaches to hair removal.

Studies into hair removal

There are various theories about why women in Western society began to remove the hair from their legs and armpits. One is that in response to fashion trends which increasingly exposed the limbs, women felt compelled to rid themselves of hair (Brownmiller 1984; Basow 1991). As skirts became shorter and sleeveless dresses became popular, the practice of removing body hair became far more widespread. Susan Basow attributes the phenomenon of depilation among American women to advertising campaigns beginning in 1915 that informed women that “visible hair not growing on the head was ‘superfluous’, ‘unwanted’, ‘ugly’ and ‘unfashionable’” (1991: 84). In 1915, Gillette introduced a razor specifically designed for women. The advertising campaign accompanying its release informed women that sleeveless dress styles required a smooth underarm (Basow 1991: 84). Women’s magazines of the era heavily perpetuated an ideal of “hairless, white feminine beauty” (Herzig 1999: 726). The shortage of stockings during World War II is also believed to have contributed to the prevalence of depilation (Basow 1991: 85). Changes in women’s roles during this period have also been attributed to the increasing spread of depilatory practices among women. It has been suggested that as women began to move into the paid workforce and undertake similar roles to men, it became necessary to accentuate the differences between the sexes (86). In an historical analysis of the diagnosis and treatment of a condition called ‘hypertrichosis’ (excessive hair growth), Rebecca Herzig (2000) explores the ways bodies were divided into two distinct sexual categories according to the growth of body hair. Doctors around the turn of the century thought of body hair as a visible guide to the sexes: “when nature was functioning properly, men had body hair, and women did not” (2000: 53). Her article points to the historical context out of which the norm of the hairless female body emerged.

Throughout the 20^th century then, women have removed their body hair. Existing studies into depilation show clearly that the practice continues to be widespread among Western women. Basow’s (1991) study surveyed a sample of professional women in the United States and found that 96% shaved their body hair at least once a week. Marika Tiggermann’s (1998) Australian study found that 91.5% of university women remove their leg hair and 93% remove their underarm hair. Research into practices of depilation demonstrates the intense societal pressure on women to remove the hair from their legs and underarms. A study conducted by Susan Basow and Amie Braman (1998) investigated social perceptions of a woman with body hair and found that a woman is considered less sexually and interpersonally attractive when she does not remove the hair from her legs and armpits. They conclude that the “norm of ‘hairlessness’ contributes to women’s overall negative body image” (1998: 644). Following this study, Susan Basow and Joanna Willis (2001) examined the attitudes towards body hair held by college students in the United States. 118 undergraduate students were shown one of two videos of a woman exiting a pool and drying herself. In one video the woman has hairy armpits and legs. In the second, she is shaven. The model with body hair “was seen as significantly less friendly, moral and relaxed, as well as more aggressive, unsociable, strong, nonconformist, dominant, assertive, independent and in better physical condition” than when her legs and armpits were hairless (Basow and Willis, 2001: 574). The study concludes that negative perceptions of body hair serve to pressure women into modifying their bodies. Clearly, there are negative connotations associated with women who do not remove their body hair, but there are also some traits that can be interpreted as positive and empowering. Basow and Willis do not account for the evaluations of the woman with body hair that can be read as favourable, such ‘strong’, ‘assertive’ and ‘independent’. Instead, they focus solely on the negative connotations; coming to the conclusion that depilation reinforces the notion that women’s bodies are not acceptable as they are.

Without a doubt, there are social pressures upon women to remove hair from certain parts of their body. However, in this thesis I wish to argue that hair removal can have its own pleasures for women, providing an alternative way of exploring the phenomenon. Tiggermann (1998) conducted a study of university and high-school students within Australia to try and replicate the findings of Basow (1991) in a different population. 129 female undergraduates and 137 highschool students were asked to fill in a questionnaire about their body hair. The survey asked them to rate on scales of one to five the importance of 14 possible reasons for hair removal. Ten of the reasons were drawn from Basow’s study and were put into the categories of ‘feminine/attractive’, such as “it makes me feel attractive”, and ‘social/normative’, for example, “my mum told me I should” (1998: 4). For the university students, “the two most highly rated reasons were ‘It makes me feel attractive’ and ‘I like the soft silky feeling’” (Tiggermann 1998: 6). This is indicative of the sorts of enjoyment that can be attained from removing one’s body hair. Whilst I acknowledge that the notion of ‘feeling attractive’ is implicitly linked to prevailing beauty norms, I think the fact that women rate it highly as motivation for shaving can be understood in less pessimistic ways than the literature suggests. It is clear that women enjoy the feeling of smooth skin and that certain pleasurable sensations can be derived from practices of depilation.

The existing studies on depilatory practices that I have outlined are limited for a number of reasons. Firstly, their use of predetermined attitude scales does not allow space for in-depth discussion and analysis. Participants are restricted in the responses they can give, for example, being asked to rank motivations for shaving on a numerical scale. They cannot elaborate on their decision to rank one reason higher than another. The studies are also bound by their tendency to only survey white, well-educated women. To gain a deeper insight into the phenomenon, further investigations into the practices and attitudes towards depilation across a diversity of ages, races and cultures, needs to be carried out. Furthermore, the literature on the topic completely ignores the experiences and practices of men. The researchers are quick to point out the social pressures on women to conform to certain standards of beauty, but neglect to mention the sorts of social pressures men encounter. Men are expected to remove hair from their faces daily. No doubt this practice can be as time-consuming, tedious or painful a chore as leg-shaving, but it is left unexamined in the existing studies. Feminist authors have also tended to ignore the depilatory practices of men. Feminist writers who have mentioned body hair removal only mention female experiences of depilation and talk about it in terms of its repressive repercussions. In the following section I will outline the positions of a number of authors who have written about body hair removal and show that their arguments tend to portray depilation as oppressive and women as uncritical, passive victims of patriarchal norms.

Feminism and Depilation

While not a lot of feminist scholarship has addressed depilatory practices, a number of writers have mentioned them in their work. For example, in The Female Eunuch, Germaine Greer (1970) included two pages on hair. In this brief discussion, Greer argues that hairiness is “an index of bestiality, and as such an indication of aggressive sexuality” (Greer, 1970: 38). For her, the removal of body hair is about taming a woman’s sexuality. She suggests that women suppress their hair “just as they suppress all aspects of their vigour and libido” (1970: 38). However, this argument provides only one perspective on women’s motivation to depilate. Throughout this thesis, I propose that there are alternative ways of understanding body hair removal, that avoid representing women as sexually repressed by social norms. In her recent work, Greer seems committed to the idea that women are forced against their will to contend with tiresome depilatory procedures. She argues that “women with ‘too much’ (i.e. any) body hair are expected to struggle daily with depilatories of all kinds in order to appear hairless. Bleaching moustaches, waxing legs and plucking eyebrows absorb hundreds of womanhours” (Greer 1999: 20). The notion of depilation as a time-consuming, laborious and sometimes painful task is echoed in the work of other theorists (Tiggermann 1998; Bordo 1990). Susan Brownmiller, for example, argues that depilation is “a repetitive chore, very similar to housework” (1984: 142). This negative portrayal of hair removal provides a rather limited perspective. Later in the thesis, I will argue that for many people, depilation is not necessarily a chore, a struggle or an inconvenience.

Not only do feminist writers view depilation as time-wasting and negative, but they attribute women’s adoption of these practices to a general and pervading sense of hatred that women have towards themselves. For example, Rosalind Coward argues that “women have a punishing and self-hating relationship with their bodies” (1984: 43). This negative assessment about how women perceive themselves is widespread amongst feminist writers. Most writing on body hair seems to argue that women depilate themselves because they are unhappy with their bodies. But might the opposite be just as true? Practicing depilation gives people the chance to experience their bodies, to delight in the feeling of smooth skin. Ridding oneself of body hair need not be thought of as a sign that a woman detests her body. Instead, as I will argue in Chapter Three, it can be an affirming, rewarding and enjoyable behaviour. Yet, most feminist writers insist on reaffirming the idea that society finds a woman’s body unacceptable. For Susan Brownmiller, the hairless phenomenon provides women “with yet another arena in which to feel imperfect as they shave or wax or undergo extensive electrolysis to fit a designer’s concept” (Brownmiller 1984: 156). Women are compelled to get rid of their hair, not for pleasurable or sensual reasons, but for fear of being imperfect. Here, women are portrayed as being forced into practices of depilation by, in this case, the fashion industry. Absent from Brownmiller’s discussion is any mention of the variety of incentives to depilate. For example, both women and men may remove the hair from their pubic area for reasons other than fashion. Whilst some people probably remove pubic hair so that it does not stray beyond the edges of their swimsuits or underwear, many people depilate the region to enhance sexual pleasure, as I will detail in Chapter Three.

Greer, like Brownmiller, is very critical of the practice of removing pubic hair. Indeed, they seem almost affronted by the thought of it: “In extreme cases, women shave or pluck their pubic area, so as to seem even more sexless and infantile” (Greer, 1970: 38). The discussions of pubic hair removal further attest to the limited nature of accounts of depilation. Greer’s assumption that women remove hair to appear sexless is problematic. Later in this thesis, I explore alternative ways of understanding the depilation of pubic hair. It is arguable, as I discuss in Chapter Three, that people depilate to appear sexy, not sex-less. The supposition that women depilate because it serves to enhance a “childlike state of hairlessness” (Brownmiller 1984: 140) or that removing hair acts to “de-emphasise women’s adult status” (Basow 1991: 86), may have some validity. In a newspaper article about the increasing popularity of the ‘Brazilian wax’ that removes nearly all pubic hair, a woman who carries out the procedure said, “‘it’s all about going back to the youth…it’s [a symbol of] pre-puberty and the fashion world’s obsession with being young’” (Wilson 2002). There appears, therefore, to be some weight behind the argument that removing hair is done in an attempt to appear youthful or pre-pubescent, especially considering that in today’s society attractiveness is heavily associated with youth. However, this assertion disallows an understanding of other reasons behind depilation.

Most women begin shaving their legs at the onset of puberty, but it can be argued that it is unlikely they do it in order to try and preserve their pre-pubescent bodies. According to Basow (1991) the most highly rated incentives for starting to shave were the ‘social/normative’ reasons, such as, “it was the thing to do” (88). She hypothesises that beginning to shave at puberty is like a rite of passage for young women, in a similar way to a boy shaving his face signals that he has reached manhood. This suggests that rather than striving to return to childhood, people start to shave because it symbolises their maturation into adulthood. I do not wish to dismiss completely the idea that hairlessness in women may be linked to having a youthful body. Instead, I will provide alternative insights into the world of body hair removal, going beyond the sometimes rather limited assertions found in the feminist literature.

The aesthetic appeal of smooth hair-free skin, for example, is rarely examined by the literature. Brownmiller (1984) uses her personal experience of body hair removal to highlight the extent to which she has been conditioned by society to despise the look of her own leg hair. She writes that she stopped shaving her legs “as a matter of principle”, but that she is “yet to accept the unaesthetic results” (Brownmiller 1984: 156). To “avoid looking peculiar at the beach” (157) she “compromises” by bleaching the hairs on her legs. What is she compromising exactly? She does not elaborate. Perhaps her feminist principles are in question. On one hand, Brownmiller’s personal anecdote demonstrates the pervasiveness of the hairless ideal. Even as a feminist, she implies, having hairy legs makes her uncomfortable. Evidence suggests that there is social pressure for women to have hairless legs (Basow & Braman 1998; Basow & Willis 2001). Yet, her dissatisfaction with the look of her leg hair serves to remind us of the aesthetic aspects of depilation. It seems clear that people remove the hair from their body not only to conform to dominant ideals of fashion, but also because they like the look of it. Chapter Three will explore the aesthetic pleasures associated with hair removal.

The feminist critique of hair removal, then, asserts that women are required to depilate in order to conform to social norms regarding femininity and beauty. However, these accounts ignore the pleasures and aesthetics of hair removal and tend to represent women as submissive to the operations of patriarchal power. They portray women as individuals who are unhappy with their bodies who are forced to undergo painful, time-consuming depilatory procedures. Some recent feminist literature however, has appropriated aspects of Foucauldian theory to examine practices of femininity in a new way. While they do not write substantially about body hair removal, the arguments of Sandra Bartky (1988) and Susan Bordo (1990) offer a more theoretical approach to body modification than do the feminists already mentioned. However, while their work is useful in some ways, there are also some problems with their approach which I will elaborate below.

Feminism, Femininity and Foucault

In her article, “Foucault, Femininity and the Modernisation of Patriarchal Power”, Sandra Bartky (1988) appropriates Foucault’s work on power to examine what she calls ‘practices of femininity’. In particular, she adopts his idea that modern forms of power work by regulating the behaviour of the body. Bartky uses Foucault’s Panopticon as a metaphor for the constant surveillance of women’s bodies. The Panopticon is the concept of a prison, designed by Jeremy Bentham, in which the inmates are under intermittent surveillance by a prison guard who is situated in a central tower. The prisoners begin to discipline their own behaviour in the knowledge that they may at any time be looked at (Foucault 1980b). In a potentially permanent state of visibility, the bodies of the prisoners are kept controlled and regulated. In Discipline and Punish, Foucault (1977) outlines how bodies are disciplined by many techniques of power, including those we exercise over ourselves. Bartky argues that women’s bodies have come to be disciplined in a similar way. She analyses three types of practices which she claims render women docile: the production of a body that is a certain shape and size; the constricted movements and gestures of women; and the production of a woman’s body as an ornamental surface (Bartky 1988: 64). She outlines how practices such as dieting, exercising, wearing high-heels, applying make-up and removing body hair are techniques of discipline which aim to produce the ideal feminine body.

The previous studies into depilation add weight to Bartky’s discussion of the motivations behind women’s willingness to enact practices of femininity. There appears to be considerable validity to the idea that women continue to conform to certain bodily ideals for fear of negative repercussions, such as being judged unsocial, or aggressive (Basow & Braman 1998; Basow & Willis 2001). The studies into people’s perceptions of women with body hair demonstrate that hairy women are considered less physically and personally attractive. The participants in Basow’s (1991) study were asked to rate various reasons for beginning to shave and for continuing to do so. The main reasons these women gave for shaving were to avoid social disapproval and to appear feminine. It seems that Bartky’s argument carries weight – women might indeed have something to lose if they do not conform to certain beauty norms. As Basow points out, “the intense social reaction to violations of this [hairless] norm emphasise its power” (1991: 95). The risk of unfavourable evaluation seems to be a strong motivation to depilate.

In some respects, Bartky’s adaptation of Foucault’s panoptic surveillance thesis is convincing. It seems that people remove their body hair in the knowledge that they are going to be looked at. For example, feeling attractive is a highly ranked motivation for shaving (Basow 1991: 93). Feeling attractive is no doubt linked to appearing attractive to others. Knowing people are going to be looking at you, then, is an important incentive for modifying the body. Depilation can therefore be interpreted as a type of disciplinary practice – people remove their body hair in the knowledge that they are under a permanent state of visibility. However, Bartky’s analysis has its limitations. The implication of her argument is that women’s bodies are rendered completely docile by disciplinary practices of femininity and this is where her argument falters. Bartky’s article is based on the idea that through the mastery of certain techniques and devices, women construct their bodies to conform to patriarchal standards of beauty. Whilst the self-disciplining aspect of her argument is persuasive, her assertion that “this self-surveillance is a form of obedience to patriarchy” (81) is problematic. Her argument denies women agency and portrays women as passive and in compliance with patriarchal power. Bartky argues that modern patriarchy “aims at turning women into the docile and compliant companions of men” (75). This idea is not only conflates women’s experiences but it ignores any possibility of resistance. For Foucault, wherever there is power, there is resistance (1980a). Yet, in her analysis of women’s engagement with practices of femininity, Bartky does not allow space for the potential to resist power relations. Instead, like the feminist writers mentioned previously, she insists on portraying women as subservient victims.

In contrast to Bartky’s claims, one may question whether depilation necessarily creates docility and compliance. Women are not necessarily rendered submissive because they remove body hair. Indeed, for many it may increase feelings of power as well as confidence. In addition, it is arguable that women do not live their lives constantly worrying about what men think of them. Indeed, very few say that they shave to appeal to men (Basow 1991: 93). Bartky fails to account for the diversity of experiences among women and “blocks meaningful discussion of how women feel about their bodies, their appearance and social norms” (Deveaux 1996: 216). Bartky asserts that Foucault fails to account for the “disciplinary practices that engender the ‘docile bodies’ of women, bodies more docile than the bodies of men” (1988: 63-4). She criticises Foucault for treating the body as if it were one – neglecting the differences between the bodies of men and women. Clearly, this is a problem that any feminist wishing to appropriate Foucault must contend with. Yet, Bartky herself repeats this universalising gesture. In her analysis of feminine practices, she obscures differences between women. Her discussion treats women as a homogenous group who experience, practice and think about their bodies and femininity in the same way. In addition, I suggest that it is problematic to assume that women’s bodies are rendered more docile than men’s. As Elizabeth Grosz points out, “women are no more subject to this system of corporeal production than men; they are no more cultural, no more natural, than men. Patriarchal power relations do not function to make women the objects of disciplinary control while men remain outside of disciplinary surveillance” (1994: 144).

Bartky adopts Foucault’s understanding that power comes from everywhere, “invested in everyone and in no one in particular” (1988: 80), yet she also seems to be arguing that power remains in the hands of men. Her insistence that women, through practices of femininity, are submitting to a modern form of patriarchal power, contradicts her earlier assertion that “power has now become anonymous” (79). For her, patriarchy is power. This insistence on a patriarchal power that oppresses women is a misappropriation of Foucault’s theory, in which power is ubiquitous and productive rather than repressive. While certain aspects of her application of Foucault’s theory provide a useful avenue for understanding practices of depilation as techniques of discipline, overall her argument remains simplistic and unconvincing.

In a similar way to Bartky, Susan Bordo (1990) appropriates Foucault to show the extent to which women’s bodies are shaped, marked and disciplined by culture. She argues that in contemporary society, women are spending more and more time on the management of their bodies. This increasing discipline leads female bodies to become “‘docile bodies’ – bodies whose forces and energies are habituated to external regulation, subjection, transformation, ‘improvement’.” (Bordo 1992: 14). Bordo examines the “gender-related and historically localised disorders” (15) of hysteria, agoraphobia and anorexia nervosa and analyses them in terms of their potential for resistance against existing power relations. Bordo points out that these disorders, while devastating, also carry the potential for resistance. Despite their serious consequences, she argues, the actions of an anorexic can become “liberating, transforming, and life-giving” (15). Through exercising extreme will and self-control the sufferer can feel a sense of self-mastery, “the experience is intoxicating, habit-forming” (23). In contrast to Bartky, who views practices of femininity as signs of women’s obedience to patriarchy, Bordo acknowledges the power women can exercise when enacting disciplinary practices. Instead of looking solely at the prohibitive aspects of power, as Bartky does, Bordo examines the possibilities for resistance to social control. I do not wish to conflate the experiences of the anorexic with depilation, but I do want to illustrate how Foucault’s understanding of disciplinary power can be used to examine practices of body modification. Although removing hair is certainly not extreme a practice as anorexia, Bordo’s article is useful in showing how certain practices can empower and offer the potential for resistance. As Foucault has argued, “we must cease once and for all to describe the effects of power in negative terms” (1984: 204-5). Bordo’s work offers a way to apply Foucault’s insistence on the productivity of power which is missing in Bartky’s more reductive analysis.

Conclusion

Previous studies into the phenomenon of body hair removal provide a useful background to my thesis. However, they are somewhat limited in their scope. They only focus on female practices of depilation and do not survey a diverse sample of people. Feminist writers, such as Greer, Brownmiller and Coward, who have written about depilation, also tend to only mention women and portray the practice as repressive, symbolic of women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies and a sign that women are submitting to patriarchal standards of beauty. More recent feminist critics, Bartky and Bordo have appropriated Foucauldian theory in their discussions of practices of femininity. However, within her analysis of the docile feminine body, Bartky reintroduces a repressive model of power. While Bordo offers a more productive analysis, she does not apply this to hair removal practices. In the following chapters I will build upon the existing literature and offer some alternative ways of understanding depilation, concentrating on the productive aspects of power and the pleasures associated with body hair removal.

CHAPTER TWO

disciplined bodies

Balancing one foot on the bath’s edge, I lather my leg with soap from ankle to thigh, massaging it until thick, white suds coat its length. Grasping the razor in one hand, I pull it gently across my skin, creating smooth hairless tracks in the soap. I continue the process until my legs feel smooth and slippery under the hot water of the shower. Afterwards, as I rub a towel across my body, I look forward in anticipation to wearing a skirt and displaying my freshly shaven skin to the world. I imagine the exhilaration of eyes following my stride - appreciating the shape and smoothness of my legs. I feel attractive and invincible, as if I can take on the world.

In this chapter, I will argue that practices of depilation can be understood using Foucault’s theories on power, discipline and surveillance. Appropriating the metaphor of the Panopticon, I will demonstrate how depilation can be viewed as an example of self-disciplining behaviour that is enacted in order to comply with normative standards of our culture. It is a practice that is carried out in the knowledge that one is going to be observed by others. While I will be analysing body hair removal as an example of self-regulation, I want to assert that these practices do not work simply to repress individuals. Inherent to Foucault’s theorisation of power is the idea that it is a productive force that operates to construct and mould both the bodies and subjectivities of individuals. Power is also intrinsically linked to resistance. To further my analysis, I look at Judith Butler’s theory of performativity as a way of understanding how gender is constructed through the stylisation of the body and how this performative nature of gender has subversive potential. Adapting the work of Elizabeth Grosz, I then explore how depilation functions as a form of bodily inscription that etches bodies in accordance with gender norms. I illustrate how the specificities of a body can alter the meaning conveyed by body hair and its removal.

Gilles Deleuze, in a discussion with Foucault, described theory as a toolkit, as a collection of tools that can be used to help understand the social world (1977: 208). Theory then is not just a tool. Rather, it is an assortment of tools which one can select from and appropriate for different needs. Therefore, I intend to understand Foucauldian theory as a collection of implements which I can appropriate to meet my own purposes. As Jean Grimshaw points out, “tools might be bent and distorted in ways not envisaged by their creator” (1983: 52). No doubt, Foucault would never have imagined that his writing on discipline and power would be utilised to examine practices of body hair removal. It seems, however, he would not disapprove of his work being adapted to explore a variety of social phenomena. Thus, I intend to selectively use Foucauldian theory to explore practices of depilation.

Panopticism: depilation as self-discipline

The first theoretical tool I shall draw from the toolbox is that of the Panopticon - a prison imagined by Jeremy Bentham in the late eighteenth century. Foucault (1984) uses the Panopticon as a metaphor for how power operates. He argues that the power structures within the prison are symptomatic of modern society. This architectural structure provides a useful lens through which to examine practices of body hair removal. The Panopticon is a circular building consisting of a central viewing tower surrounded by a ring of prison cells. Each cell has two windows, one that allows light to enter from outside and one allowing continual surveillance from the central tower. The backlighting of the cells ensures that nothing is hidden; every action of the prisoner can be scrutinised by the prison guard watching from the tower. Shutters on the tower windows prevent the inmates from knowing when they are being observed. It is this mechanism, Foucault argues, that coerces the inmates into regulating their own behaviour (1980b: 155). The threat of constant surveillance works to ensure an inward scrutiny. Prisoners, in the belief that they are being watched, come to monitor their own actions. For Foucault, the prison design exemplifies the operations of modern disciplinary society. It represents “just one of the numerous domains for the deployment of disciplinary techniques” (Cousins & Hussain 1984: 174). Disciplinary power does not just operate within prisons, however. Practices of body hair removal can be viewed as examples of disciplines that we enact upon ourselves in the knowledge we are being observed. The threat of being under continuous surveillance seems to be one of the primary motivations behind acts of depilation. For many people, the omnipresence of society’s judgmental gaze provides the compulsion to remove body hair. Analogously with the inmates of the Panopticon, individuals are subjected to a normalising gaze which encourages them to regulate their own bodies. In Foucault’s understanding, power operates to regulate the prisoner’s body by “forcing the prisoner to approximate an ideal, a norm of behaviour, a model of obedience” (Butler 1997: 85). In a similar way, I wish to show how people remove hair from their bodies in order to conform to an ideal, to obey the demands of cultural standards. Disciplinary power creates social norms according to which individuals are judged and ordered. The presence or absence of body hair on an individual provides just one example of the operation of this type of power.

The prison exemplified for Foucault a prominent mechanism of modern power, “it was here that the disciplinary and normalising function of the gaze was at its most blatant” (Jay 1986: 191). However, examples of panoptic disciplinary power can be found elsewhere in society. Examples from the media can offer an alternative way of understanding Foucault’s theory of panopticism. An advertising campaign for hair removal services demonstrates the idea that people depilate because they know someone is going to be observing them. An ad for The Australian Laser Clinic (see appendix) features two photographs. The first depicts the disapproving/disgusted gaze of a woman who is being embraced by an hirsute man. The second image depicts the couple “years after laser hair removal” - the hair that was on the man’s arm, back and neck has gone and the woman’s head is thrown back in laughter as if the only place she wants to be is in his smooth hairless embrace. The ad is designed to appeal to men’s insecurities. The woman’s disapproving gaze functions much like that of the prison guard situated in the Panopticon’s viewing tower. The notion that someone might be watching and judging them, encourages men to manipulate their bodies. In Foucault’s theorisation, power operates by making its subject regulate his own behaviour. No doubt the aim of the ad is to coerce men into surveilling their own bodies. The ad advocates that men observe their body hair and keep it in check. Body hair is recast as an “unsightly” problem that men must obliterate if they seek the approval and the desiring gaze of the opposite sex. Through the operations of power, individuals “become actors in a ritual designed to confirm the behavioural norms of society at large” (Hutton 1988: 127). In this instance, laser hair removal exemplifies the kind of disciplinary procedure people must undergo in order to conform to the ideals of our society.

In a chapter of Discipline and Punish entitled “Docile Bodies”, Foucault (1984) explores how the body of a modern soldier is inscribed through a variety of drills, practices and exercises. The methods through which the body is trained, Foucault calls “disciplines” (1984: 181). The soldier must be trained to control and manipulate his body and various objects. His posture and gestures become regulated and he must learn the techniques required for fighting. In a similar way, individuals must learn the methods of depilation. They train their bodies in the manipulation of razors, wax and tweezers. An advertisement for Andrea hair removal products (see appendix), demonstrates the extent of the lessons that must be learnt for the appropriate removal of body hair. The magazine advertisement outlines the proper product one should use to depilate hair from particular parts of the body: bleach for the upper lip, depilatory cream for the bikini line, “tricky areas like arms, stomach and thighs” and waxed strips for the legs. Each of these methods is an example of a discipline – a technique that must be learned, an exercise of the body, which, as the advertisement itself points out, “just comes down to practice”. Following the directions on a packet of depilatory cream, for example, an individual becomes accustomed to mixing the correct quantities of cream, applying it the proper way, waiting an appropriate time before wiping away the cream and the dissolved hairs. Just as the body of Foucault’s soldier becomes adept at the manipulation of a gun, so too do individuals become proficient with various depilation procedures.

Foucault’s account of the disciplines a soldier undergoes to produce an appropriate body provides a useful metaphor for examining the ways bodies become regulated by power, but he does not recognise that bodies may be disciplined differently according to their sex. For example, a man may learn to manipulate a razor to remove the hair from his face. He routinely scrapes away the stubble, adopting the habit of manoeuvring a sharpened blade against the surface of his skin. A woman, on the other hand, might learn to balance on one leg in the shower while wielding her specially shaped razor that “hugs [her] curves and fits easily in hard to shave areas” (Gillette 2001). Or she may train herself in the art of pulling hairs out by the root with hot wax. One body is not necessarily more disciplined than another, but there are differences. Foucault’s androcentric account of disciplinary mechanisms fails to acknowledge these.

However, his conception of power as disciplinary remains useful because it demonstrates that power does not act simply to repress. Discipline is aimed at the inculcation of aptitude and skills rather than repression (Cousins & Hussain 1984: 188). Power manipulates the body, its gestures and behaviours (Foucault 1977: 138) to produce an individual that is skilled. It is a tangible, material force that moulds bodies. This production of an accomplished body is a predominant feature of Foucault’s disciplinary society. Foucault recognises a shift in the operations of power from the sovereignty of a monarch towards a power of governance (Ransom 1997: 28). He outlines the change from a time when populations were controlled by the force of a monarch, to a new form of power which operates less through coercion and threat than through normalising and regulatory processes. That is, individuals are encouraged to strive to fit a certain norm. Power is “not just something forced on us; power is also something we internalise and are complicitous in producing” (Haber 1996: 140). What this means is that individuals are active participants in the mechanisms of power and social norms become inculcated into the subjectivity of the individual. It is through this process that individuals are fabricated, “their ‘true selves’ are created, manufactured by one or several technologies of power” (Ransom 1997: 17). Although individuals adopt practices in accordance with social norms, it does not mean that they are being repressed.

Foucault insists that the disciplinary society he describes does not mean a disciplined society (Cousins & Hussain 1984: 188). Disciplines do not work simply to oppress and restrict individuals, “never do they render us merely passive and compliant” (Grosz 1994: 144). On the contrary, power is a force which produces and it also provides the space for pleasure and resistance, “because power would be a fragile thing if its only function were to repress” (Foucault 1980b: 59). As Foucault argues, “to say that one can never be ‘outside’ power does not mean that one is trapped and condemned to defeat no matter what” (1980b: 141-2). In other words, internalising certain societal norms does not mean that individuals become completely subordinated by power relations. As I have already shown, disciplinary power works by creating capacities and abilities within the population; individuals take up disciplines and their bodies become shaped by them. It is precisely because individuals are part of the operations of power that they cannot be totally repressed by it. Never being outside power does not imply that individuals are ensnared within its mechanisms. Rather, because individuals are vehicles of disciplinary power, they are in a position to challenge it (Ransom 1997: 36). Foucault claims that resistance coexists alongside power and continually works to transform it.

Hairy subjects: the construction of gendered identities

The productive nature of power, and the resistance that is inherent within power relations, was outlined in The History of Sexuality, Volume One. Foucault (1980a) argues that from the seventeenth century onwards, there has been a proliferation of discourses surrounding sex. As medicine and psychiatry emerged and as sex began to be talked about, sexuality was constructed (30). Discourses shape the practices and identities of human subjects by defining what is normal and abnormal behaviour, by separating the deviant from the non-deviant. Rather than operating through prohibition, modern power for Foucault, works via this process of normalisation. Discursive power constitutes sexuality as inherent to the identity of individuals. One example he gives for the productive nature of power is the creation of homosexuality as an identity (43). Through medical and psychological discourses, the homosexual was constructed as a “species” (101) – a category of individuals who could be investigated, monitored and spoken about. But, as Foucault argues, the construction of the homosexual actually lead to a “‘reverse discourse’: homosexuality began to speak in its own behalf…using the same categories by which it was medically disqualified” (101). In this way, Foucault argues that power is a productive rather than a repressive force. It does not operate by prohibiting certain behaviour, but by constructing bodies of knowledge about individuals and producing them as subjects. Not only does it constitute individualities, but it also allows space for resistance.

Power not only functions to manipulate and regulate bodily behaviour, but “those upon whom it is exercised tend to be more strongly individualised” (Foucault 1977: 193). One of the effects of disciplinary power is that it produces individuality: “The individual, with his identity and characteristics, is the product of a relation of power exercised over bodies, multiplicities, movements, desires, forces” (Foucault 1980b: 73-74). Through the operations of power, which mould bodies and regulate gestures, the subjectivities of individuals also come to be constituted. In Discipline and Punish, Foucault uses the prison to theorise the “subjectivation” of the body. Subjectivation has a double connotation, meaning both the process of becoming a subject, while at the same time being subjected to power. For Foucault, this process takes place through the body (Butler 1997: 83). Disciplinary power instils the owner of the body with some form of subjectivity. In this section, I will explore the possibility that hair removal, as a technique of self-discipline, contributes in some way to the construction of feminine and masculine subjectivities. Intersecting the ideas of Foucault and Judith Butler, I will examine how power, while moulding individuals at the corporeal level, also comes to produce certain kinds of subjects.

Foucault did not examine how the productive nature of power constructs gender, but some feminist writers, Bartky (1988) and Bordo (1990) for example, have adopted Foucauldian notions of disciplinary techniques, explicit in the prison (such as the surveillance and regularisation of the body’s movements), to show how gender is constructed. Just as the inmate’s body comes to be shaped by the normalising mechanisms of the prison, so too do women’s bodies come to be regulated by the operations of power. In Butler’s analysis of Foucault’s discussion about the process of subjectivation, she points out that the individual is “formulated through his discursively constituted ‘identity’ as prisoner” (84). Could this process provide a way of understanding how gender norms become inculcated into the identities of individuals who depilate? Perhaps shaving legs in order to “feel feminine” represents the internalisation of a discursively constructed feminine identity. Butler outlines how normalising discourses are inculcated into the prisoner’s psychic identity, what Foucault called a ‘soul’ (1997: 85). Practices of depilation, carried out in order to conform to normalising cultural ideals might signify the inculcation of gendered norms into the psychic identity of the individual.

Disciplinary power, as it defines certain types of abnormal or deviant bodies (for example, the female body with hairy armpits) also constructs norms. This normalising effect of disciplines also attaches people to particular identities. Foucault argues that power “categorizes the individual, marks him by his own individuality, attaches him to his own identity” (1982: 212). An example of how power might produce subjectivity can be seen in the woman who shaves her legs. Through the adoption of depilatory practices, a woman obeying the gendered norms of our society, comes to feel appropriately feminine. A Gillette advertisement (see appendix), featuring the slogan “Reveal the goddess in you”, urges female consumers to shave their body in order to unveil their inherent beauty, their inner-femininity. Not only will the ‘Venus’ razor make them feminine, but it will make them a deity of femininity: a goddess of love and beauty. The advertisement implies that body hair acts to disguise a woman’s natural femininity. Her feminine identity is therefore produced via the disciplinary techniques of depilation. Basow’s (1991) study revealed that one of the primary reasons women gave for shaving was that it made them feel feminine. Norms of femininity, often perpetuated by the media, thus seem to become internalised by many women. Social norms mandating what it means to be feminine become instilled into the subjectivities of many women.

However, Judith Butler problematises the idea that gender forms the basis of an inner self. In Gender Trouble, Butler (1990) elaborates on Foucault’s analysis of the discourses surrounding sex in modern society. She argues that gender is constructed through a “repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly regulatory frame that congeal over time to produce the appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being” (33). Butler then, does not see gender as the core of an individual’s subjectivity, but rather as a performance, a repetition of bodily acts that come to seem natural. Thus, women who say they ‘feel feminine’ when they shave, are actually performing femininity. Repeated acts of depilation represent one example of how gender might be constructed through performance.

Butler argues that “the effect of gender is produced through the stylisation of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and styles of various kinds constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self” (1990: 140). The existing studies into depilation show that most women shave their legs and armpits regularly – at least once a week, often daily. These repeated bodily acts then, construct bodies as suitably feminine according to social norms. Not only that, but these repeated gestures and behaviours come to reinforce for the individual a feeling of an appropriate gender. Practices of depilation seem to contribute to an individual’s sense of their gendered self. This performative aspect of gender also has the potential to be subversive. Butler argues that we should “reconceptualize identity as ‘an effect’ in order to destabilize gender and open up new, unforeseen possibilities for agency” (Deveaux 1996: 227). In this way, Butler reveals that gendered identities are socially constructed, but also that this production of identity still allows space for resistance. A woman with hairy armpits or legs provides one example of the way gender can be troubled. Her flagrant breaking of the rules, her refusal to conform to the hairless norm of femininity, demonstrates how gender can be subverted through bodily behaviour, through performance.

Foucault’s conception of disciplinary power and Butler’s theorisation of the performativity of gender, provide useful avenues for exploring the way bodies are marked and moulded by culture. However, Foucault has often been criticised for his failure to address gender or acknowledge sexual difference. I recognise the tensions involved when attempting to apply his concepts to an aspect of the social world that is so heavily linked to gender. Foucault’s lack of attention to the gendered facets of culture makes his theory somewhat limited for my purposes. In order to better explore the gendered aspects of depilation, in the next section of the chapter, I move on to a discussion of the work of Elizabeth Grosz. Her analysis of the ways bodies are inscribed by culture, provides a valuable tool for examining how body hair and the removal of it have become markers of gender norms.

Depilation as bodily inscription

Engaging with the work of Elizabeth Grosz, I want to explore the ways in which body hair removal can be imagined as a form of bodily inscription. Practices of depilation are both a literal transformation of the body’s surface, and also a metaphorical inscription - a corporeal marker which signifies how bodies come to be shaped by culture and power. Body hair, and the removal of it, engraves particular bodies with gendered meaning. Grosz outlines how the body is marked involuntarily by power, but acknowledges that it is also inscribed by voluntary acts. She lists cosmetics, stilettos, bras and body-building as examples of things with which people voluntarily mark their bodies (1994: 142). Practices of depilation provide a further example of voluntary acts that mark bodies in particular ways.

Hair, or the lack of it, etches particular meanings onto the body. Through practices of adornment, the body is “constituted as an appropriate, or as the case may be, an inappropriate body, for its cultural requirement” (Grosz 1994: 142). Examples from the existing studies on depilation show clearly that a woman’s body is perceived as inappropriate if it is hairy. Basow and Willis’ (2001) study demonstrates that a woman with unshaven legs and armpits is judged harshly and described in largely negative terms such as “aggressive” and “unsociable” (574). Shaved legs on a woman will usually denote normality, thus inscribing the owner of that body with a specific meaning. Whilst not as dramatic as some other forms of bodily inscription, such as tattooing, removing body hair is an explicit manipulation of the body to fit a certain ideal, a certain gendered ideal.

For Foucault, “cultural values emerge as the result of an inscription on the body, understood as a medium, indeed, a blank page” (Butler 1990: 130). This understanding of the body as a neutral surface upon which social norms are inscribed does not sit easily with many feminists. Foucault’s failure to take into account the specificity of each body is something that he has been widely criticised for. As Grosz argues, it is “problematic to see the body as a blank, passive page, a neutral ‘medium’ or signifier for the inscription of a text” (Grosz 1994: 156). She is careful to point out that an inscription can come to mean different things depending on the type of body it is marking. The particularities of a body affect the meaning that is being etched onto it. The appropriateness of body hair for each sex demonstrates clearly the way inscriptions on differently sexed bodies generate diverse meanings.

Examples of the way body hair functions as a social marker of gender can be found in the media. A newspaper article about Olympic swimmer Ian Thorpe, demonstrates how society reads the inscription of chest hair. The article traces the bodily development of Thorpe, pointing out that his chest hair signifies he has reached manhood: “Now at 19 his newly-unveiled adult physique – complete with chest-hair – is sure to grab attention around the world” (Chynoweth 2002, my emphasis). His virility is inscribed upon his body by the presence of hair on his chest. In stark contrast to this celebration of body hair, is the media’s reaction to Julia Roberts’ armpit hair. When actor Julia Roberts arrived at a film premiere with unshaven armpits in a dress that exposed them, she made media headlines around the world (Schoonakker 1999). Journalists pondered what it meant and why she had done it. Theories included that she simply forgot to depilate, that her partner prefers the unshaven look, or that she did it in an attempt to upstage fellow actor, Liz Hurley, who is renown for her revealing, attention-grabbing attire. Whatever her reasons, the attention devoted to Roberts’ body hair, the shock it generated in the media, makes clear how thoroughly entrenched the hairless norm for women has become. The media’s treatment of her decision not to shave ranged from shock, to condemnation and amusement. For example, as one journalist put it, “Still, now that we have all howled with laughter, I trust she will be taking a razor to what was memorably referred to last week as her ‘inky tufts’” (Knight 1999). The unfavourable reaction she received from the media attests to the extent body hair removal signifies appropriate gendered behaviour. The hairy bodies of Thorpe and Roberts make explicit how inscriptions (and the meanings they signify) differ markedly depending on the bodily surface onto which they are etched. Body hair comes to signify two very different meanings on the bodies of different sexes, “one and the same message, inscribed on a male or female body, does not always or even usually mean the same thing or result in the same text” (Grosz 1994: 156). On one hand, Thorpe’s body hair is read positively as an indication of his masculinity. The media celebrates his hair as an achievement of manhood. On the other hand, Roberts’ failure to remove her body hair is regarded as a transgression of her femininity.

Differently sexed bodies are not the only surfaces that can alter the connotations of certain inscriptions. Body hair can emit different meanings according to its location on the body. A comparison between the media’s treatment of Thorpe’s chest hair and a second ad from the Australian Laser Clinic campaign (see appendix) demonstrates that only certain quantities of chest hair on men are socially acceptable. The first photograph (the ‘before’ shot) in the advertisement depicts a man with thick, dark hair covering the entire front of his torso. He is compelled to undergo laser treatment to remove it. Chest hair to that extent is deemed in this ad to be inappropriate. On the other hand, the smattering of hair across Ian Thorpe’s chest is entirely acceptable, sexy even. Newspapers celebrate his slightly hairy chest and increased musculature as significant of his manliness and something likely to entice “legions of swooning admirers” (Chynoweth 2002). To some extent then, male chest hair is sexy and masculine, but when it reaches a certain level, it becomes an ‘unsightly’ problem. The presence of stubble on the hairy man’s face is also worthy of note. The unshaven, so called “5-O’clock-shadow” seems to be an appropriate form of hair on men. The slight emergence of a beard is present in both the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photographs, suggesting that facial hair does not detract from a man’s physical appeal. Clearly, varying amounts and locations of body hair can inscribe very different meanings upon an individual’s body. It is worth noting here that just as a hairless norm for women developed over a period, men’s facial hair is subject to trends in fashion and varies across history. The unshaven look has only recently become fashionable and may be linked to trying to appear carefree and ruggedly masculine and not bound to conventions of neatness (Bishop and Kaupp 2001: 348).

Not only does body hair function as a sign of gender in our culture, but the very objects we use to remove hair are invested with gendered meanings. The vast differences between razors designed for men and those for women are illuminating. Men’s razors tend to be black or silver in colour while women’s are predominantly pink or pastel-coloured (Zarza 2001). Martha Zarza, in an investigation of hair removal products, argues that objects used for depilation are representative of conventional notions of gender difference. The design and packaging of hair removal products adopt the stereotypical virtues often attributed to femininity and masculinity. For example, razors for women are usually marketed with floral or aquatic designs, linking them to nature and beauty; whereas men’s razors are designed to resemble tools and allude to strength and technology. Depilation then, is certainly a gendered activity. Products like razors, which differ minimally, if at all, in function, are designed in ways that reinforce stereotypical notions of gender.

Conclusion

In this chapter I have appropriated the theoretical implements of Foucault in order to analyse the phenomenon of body hair removal. Using the Panopticon as a metaphor for the operations of disciplinary power, I have examined practices of depilation as examples of self-disciplining techniques that individuals adopt in the knowledge that their bodies are under surveillance. Similarly to the prisoners of the Panopticon, who begin to monitor their own behaviour, individuals take up practices of depilation because they know that they might be watched and judged. Disciplines such as waxing and shaving come to shape the body and regulate behaviour. Depilation thus makes explicit the productive nature of disciplinary power – rather than simply repressing an individual, the mechanisms of power operate to mould bodies and instil in individuals a certain level of skill. Therefore, while it seems that people depilate in order to conform to particular ideals and cultural standards, I have highlighted that this does not mean individuals become completely subordinated by power. Social norms regarding appropriate levels of body hair may become internalised and constitute an individual’s gendered sense of self. As Butler argues, repeated acts of body stylisation can come to construct categories of gender. As a repetitive and regular stylisation of the body, depilation can be understood as a performance that can contribute to an individual’s gendered subjectivity. Depilation can also be understood as a form of bodily inscription. Because Foucault did not acknowledge gender in his account of power and discipline, I mobilised the tools provided by Grosz. I used the metaphor of inscription as a lens through which to understand depilation. Body hair and the removal of it mark the body in a variety of ways – both as a literal etching on the skin and also as a sign of how gender and power come to engrave bodies. Differently sexed bodies can alter the way body hair inscriptions are read. So too can the amount and location of body hair.

CHAPTER THREE

sensual bodies

Reclining on the plush lounge of the salon, I am both excited and nervous. Although it’s probably going to hurt, I feel indulgent. I love having time spent on me, especially on my body. I feel naughty and sexy as I expose my pubic hair to the beautician. She dusts me with talcum powder before gently applying the warm wax. The procedure lasts about fifteen minutes. It’s painful but afterwards, I feel pampered and cared for. It’s a thrill having this special secret, hidden from everyone except my lover. It’s amazingly sensitive, every touch and movement feels delicious. I feel seductive and incredibly in touch with my body.

Building upon the idea that depilation is an example of a technique of disciplinary power that produces rather than represses, this chapter explores the pleasurable aspects of body hair removal. The sensual and aesthetic practices related to depilation make clear that it is not necessarily an oppressive practice. While I do not wish to deny that the removal of body hair might be carried out in order to conform to certain cultural norms or fads, as the feminist literature outlined in chapter one shows, I am interested in providing an alternative way of viewing depilation, focusing in particular on the enjoyable sensations that can be derived from this practice.

In the previous chapter, I demonstrated how depilation is an example of self-discipline. In this chapter, I extend this idea to include depilation as a ‘technology of the self’, as elaborated in the second volume of Foucault’s History of Sexuality. However, I do so only to draw attention to the limitations of Foucault for my study. Making use of Nikki Sullivan’s book Tattooed Bodies (2001), I explore the limitations of Foucault for her study, and hence how his writing is only useful to a certain extent for my project. I have chosen to use her work because I think there is a certain similarity between practices of tattooing and practices of hair removal; particularly in the way they both tend to involve the experience of pain in order to achieve a pleasurable/aesthetic outcome.

Following Sullivan, I then move on to a discussion of the writings of Alphonso Lingis in order to better explore the aesthetic and sensual components of depilatory practices. I investigate how the removal of body hair is, in most cases, purely cosmetic, rather than functional. I elaborate on the idea mentioned in Chapter Two that depilation is carried out in the knowledge that one will be looked at. I argue that hairless skin, can work as ‘snares for the eyes’, that is, as areas on the body made to attract the look of another. I argue that this is potentially an enjoyable thing for many people. This chapter also explores the idea that removing body hair can function to intensify sexual pleasure. In an elaboration of the ideas I looked at in Chapter Two in relation to Elizabeth Grosz and bodily inscription, I appropriate Lingis’ writing on ‘savages’ to argue that the removal of body hair can be analysed in terms of increased sensitivity. In particular, I examine the sensual motivations behind the removal of pubic hair.

Using Pleasure

Any thesis with a heavy focus on Foucault and with a final chapter devoted to pleasure could not ignore his second volume of The History of Sexuality, The Use of Pleasure. However, I do not wish to linger on his work for long, because as I will demonstrate through Nikki Sullivan’s work, his writings are limited in their value for my project. In this volume, it is widely acknowledged that Foucault makes a departure from analysing power relations to focusing on how the self is constituted (Nilson 1998: 3). He begins by examining ancient Greek (male) sexuality and morality and their relationship to pleasure via the philosophers of antiquity. Foucault terms the practices of self-management, ‘askesis’ – exercises aimed at forming oneself as a virtuous subject. Virtue in antiquity, Foucault argues, was about constructing the self through moderate behaviour, through a mastery of one’s desires. For the ancient Greeks, “[t]o live well is to transform oneself by a process of intense self-discipline” (Grimshaw 1983: 64). Technologies of the self were about self-regulation, fashioning the self by controlling pleasures. Individuals constituted themselves as subjects by regulating their thoughts, bodies and desires. For Foucault, ethical work is “an exercise of the self upon the self through which subjects attempt to transform themselves and their behaviour in the light of certain goals” (Foucault cited in Lloyd 1996: 245). Monitoring one’s own behaviour, then, is central both to Foucault’s examination of ancient Graeco-Roman practices of the self as well as his analysis of the prison, as I demonstrated in the previous chapter. I therefore see a parallel between practices of the self and practices of depilation. While the ancient techniques for transforming the self may initially seem incongruous with modern hair removal procedures, there is a similarity in that they are both about constructing an ideal via self-discipline. Not only that, but the disciplinary aspects in both models, do not aim to repress individuals. The ideal of self-control “neither denies nor stigmatizes the pleasures, but aims at using them correctly” (Nilson 1998: 12). Furthermore, both practices are similar in that they strive for a certain aesthetic. Greek self-discipline was about making the self aesthetically pleasing (Hoy 1986). In the previous chapter, I explored the self-regulatory aspects of depilation; in this chapter I intend to examine its aesthetic qualities.

In her book Tattooed Bodies, Nikki Sullivan (2001) analyses the way experiences of marking and being marked are imbricated with one’s ethos (57). She outlines the extent to which Foucault’s writing on the self is useful. Her aim is to “evaluate how and to what degree the ethical practices of self-(trans)formation that Foucault elaborates may be useful to an attempt to rework notions of embodied identity, ethics and pleasures” (2001: 52). As I showed in Chapter Two, Foucault argues that the homosexual, for example, became constituted as a body-subject through the operations of power/knowledge. Sullivan points out that this conception of subjectivity offers a challenge to the notion that identity “is a pre-social essence that is repressed by rigid social mandates” (2001: 4). Instead, the body-subject is constituted and read according to historically contingent dominant norms. Inasmuch as Foucault elaborates the idea that power does not act simply to re/oppress individuals, his work is extremely valuable for my project. This aspect of his work supports my argument that practices of depilation are not necessarily signals of oppressive power mechanisms. However, his later work is not quite so useful for my investigation into depilatory practices.

Drawing upon the work of David Halperin, Sullivan explores Foucault in relation to sadomasochism and the self (2001: 75). In a discussion about SM, Foucault argues that it offers a potential way of practicing pleasure with different parts of the body. I think this idea offers interesting parallels with Lingis’ discussion of scarifications that extend the surfaces of the body. Foucault suggests a move away from the genitals as the central site of bodily pleasure (Sullivan 2001: 76). Similarly, through a discussion of Lingis, I wish to demonstrate how the removal of body hair can generate pleasures beyond the genitals. Sullivan points out that Foucault wants to move beyond the “hermeneutical model of the subject” (Sullivan 2001: 48-49). In other words, towards a new way of understanding identity and pleasure, beyond the “representational economy of the body-subject” (49). However, Sullivan is not convinced that he achieves this. She argues that in his writing on practices of the self, the subject continues to be constituted through the exclusion of the Other (most notably, women). His examination of ancient Greek ethics is based on a hierarchical dichotomous structure, where female subjects are excluded from ethical practices of the self. Thus, Sullivan argues that Foucault fails to provide a way to imagine an alternative economy of bodies and pleasures because his analysis falls short of sufficiently accounting for difference.

Through the philosophical work of Emmanuel Levinas, Sullivan explores the idea that subjectivity is affected by relationships with the Other. She is then able to challenge the notion that the subject in/of tattooing can be analysed simply in terms of a meaning or intention inscribed on the body’s surface. In a later chapter she also appropriates the work of Alphonso Lingis, whose sensuous account of ‘savage’ bodies demonstrates that bodily inscription produces erotogenic surfaces that do not allow signification of an inner identity. Instead, markings on the body are “the trace of the Other-in-me, as Levinas puts it” (Sullivan 2001: 9). Sullivan argues that Lingis offers a valuable critique of the negation of the Other in liberal individualism (2001: 163). He explores a new way of understanding difference that disallows the hierarchy of dichotomous terms that typifies Western philosophy. In the same way as Sullivan, then, I now move on from Foucault, to an exploration of Lingis’ in order to better understand the pleasures of depilation. I do not wish to construct an exhaustive critique of Lingis’ work. Rather, as I did earlier with theoretical material from Foucault, and other writers, I will selectively appropriate the aspects of his writing that I think provide a unique and alternative way to understand depilation. His engaging poetic and personal style provides a fitting theoretical framework for a chapter about pleasure.

Aesthetic Pleasures

Alphonso Lingis is a philosopher whose interest lies in phenomenology. He argues that phenomenological approaches “make it possible to understand the active forces of our bodies in a new way” (Lingis 1994: viii). A lot of his work is geared towards exploring bodies as sensitive substances, as “substances that produce pain and pleasure in themselves” (Lingis 1994: ix). He is interested in understanding the sensuality of our bodies. Depilation, as a practice which often involves both pain and pleasure, is a phenomenon that highlights the sensitivity/sensuality of the body.

In a chapter entitled “Rapture of the Deep”, Lingis (1983a) reconsiders functionalist explanations for the beautiful markings found on sea creatures. He sets out to explore the patterns, colours and display behaviours at the level of the phenomenal, not just the functional (1983a: 8). This vivid and poetic piece of writing challenges the idea that the beautiful and distinct markings of sea creatures are in some way functional. This phenomenological analysis of the beautiful bodily surfaces of fish provides a unique opportunity to understand the aesthetic elements of body hair removal. This approach is useful for my project, particularly because it seems that hairless bodies often have no functional value as such. Smooth skin can be likened to the bright stripes and colourful markings of Lingis’ deep-sea creatures – it is there to be looked at. He proposes an account of bodies “that involves the notion of the ‘voluptuous eye’ as opposed to a liberal/humanist eye/I” (Sullivan 2001: 164). In this way, Lingis moves away from classic philosophical notions of the self. He allows space for relations with others in his writing – something that Foucault, as I demonstrated through the work of Sullivan, does not achieve in his writing on techniques of the self. Thus, I find the work of Lingis appropriate in regards to body hair removal not simply because he writes about aesthetic pleasures, but because his acknowledgement of the Other fills a gap that Foucault left in his analysis of the self and pleasures. The inclusion of self-other relations in Lingis’ work is apparent in the phrase “organs to be looked at” (1983a: 8). I mobilise this idea as an elaboration of Foucault’s theory of self-surveillance. People often tend to remove hair only from those parts of the body (those organs) that are going to be viewed by others. Thus, hairless regions on the body are organs to be seen by others. They predominantly work to appeal to the eye of another. Lingis makes it clear that bodies need to be understood in relation to others: “Living things are not only equipped with organs to perceive what is exterior; they are also equipped with organs destined to be perceived” (Lingis 1994: 39).

The aesthetic, non-functional aspects of bodies are also explored in “Orchids and Muscles”, a chapter in Foreign Bodies (1994) where Lingis examines the phenomenon of bodybuilding. Lingis argues that in modern society, human muscular systems work as “snares for the eye” (1994: 41). Just like horns of the mountain sheep and the beautiful feathers of a peacock, the contours of muscles have come to be organs seen. Human evolution, he says, has transformed muscle from functional substance into expressive flesh, there to be looked at: “Our muscles, becoming more and more obsolete in mechanized industry and automated war, become the more designed for the faculty of imagination” (1994: 41). In other words, bodies have evolved from being functional, to being on display. Body hair removal can be seen in a similar light. Practices of depilation might “become intelligible only when we correlate them with the specific powers of the witness organs for which they are contrived” (Lingis 1994: 39). So, parts of the body marked by hair, or by the absence of it, can be better understood by considering the organs of the watcher. That is, to return to the metaphor from the previous chapter, the eyes of the guard in the Panopticon. Body hair and its removal become intelligible through a consideration that the practice is predominantly about display, for the eyes of others. Whether it is for a horde of Ian Thorpe’s adoring fans, or for the lover of a woman who waxes her legs, the bodily surfaces of the individual are organs-to-be-seen. Bodybuilders pump their muscle so it can be displayed; individuals depilate for the same reason. Indeed, there is an interesting parallel between bodybuilding and male practices of depilation. Male bodybuilders often remove their chest hair to better display their muscles. They rub their skin with oil to reflect the light, enhancing the shape of the muscle. It is doubtful the effect would be as dramatic if there were hair disguising the contours (Bodybuilding.com 2002).

Lingis describes bodies as “surfaces without depth” (41), that is, without some signification, deeper meaning, or purpose. This conception of skin as aesthetic rather than functional offers a unique way of understanding body hair removal. In most cases, depilation prepares the body’s surface to be looked at. Only in some circumstances is body hair removed for functional reasons. For instance, when cyclists remove hair so that if they fall, the graze will be easier to clean and heal. Or, when sex workers remove their pubic hair so that it does not get tangled (Peatling 2002). Clearly, there are examples of depilation that is purposeful. However, it seems that body hair removal is largely about producing surface effects on the body; creating a surface that is pleasing to the eye and to the touch. An internet site devoted to male modeling points to the notion of depilation for display. Men are removing their chest hair, in particular, to better show off their muscles (Huddock 2001). Returning to Lingis then, who argues that bodybuilding makes “musculature a splendor” (1994: 44), I suggest that hairless skin actually intensifies the splendour. Depilation works to enhance the visual appeal of the body’s surface. A recent newspaper article about the increasing trend of Sydney women removing their pubic hair further attests to the aesthetic appeal of hairless skin, pointing out that “for most people it really is cosmetic” (Peatling 2002). In other words, the procedure is about creating a surface that is pleasing to look at. Furthermore, it seems that removing one’s body hair in the knowledge that someone is going to be looking at you, is potentially an enjoyable thing for many people. Knowing you are going to be looked at, and creating a body whose surface is smooth and aesthetically pleasing because of that, might be a positive and rewarding experience. Body hair removal might actually be prompted by a desire to be looked at – “there is a logic of ostentation over and beyond…semantic functions” (1983a: 8). To put it another way, similarly to the colours and markings on sea creatures, depilatory practices represent a certain flamboyance, a type of expressive and aesthetic display. Depilation often alludes to the motivation to show off one’s skin, “dominated by a compulsion for exhibition, spectacle, parade” (Lingis 1983a: 9). The effect of hairless skin is achieved for the eyes and imagination of another.

Sensual Pleasures

Elaborating on the conception of hair removal as a form of bodily inscription, which I introduced in the previous chapter, I want to explore the ways people experience sensations at the surface of their bodies. In a chapter entitled “Savages”, Lingis (1983b) argues that the drive to manipulate and decorate the body is a fundamentally erotic one. Tattooing, piercing, and scarification all focus more attention on the erotic surface of the skin, in some cases actually increasing the surface area of the skin. Lingis writes about ‘tribal’ societies who mark their bodies with tattoos and scars. He argues that these practices extend the body’s “erotogenic surface[s]” (1983b: 34) – they open up the body to pleasures and pains. I wish to consider the similarities between tattooing and some forms of depilation. In particular, the experience of pain (inflicted by tweezers or wax, for example) can be compared to the sensations tolerated whilst undergoing tattooing. Lingis argues that rather than signifying a person’s subjectivity or inner psyche, tattoos and other types of inscription need to be understood for their sensuous aspects. This section of the chapter deals with the pleasurable sensations that can be experienced as a consequence of removing body hair.

Lingis offers a challenge to classical philosophy’s conception that the intentional movements of individuals are an expression of inner depth or meaning. The marks and scars on the body of ‘the savage’, are not expressions of their identity, but rather, he argues, extensions of the erogenous zones of the skin. For him, bodily inscription is not signification of an inner depth or psyche, but a tangible and sensuous marking. The tattoo, for Lingis “is not merely an object of cognition…it is an intensive point, an aesthetic mark” (Sullivan 2001: 162). In the previous chapter I explored the idea that depilation acts as a signifier of power and gender. In this section, I wish to show how that concept can be complicated through a consideration of Lingis and his idea that a bodily marking “pains, rather than signifies” (Lingis 1983b: 24). In Chapter Two I explored Butler’s argument that gender does not constitute an individual’s subjectivity, or form the basis of an inner self. To build upon this idea, I adopt the work of Lingis to show how depilation (as a form of corporeal marking) enhances libidinal excitations, rather than signifying an interior meaning or subjectivity. I delve into the idea that depilation pains, and it pleasures, rather than signifies. For Lingis, rather than being read as signs, bodily markings “function to proliferate, intensify, and extend the body’s erotogenic sensitivity” (Grosz 1994: 139).

For Lingis, scarification produces certain surfaces of the body as more intensified. This is an exciting way to imagine the removal of body hair. Hair is removed from certain privileged sites on the body, for example, the legs, chest, pubic region, and so on. This process can work to increase the tactility/sensuality of those bodily surfaces. Lingis argues that various sites across the body become invested with libidinal/tactile intensity. Inscriptions actually extend and multiply the body’s erogenous zones (1983b: 37). Removal of hair from certain parts of the body can also be thought about in these terms. When people depilate, particular body parts are privileged and new types of tactile experiences can emerge. As previous studies have shown, the pleasure of smooth skin is a primary motivation for depilation. Tiggerman found that one of the most highly rated reasons for removing body hair was “I like the soft silky feeling” (1998: 6). This indicates the sorts of enjoyment that can be derived from removing body hair. Not only does it create a visually appealing surface, but depilation also encourages people to touch and experience their own skin. Furthermore, the actual process of removing hair can be seen as an enjoyable experience. Shaving in particular, has been written about as a procedure that a couple can engage as part of their sexual activity. As Tristan Taormino points out, “entrusting someone else to take a very sharp object to a very tender spot can be scary, exciting, and awfully arousing – a close shave can be the perfect presex practice” (Taormino 2000).

Removing body hair, then, can be about taking pleasure in one’s own body. The depilation of body hair can also offer new ways for people to experience their bodies. Removing hair from certain areas allows the opportunity for individuals to become more aware of their body parts. Even shaving legs, offers the potential for women to engage with their bodies, as their hands and eyes search for stray stubble. The removal of pubic hair can allow people to be more aware of their genitals. For example, “After I shave it, I feel so much more connected with my pussy. For one thing, every time I pull down my panties, there she is. Not hidden by a bush, but right out in the open for me to see” (Taormino 2000). An advertisement for Nair hair removal products (see appendix) also demonstrates how hairlessness can enhance the tactile qualities of the skin. Depilation constitutes the skin as “totally touchable” (Nair 2001). That is, as a surface not only ready to be touched, but also as a surface more responsive and sensitive to that touch. For Lingis, “[t]he libidinal zone in the body is skin” (1983b: 27). In other words, sexual pleasure is derived from the body’s surface. Scarification opens up new especially sensitive areas on the surface of the skin. In a similar way, in creating a smooth surface, body hair removal actually extends the erogenous zones of the body. Having hairless skin on certain parts of the body can make those sites more sensitive and more open to a pleasurable touch.

The removal of pubic hair best exemplifies depilation to extend/intensify the erotogenic surfaces of the body. In recent years, removing pubic hair has increased dramatically in popularity. A waxing procedure known as a ‘Brazilian’ is a thorough depilation of the pubic region, removing all except for a small triangular or rectangular patch of hair, usually referred to as a ‘landing strip’ (Walsh 1998). Originally practiced so that pubic hair was not visible when people wore string bikinis, it was made famous by seven Brazilian-born sisters who introduced the procedure to America (Valhouli 1999). Celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Paula Yates as well as characters in the television program Sex and the City have thrust the ‘Brazilian’ into the media spotlight and turned it into a fashionable thing to do (Peatling 2002).

The procedure not only removes the risk of a pubic hair straying beyond the edges of a swimsuit, in many cases it actually magnifies sexual enjoyment. One of the characters from Sex and the City said she felt “like sex on legs” after having a Brazilian wax (Nads 2002), highlighting the potential pleasures involved in the removal of pubic hair. Not only can it make a person feel sexy, but it can make them feel sexual. A discussion that occurred on the so-called ‘reality’ television programme Big Brother Uncut also demonstrates the pleasures derived from the removal of pubic hair. One of the ‘housemates’, Turkan, talked about her reasons for removing the hair from her pubic area. Primarily it was to increase sensitivity and to enhance sexual pleasure. She divulged that she waxes “everything” because of the pleasure it produces: “I only like it because I actually find that it’s more sensual. Like just the whole touch in that area is just highly highly sensitive when there’s no hair there”. (Big Brother 2002). It seems then, that a primary motivation behind a Brazilian wax is that it intensifies sexual pleasure.

Lingis argues that scars, intensive points on the body, become appeals or demands for the look and/or touch of another. The bodily markings “call for another’s eye, another’s touch, finger, nipple, tongue, penis” (1983b: 38). A clear example of this type of longing can be seen in the words of Aaron, another person who lived in the Big Brother house. He spoke of his reasons for removing hair from his genitals with depilatory cream, asking, “why would your partner tongue a hairy sack?” (Gusworld 2002). Here, it is made very clear that body hair removal can be motivated by the desire for sexual pleasure. His justification for removing the hair from his genitals was that it increased the likelihood of oral sex, in particular the chances of having his scrotum pleasured orally. It seems that for many people oral sex is better when there is not as much hair there (Valhouli 1999). Depilation in these cases thus acts like Lingis’ scarifications – as an appeal for the touch, the tongue, of a lover – and also as an intensification of the body’s sensitivity.

Conclusion

This chapter begins with an exploration of Foucault’s analysis of how the self was practiced in Ancient Greece. Adapting the work of Nikki Sullivan, I demonstrated that this aspect of Foucault’s writing is limited for an understanding of the pleasures involved in depilation. His work on ethical practices fails to move beyond an account of bodies and subjectivities in which the self is constituted via the exclusion of the Other – most notably women. Thus, I found it appropriate to move on to an exploration of Alphonso Lingis, whose writing criticises liberal humanism’s negation of the Other. His work also provides an exciting way to explore the aesthetic and sensual components of depilation. Via his analysis of the non-functional body surfaces of sea-creatures and bodybuilders, I argued that hairless skin could be understood as an organ-to-be-looked-at. Depilatory practices are largely carried out in order to produce an aesthetically pleasing body. Building upon the metaphor of bodily inscription provided in Chapter Two, I adapt Lingis’ account of ‘savage’ bodies to demonstrate how removing body hair is often done to extend and intensify sensation at the level of the skin. Ridding certain body parts of hair can lead to a greater awareness of one’s body as well as magnifying sexual enjoyment. The growing phenomenon of the Brazilian wax provides a perfect example of depilation to extend the erotogenic surfaces of the body. This practice makes clear the sensual motivations that are often behind the removal of body hair.

Conclusion

This thesis has concerned itself with providing an alternative perspective on practices of body hair removal in contemporary Western society. I have demonstrated that depilatory practices are not just signs of women’s subordination to patriarchy or examples of time-consuming, tedious chores. Depilation can be understood as a set of practices with the potential to create sensual and aesthetic pleasures and does not need to be read as an act of repression, as feminism has traditionally understood it. I have also shown that men undergo depilatory procedures and I have explored the possibility that body hair removal can be an enjoyable, exciting and erotic activity.

Using Foucault’s work, I looked at how depilation can be viewed as a form of disciplinary power that produces socially appropriate bodies. As a technique of self-discipline, depilation is a behaviour that individuals adopt in the knowledge that they might be looked at. Through Foucault, I made clear that power is productive rather than oppressive. I have argued that disciplinary power instils individuals with a certain level of skill and goes some way in constructing their subjectivity, demonstrating that they are never completely subordinated by power relations.

However, I found Foucault’s theories to be limited in their usefulness for my study, most notably because his accounts of power and pleasure neglect to include the experiences of women. Therefore I picked up the tools provided by other theorists in order to explore the gendered aspects of depilation. In Chapter Two, I adapted the work of Judith Butler to explore the idea that depilatory practices are a type of repeated performance that contributes to the construction of categories of gender. I then appropriated the writing of Elizabeth Grosz on bodily inscription in order to extend the Foucauldian notion that power marks and moulds bodies. Grosz provided a valuable way of understanding how differently sexed bodies can alter the meanings of hairy and hairless inscriptions.

In Chapter Three I elaborated the metaphor of depilation as inscription to include an adaptation of the writing of Nikki Sullivan and Alphonso Lingis who have both explored tattooing, subjectivity and pleasure. I mobilised the arguments of Sullivan to demonstrate Foucault’s limitations for my analysis of depilation. I then moved on to a discussion of the pleasurable elements of hair removal. Appropriating Lingis’ writing on creatures of the deep and the non-functional muscles of bodybuilders, I argued that depilation could be understood as a practice aimed at transforming the skin into an aesthetically pleasing surface. I also examined the sensual enjoyments associated with hair removal. Opportunities for touching and experiencing the body can be made available through depilation. Practices such as waxing and shaving allow individuals to explore the surface of their skin, both during and after the procedure and can also enhance sexual enjoyment. The removal of pubic hair in particular, attests to the pleasurable side of depilation. I explored the phenomenon of the ‘Brazilian wax’ in order to assert that removing hair from certain areas on the body can act to intensify and extend the sensitivity of the skin.

My thesis has explored facets of body hair removal that were lacking in the existing literature. However, my study is by no means an exhaustive account of the phenomenon. There is much scope for further research in this area. For example, the implications of the increasing trend towards removing pubic hair could prove to be an interesting investigation. So too could an exploration of the subversive potential of body hair. Can body hair practices offer modes of resistance? Interviews with men and women would reveal a myriad of reasons behind individuals’ decision to remove their hair and offer deeper insights into the pains and pleasures associated with the practice. A study of depilatory practices throughout history and across cultures would also prove illuminating.

Approaches like the one I have developed, with a strong focus on the productive nature of power and the pleasurable elements of body modification, could be used as a starting point for further study. This perspective could be beneficial to inquiries into other practices such as tattooing or piercing. In addition, it might provide a basis for additional investigations into norms of femininity and masculinity. Practices such as cosmetic surgery or applying make-up, for instance, might be better understood using this type of perspective because it offers an alternative account of the interconnections between power, bodies and pleasure and can provide new and valuable insights into the social world.

Appendix

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Acknowledgements

Introduction

CHAPTER ONE

repressed bodies

Conclusion

CHAPTER TWO

disciplined bodies

Panopticism: depilation as self-discipline

Hairy subjects: the construction of gendered identities

Depilation as bodily inscription

Conclusion

CHAPTER THREE

sensual bodies

Aesthetic Pleasures

Conclusion