Where I had once wondered with disdain at women’s hairy pits, the strength of cultural stigma fueled a fascination with my own. I was in league with backwoods farmers, fervent feminists, French femme, eccentric art teachers, hippies, mountain women. My underarms were an embodied testament to living in sandstone canyons and sleeping under the stars.
“You shave them or I do.”
My mother stands across from me as I pad by
in a towel. The mischief in her pointed stare turns sour; she is considering
the likelihood of having to hold me down like a fussy, bath-leery five-year
old. I’ve been home two days and have, again, neglected to civilize my
underarms. A closet of dresses and a dinner date with relatives anticipate
my clean-shaven presence. Innocently, I raise my arm over my head, and my
sister’s face crumples inwards in disgust. They tolerate with my unkempt
calves and unpainted face. But the pits have got to go.
I rock back on my heels. I hush the self that revels in its hairy
contrariness; peace with my mother is more valuable than the statement
of my fur. I rewind the reel – step back up the stairs, drop the damp
towel, climb into the shower, and erase the entirety of autumn with my
little sister’s razor.
Diving into a swimming hole, the water would comb along the hairs, translating more delicately the movement of water. The blossom was just barely concealed when I folded my arms across my stomach.