Gen Z Diary: I’m terrified of climate change but flights to Paris cost the same as a train to Cork 

Jane Cowan: 'Frantically putting some suncream on your face in the airport bathroom before making your way to the hotel. The excitement, the freedom: It’s better than the first girls’ night out after someone has broken up with their boyfriend.'

Every time I book a flight, I experience a twinge of guilt. I am genuinely terrified by the thought of climate change. And I know I’m not doing the planet any favours by flying. I certainly don’t need to spend a weekend searching for the best flat white in some European city a couple of times a year. But it’s not an easy thing to quit.

Nothing gets me going like a cheap flight taking off at the break of dawn. Navigating security in a mild state of exhaustion-induced delirium. The wave of heat whacking you in the face as you alight at your destination. Frantically putting some sun cream on your face in the airport bathroom before making your way to the hotel. 

The excitement, the freedom: It’s better than the first girls’ night out after someone has broken up with their boyfriend. And when a flight to Paris is the same price as the train to Cork, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. I know I should be better. But I’m only human. It’s impossible to live up to all of your morals all of the time. Sue me.

I feel similarly guilty every time I run a hand down my shin and instinctively think, ‘I must remember to shave my legs the next time I’m in the shower.’ Not guilty that I’m dabbling in a six o’clock shadow of the legs. Guilty an empowered woman such as myself should waste my brief earthly existence thinking about the hair on my legs.

Logically, I know feeling a social pressure to have perfectly hairless legs at any given moment is just patriarchal nonsense. It’s the same reason I feel pressure to wear make-up on a night out, and subject myself to the archaic torture method my beautician calls eyebrow threading every four to six weeks. Unfortunately, no amount of logical thinking has been enough to make me change my ways.

Jane Cowan: 'When a flight to Paris is the same price as the train to Cork, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. I know I should be better. But I’m only human. It’s impossible to live up to all of your morals all of the time. Sue me.'

Like my inability to resist a reasonably priced flight, I don’t think it is my fault I cannot seem to put down the razor. Even if you detest superficial standards of beauty with every inch of your logical mind, it’s hard to shake decades of conditioning. 

All those advertisements for shaving that I grew up watching, they got deep into my psyche. Razor marketing did such a thorough job of manipulating the impressionable minds of girls everywhere that we’re still struggling to unshackle ourselves.

The messaging was clear: Hair is not feminine, not clean, not fit for public viewing. And we all just bought into it. New insecurity unlocked. Now most of us are spending an extra 10 minutes in the shower twice a week? Because some hairy guy in a boardroom told us to? 

I am sort of furious about it. I don’t know much about religion but smooth legs is one of my 10 commandments. It’s bloody hard to be a woman. And if I get 60 seconds of joy from my smooth leg, that is not a crime. I would like to lay my guilt down. I’d sooner forget to floss my teeth than wear a skirt with unshaven legs.

Sometimes, I judge myself for upholding patriarchal beauty standards in this way. I wonder if I am weak for succumbing to the pressure of excellent marketing. If I’m a bad feminist for it. Then earlier this month, Phoebe Bridgers wore a skirt with unshaven legs to the Venice Film Festival. 

And I am reminded that maybe it’s not a problem of my own willpower, or my dedication to feminism. I see magazine articles, podcasts, and think pieces pop up on my Instagram discussing Phoebe Bridgers’ shins.

Despite what the razor marketing people would have us believe, most of the discussion didn’t involve questions of Bridgers’ hygiene. It mainly involved celebrations of her “unapologetic hair”. I get it; it’s obviously an unusual choice for a woman to show any form of body hair. But part of me also had to laugh. She was making headlines for a bit of leg hair.

If anything, I felt validated in my decision to keep my leg hair at bay. Not that anyone is planning on inviting me to any film festival red carpets in the near future. But it was nice to know I’m not burdening myself with hair removal for no reason. 

It was kind of like remembering that billionaires take private jets to dinner reservations. And maybe the weight of climate change doesn’t rest on my weekend trip to Edinburgh. And I probably don’t set feminism back by 50 years every time I buy a box of razor blades.