I got my legs professionally shaved — and it was weirdly delightful

By | May 18, 2019

Like lacing your shoes or making oatmeal, there is surely someone out there who can shave your legs better than you can do it yourself. But it feels slightly wrong to outsource the task.

Still, silky-smooth hopefuls — including me — snatched up spots at Shave Bar, a pop-up by shaving cream company Skintimate. (Spots are filled, but there’s an online waitlist.)

At the Soho outpost, at 107 Grand St. and open through Sunday, aestheticians sleek-ify gams for free with disposable razors and “tropical”-scented shave gels (arguably more dessert-scented, with names like Vanilla Sugar, Coconut Delight and Strawberry Tangerine).

I should say from the outset that most razors I’ve owned have been stolen from gyms or roommates: rusty and discarded single-blade shavers that do an OK job at armpit hair but also run the risk of tetanus exposure.

As for pampering, I can count the number of pedicures I’ve gotten on one hand, including the one I got for the photo accompanying this article.

Which is to say that the pastel-hued shop — and the wig-wearing actors it employs to greet visitors with ketamine-high levels of enthusiasm — was not exactly my natural habitat.

For that, there were cocktails. Mine had hibiscus-infused tequila, lime juice, and tangerine foam, meant to match my “Fruity and flirty” shave: with Strawberry Tangerine shave gel and a sensitive razor, intended for date nights.

The woman next to me chose the same pairing, even though my big post-shave plans were going straight home and hers to Trader Joe’s.

Walking out, I felt cool and fresh, but also a little bit like a just-iced cake

After I swapped my street shoes for flip-flops and jeans for silk shorts, the cosmetologist slapped a hot towel on my legs, then began my shave. It felt nicer than a wax, and somehow more personal.

To cut the awkwardness, I talked: to my fellow shavees, to the head shaver. I learned that my mother wasn’t the only one who warned me not to shave above the knee, because the hair would grow back thicker and coarser — “an old wives’ tale,” said the head shaver.

Brittany Sky, fellow shavee, a muse of Kendrick Lamar’s and DJ for the pop-up, told me about crafting the playlist for the event while she was being lathered.

“I wanted it to be relaxing like a vacation, and tropical,” she said. 

“Girls Just Want to Have Fun” blared as the woman next to me told me where she got her cute dress. “Oh, it’s vintage!” she exclaimed, before leaning in close: “By which I mean Asos.” 

Walking out, I felt cool and fresh, but also a little bit like a just-iced cake. There’s something seriously sugary-feeling in that shaving-cream formula.

One day later, my legs are still smooth, with no stubble or bumps. But I’m not sure I’d go back to the Shave Bar. Some things, I think, are probably meant to be done alone.

Living | New York Post