The first time I ever shaved my legs, I did it dry.

I was in high school, either a freshman or sophomore, and too embarrassed to tell my mom that I thought my legs should be a little less hairy. So I got one of my dad’s orange plastic safety razors from the packet of backups, tucked it neatly into my shorts pocket and took it to my room, where I proceeded to try to shave my legs without water or soap.

Naturally, it hurt, because that’s what happens when you drag a razor across dry hair (it pulls), but it worked reasonably well, and I decided to try and get hold of some shaving creme next time — the guest bathroom had an old, crusty, almost-used canister hanging out that nobody had touched for months, since my mom never throws anything useful away.

Then my dad came in to ask me something, and I shoved the razor under my bed and looked at him with what I hoped was an innocent expression.

He took one look at my face, folded his arms, and demanded to see what I’d just put under the bed.

Horribly embarrassed, I pulled out that silly little orange safety razor and showed it to him. Of all the things a teenager could have hidden under her bed from her father, I doubt that was anywhere on his list, especially since he almost smiled and said, “Oh. Okay.”

A few days later, though I never mentioned the incident to anyone, my mom pulled me aside for some shaving tips.