This is the story of my hairy right ankle

I don’t shave my legs very often. Granted I shave more often now that I sometimes wear skirts instead of jeans jeans and more jeans, but still. Three times a week, maybe. And usually just to the knee, because who sees my thighs unless I’m wearing a bathing suit? Me. David. Mila. My doctor. And since I don’t care, and Mila doesn’t even notice, and my doctor probably sees worse, David’s the only one who might be all, “Whoa dude. What’s with the thigh rug?” except he doesn’t because he likes me for me, not because I’m phat like Cindy Crawford, who I assume has had laser hair removal done, or at the very least gets her legs waxed on a regular basis.

But I digress. Really I just want to point out that stubbly legs are pretty standard for me.

Why, then, would I be so fascinated by the hair I discovered last night on my inside right ankle? Because it’s the only one. A lonely beast in a strange location. One wiry wonder that had somehow escaped the razor long enough to be visible from at least six feet away. (I did not, for the record, take time to measure this distance in any scientific way; that’s merely the distance from my eyes to my ankles.)

I thought about tweezing the sucker and putting it out of its misery. But then I decided I’d let it live. Because what if, when I finally get around to shaving again, I forget it’s there and don’t shave it off? And what if that happens every time I shave for the next month or two? How long would it be then? An inch? More? How fast does my leg hair really grow? Would it eventually max out? Or could it potentially be like head hair, curling bravely–disgustingly–down to my toes?

What is wrong with me that I kind of want to find out?