“I am beautiful”
I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror,
Raising my clean-shaven chin
As I scan it for remnant hair,
My razor holding together the strands of shame
Wiped off of my face and armpits,
Having stripped the layer that lacked femininity
To make me beautiful again.
I am beautiful.
The mirror cannot see below my waist,
My plump legs sprouting jet black curls out of the pale skin,
Screaming for attention,
But I manage to strangle them behind tight jeans.
I am beautiful,
As long as my legs are hidden.
And I hid them well enough -
With socks that went above the knee and skirts that dropped below it,
With pants that stretched till my ankles,
Or stockings so dark you couldn’t tell the colour of my skin,
I was beautiful.
Except when I was indoors,
When I’d put on a t-shirt and pyjama shorts,
Letting those conspicuous curls breathe for some time,
Knowing well that it’s a crime,
A crime committed to feminine beauty.
I was guilty.
Guilty of being a womanly disgrace,
Guilty of having this clandestine craze
Of watching people’s legs than their face,
The length of their leg hair, their thickness, their colour,
The contrast with their skin, how it looked on their shin,
How strange
That none were repulsive like mine.
Not even of the men who flaunted their legs no matter how hairy
While mine just looked scary,
Mine was off-putting and so out of place,
I couldn’t help but get rid of its trace.
So I did.
I wasn’t beautiful.
I was now shaving
And scraping
And scrubbing
And hoping
That no one would notice the razor bumps, the blood clots, the rashes,
Or how I sometimes walked like a duck because of fresh and prickly hair down there,
I’d read articles online
And slap some cream onto the burning skin,
My shins were now a battlefield
But nobody was winning.
I hoped to find respite in beauty parlours,
But they mercilessly smeared hot wax onto my thighs
And insisted that my arm hair was also big-sized,
That my nails needed colour and my face needed steam
And my hair needed butter and an overall makeover,
But hey, atleast I was beautiful now. I think.
Because somehow the razor bumps weren’t as repulsive as the hair,
The hot wax wasn’t as troublesome as the looks of disgust,
Strawberry legs looked normal but hairy legs did not,
Red circles could be common but black curls could not,
‘Cause hey,
Painful beauty over judgmental comfort, right?
You see,
I was born with too much testosterone for a girl
Which manifests itself as these curls
In unnatural length
And none at all in terms of muscular strength
And I know
That there are plenty of us with such overgrown hair
On our shins and our chins
How strange
That we collectively choose to hide them.
I wish we didn’t have to.
I wish I didn’t have to choose between
The hot wax and the razor bumps,
The burning skin and the prickly jeans,
The body shaming and the self-pity,
I wish I was woman enough to choose neither,
To look at those curls of testosterone and not find it odd and ugly,
I wish I could let it grow
And still feel beautiful, you know?