My first trip to Paris. A dream come true.
From the favela to the City of Light. Like in the movies. Young, in love, and full of hope.
We were sipping drinks on a sunny terrace when my new boyfriend glanced at my arms and grimaced.
“You have a lot of arm hair, don’t you?”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“Women have body hair too.” I tried to sound casual.
“Yeah, but you have a lot.”
My chest tightened. I slid my arms under the table.
“True, I do. That’s just how it is.”
I gazed away, the calm waves of La Seine blurring in my eyes.
“There’s something you can do. There are methods for… err…”
He trailed off. Of course he did. He didn’t have the vocabulary for body hair removal.
He’d never scorched his skin with ammonia, enduring the unbearable itch.
Never winced through the ripping pain of waxing.
Never gagged at the rotten-egg stench of depilatory creams.
No. He knew nothing.
Not even that I had already tried “many methods” before this trip.
My knee was still nicked from the razor.
My groin still bruised from the wax.
My face still stinging from the thread.
My eyebrows still red from the tweezers.
And still…it wasn’t enough.
What a defeat in the City of Love.
Getting rid of all my body hair is a battle I’ve never won. And never will.
It’s a full-time job.
And I don’t have the time.
Or the money.
Or the patience.
Since Paris, I’ve enjoyed summer a little less.
Since Paris, I’ve kept hiding my arms under the table.
But now—ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.
I refuse to shrink myself to fit someone else’s idea of beauty.
I refuse to apologize for being human.
I refuse to hide.
