I was that girl who wore shorts and tank tops year round. I was that girl who never was cold. I was that girl who the weather couldn't beat. I was invincible.
I lived for skin. The warmth of delicious on my arms, the sensational touch being amplified to its maximum potential. I danced barefoot in the rain, I had dreams of becoming a nudist. In my naive mind, I had never failed. I could accomplish anything I set my mind to, and take out the world.
Then I hit puberty.
My ever dancing arms clamped shut, because out spurted that humilliating black stuff that can only be referred to as armpit hair.This was merely as bad as writting: "Any day round pointing things are going to shoot out of my chest" on my forehead.
And yet, I tried to pretend it didn't exsist. If I said it was a spider or some black threads it would go away. It didn't. People made fun of it. People made fun of me.
But I didn't want to shave it away, I didn't have the heart to caste away a part of my body with such hatred. Unstead, my colorful wardobe I'd hope to abolish when I became a nudist, stocked high with tank tops became replaced with long sleeves and jackets.
I felt encased, trapped, confined. These things clung to my arms like damp toilet paper, limiting my arms and telling them where it was proper to be placed.
My ever in motion feet now stuck in social expectations, for now they had no partners to dance with. From my solo bubble I watched envious, as guys admired their hairs, as girls shied away from theirs in shame, and I was expected to do the same.
I gave into a system where woman had to change they way they looked, in order to follow my passion. And once again I danced, but I felt naked now, in a way I had hoped never to feel. There was a part of me missing. My invisablity had been shattered when I surrendered to changing the way I looked because of someone else.
I look back on it, and realized I had limited my options in thinking I could either let the rules of society confine me as a trapped woman, or I could stand up to this descending oppression to follow my heart. Thinking about it with my older, wiser self, I realized there was a third option I'd had, and had had all along until I lost my pride.
I could ignore it all. I could resist the shocked faces when that hair sprang from my freed limbs. I could ignore those snickers when I raised my hand. Because long ago, in a world of naive passion, I had danced for me. I had danced to keep a smile on my face, and I hadn't cared about what others thought, even when faced with a hurdle.
And so now, razor in hand, I stand in the shower again, contemplating whether to keep sheering off a part of me because I am a woman, or walk with pride down the sidewalk, as an equal regardless of my sex.