Look at you, youre a hairy ape!
That taunt was as familiar to me as Good morning, when I was in grade school.
To be clear, I wasnt covered in hair from head to toe.
Myarmsand legs, however, were covered in soft, dark hair.
My mother suffered the same fate as me, so it ran in the family.
Id watch my friends come to school in tank tops and shorts, longing wistfully for that same freedom.
My arms are just as hairy as yours!
You just cant see it as well because the hair is lighter.
That was kind of the point.
If the boys cant see it, theyre not going to make fun of it, right?
I tried all of them.
Though I did it anyway.
It had to be less uncomfortable than the bleaching Id put up with.
Naturally, I was wrong.
It was painful AF and I didnt last an entire minute using it on my poor arms.
As I got older, I took to using hair removal creams when the days grew warmer.
Eventually, to reduce the need to do it so frequently, I moved towaxingandsugaring.
By then it was the ’90s, and I was in high school, so I did it myself.
I can tell you for a fact that I did a terrible job.
I would simultaneously admire and be disgusted by her choice.
Why did she not want to remove her arm hair as well?
My obsession with the hair on my arms, and removing it, continued as I grew into adulthood.
Postpartum depression, breastfeeding challenges, lack of sleepthese were things that mattered.
I didnt have the emotional energy to care about what my arms looked like.
Hell, I was lucky if I managed to shower every day.
Why would I spend that several hundred dollars on something that only I care about?
My husband didnt care.
My kids didnt care.
Anytime I had brought up this insecurity to friends, they claimed not to have even noticed.
Who was I doing this for?
To feel better about ourselves?
To attract a partner?
I dont have to worry about that (at least not since middle school).
What can I say?
