Ambassador voices: A poem about body hair
Coarse, fine, black, blonde, straight, curly, thick, thin. Legs, arms, hands, back, groin, ass, feet, nipples, stomach. It’s normal, it’s natural, it’s hair.
“Oh my god, your hand is so hairy!”.
But it’s normal, it’s natural, it’s hair!
It’s no longer hair. It’s hairy. And hairy is wrong.
But when does hair become hairy, and who decides it’s wrong?
It happened again.
“You would look better if you shaved your legs”
“More feminine. I like smooth”
Smooth. That word would come up again and again and again.
I could no longer be feminine without being smooth. To have hair, was to be manly. To be manly, was to be undesirable.
I wanted to be feminine. I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted to shave.
No. I didn’t want to shave. I needed to shave.
Who doesn’t want to be desired? Who doesn’t want to feel beautiful?
I had to shave for him.
And there it is. The problem. I was shaving for him.
My beauty. My femininity. My worth. Was tied to him.
He decides what’s feminine, what’s masculine, what’s hair, what’s hairy, what’s beautiful, what’s ugly.
I say Enough.
Because what comes next?
How far would I go for him?
For how long would I be attached to him? When does my life become his?
My hairy life.
No. Not hairy.
Updated on 16-Oct-2020
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