Two humble patches of dark, luscious hair. That is all they are.
Small enough to fit under the palm of your hand, and rarely blessed with seeing the light of day. Most of the time, you wouldn’t even know they are there. It is only during the height of summer or on the (very) rare occasion you catch me in a swimsuit that you would be graced with their presence.
But when they do come out, boy do they get noticed. Eyes are drawn to my underarms like there is something magical growing amongst the shrubbery. It is a level of attention that is unwanted and, quite frankly, unjustified.
It is just hair.
But female body hair remains a social anomaly and political statement that rarely goes unnoticed. While it may be a small, passive, and seemingly trivial act, growing my body hair is more than feminist rebellion. It is a way of regaining control of both my body and mind. And I like it.
When I was a teen, the act of shaving (rather than body hair itself) was regarded as a symbol of womanhood, femininity, and maturity. Following puberty, hair would inevitably grow…
