Am I a bad feminist for taking my husband's last name?
The Cheek 009: justice for Staten Island baddies and rockin' a full bush.
Welcome to “The Cheek.” My weekly, sometimes snarky, brain dump, typically fueled by TikTok brain rot. Enjoy.
It’s not anti-feminist to take his last name.
Since I was a little girl, I dreamed of the day I could finally change my last name. Aside from the fact that my father is a terrible man, my maiden name—Persson—was a constant source of confusion. It’s Swedish, and I’m not. My dad was adopted, but turns out, I’m as Italian as they come. For some reason, my dad and his family pronounced it Pierson, and eventually, everyone just defaulted to calling me Person. (Fun fact: I later found out from a Swedish girl that it’s actually pronounced Pear-shon.) Anyway—it never felt like mine. I couldn’t wait to ditch it for something that did.
When my new Social Security card arrived, I cried happy tears. Mrs. Nasti. (Pronounced Nast-eye. Don’t get me started on that one.)
But recently, my favorite comedienne, Katherine Ryan, admitted on her podcast that she judges women who take their husband’s last name. I love Katherine. She can do no wrong in my eyes. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate this take. I appreciate and celebrate all women who make empowered choices, and I know plenty who wouldn’t dream of changing their names. But aren’t we all taking some man’s name either way? I’d rather share a name with the best man I’ve ever met and our future children. I’m honored to take my husband’s last name.
And honestly? As a woman with a strong personality who’s been calling the shots her whole life, there’s something kind of hot about the perceived submission of taking my man’s name. I know, I know—I’m a bad, bad feminist. Whatever.
Lest we forget, feminism is about women doing whatever the fuck they want. Take your pussy hat elsewhere—you’re barking up the wrong tree.
The New York transplants are angry.
NYC iNfLuEnCeRs are offended because some random TikToker called them all boring. I somewhat agree. They’re mostly blonde, white, matcha-loving, Pilates-frequenting, vocal-fried, clean girls—none of whom are actually from New York. And while I have no issue with NYC transplants and enjoy the occasional Day in My Life as a 25-year-old living in a $10K/month apartment with a Barry’s Bootcamp membership video, I can’t help but think that the portrayal of New Yorkers through this lens is a farce.
If entertainment is what you’re looking for, you gotta ditch the Connecticut clones. Follow a mouthy Italian girl from Staten Island or literally anyone who’s been on the subway more than once. “Day in my life as a hairdresser with extreme road rage married to a Tony Soprano lookalike” kinda has a ring to it, right?
Bush is in.
I’m mentally preparing to start justifying the style of my pubic hair, and if that’s not a sign of the times, I don’t know what is. Lately, I’ve noticed an uptick in conversations about rockin’ a bush. More women are ditching the patriarchal—and, frankly, creepy—beauty standard of a clean-shaven puss, along with their razors. While I’m all for stickin’ it to the man, why is this even a conversation? And more importantly… is this about to become a trend?
I predict capitalism will find its way in, as it always does. I can see it now—charms, accessories, oils, appliqués. They’ll figure out how to commodify the bush.
Listen, I’m a busy millennial who doesn’t have the time to dismantle my internalized patriarchy, so I won’t be partaking. Plus, I’m not sure how my husband would feel about foraging for his goodies. I’ll sit this one out!
If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti
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