I used to shave the hair that grew
on the side of my face because I knew
they called it
sideburns.
And only boys were supposed to have
sideburns.
I spent hours on the internet
looking up nipple hair, was it a threat?
and all roads led, as they inevitably do, to
death.
I plucked at the stringy hairs on my toes,
hoping no one would see.
Why couldn’t I just let them be
there?
Yesterday I washed my pubic hair
with conditioner, in hopes of softening it,
but it stayed unruly and coarse.
True to its form
my hair showed no remorse,
but I
averted my eyes
when my cousin raised her arms,
cringed as I brushed past the spikes on her legs,
handed her a razor as I said,
Do no more harm
to yourself.
You can’t blend in smoothly
when you stick out so rudely.
The sharpness of my tone was
completely justified.
I mean, without me,
who was she?
In fact, I wish there would have been someone like me
to explain the rules of
Beauty (read: Acceptance)
Beautiful were those who naturally had hair in all the right places
The rest of us were just hacks, uncomfortable taking up spaces
Today, I questioned
feeling so justified
If it’s just hair, then
why did I care
so much?
Was my cousin to blame
just so I didn’t have to feel
shame?
Gal-dem — Not Shaving Isn’t Always a Choice for Women of Colour
