It’s a cold and rainy night and most sensible people have stayed home. I tell myself that I might as well go ahead with it as I had been growing my body hair for several months. It was winter after all…

I bring six half-pints of heavy cream, 10 disposable razors, a toy echo microphone, a giant mixing bowl, and a pair of “no muffin-top” high-waisted underwear to the performance. I lay out my tarp and stripped off my street clothes. To complete the look, I put on a pair of peep-toe, faux leather pumps that I only wear while performing. Ballroom music from the 1950s is playing. I grab the grocery bag with the cream and distribute it amongst the audience.

I speak of lactose intolerance, cystic acne, and dark/thick body hair while instructing the audience to deposit their assigned cream in the bowl: “Quickly! Deposit your cream!”

I take out my electric hand mixer and beat the cream until it has achieved stiff peaks. I sample the cream with my fingertips—it tastes like cream. The beaters batter my fingers and cream flies out of the bowl and speckles the floor. All the while, I’m aggressively striking poses and dancing seductively. The red, dim lighting showcases my every dimple and maximizes my cellulite.

When stiff peaks are achieved, I get the $1.29, two-blade, disposable razors and begin to lather my legs with the whipped cream. I lift up my leg and slam it down on top of the bar and start shaving. My hair is instantly clogging the blades. I also decide that it’s probably a good time to shave my armpits.

Then it is time for the musical interlude—I sing Klaus Nomi’s interpretation of “You Don’t Own Me” (1981). I have forgotten most of the words and I’m mostly mumbling and yelling… The floor is very slippery and I fall a couple of times. I smear the whipped cream on the tarp and sloppily write “FUCK YOU” into the foam. I continue to shave, strutting around the mess using two razors at once.

Afterwards, I take my dried out baby wipes and attempt to clean myself up. My legs are slick and blood is running down my gleaming shins. Dirt and hair are clinging to them. The next day my hair smells like cheese and my legs are covered in a fine greasy sheen.