Bearded Lady by Mara Altman Page B

implement: a battery-operated lint remover. I tucked it into my backpack and went to my room to begin my work.
    For some reason I didn’t feel like I could ask my Mom or Dad for razors. I felt guilty even considering the request. I knew if I did so, I would be knocking their entire modus operandi. They saw the world through their late 1960s Berkeley-colored glasses, and maintained a loyalty to All Things Natural — countering societal conventions like hair removal, maybe having something to do with nostalgia for John Lennon’s unkempt eyebrows. Meanwhile, my Mom hadn’t removed hair on any part of her body, ever. And my Dad professed to love it.
    “I’ve been very happy with this hairy little creature,” Dad would say.
    In addition to his shaving shibboleths, Dad often made the point that he did not like it when women wore makeup or perfumes (yes, that includes deodorant). Basically, we were a hair-positive household that practiced a Don’t-Hide-How-You-Came doctrine. But instead of feeling free to be who I was, sometimes this hairy-go-lucky attitude felt confining. One time I wore a body spray called White Musk. I’d put it on right before I got in the car with my Dad. His face contorted into a spontaneous pukey expression as he rolled down the window.
    “Yuck!”
    The entire family had apparently met secretly at some point without me, and formed a pact against all forms of body enhancements and alterations. Once I’d put on some lipstick and my older brother asked, “Why are you wearing that stuff?” The question was so laced with condemnation that I felt like he’d found me shooting up heroin.   Why are you wearing that stuff? Why are you shooting up heroin? I pointed out to him that he was dating a girl who shaved, wore blush and concealer and lipstick and eye shadow and mascara and also some sort of raspberry scent that I felt certain I’d once whiffed at The Body Shop. He said those weren’t the parts he liked about her. But at 13 I could connect the dots; he was attracted to girls who gussied up. Guys liked girls who gussied up. Still, I couldn’t help feeling ashamed that I’d tried to change my innate lip shade in front of my makeup-mocking family. When he went back to his homework, I looked in the mirror and rubbed off the fakery. I wanted to fit in.
    But getting rid of my hair wasn’t exactly about improving my looks. I didn’t quite comprehend what a female leg should look like at that point, anyway — and I wasn’t trying to attract a guy, not yet. At 13, guys remained as untouchable as tropical fish in an aquarium. I admired their firm fins and bright colors as they passed, but we could never blow bubbles together. They didn’t even notice my nose pressed up against the glass.
    No, I had to remove hair for basic schoolyard survival, or risk permanent exile to the farthest reaches of the lunch area. I dreaded the idea of being called gross again. During that time of major pubescent shifts, April made it her job to strain out confusion — a self-appointed quality control officer on the San Marcos Junior High School playground, barking at any girl who failed to maintain her proper place on the feminine side of the distinct gender line.
    That meant no leg hair, ladies.
    For the remaining hours of that school day it had felt like 40 million sniper-eyes were laser-focused on my legs. Even the slightest pupil flicker bound in my direction caught my attention. The embarrassment was vaguely equivalent to having toilet paper hanging from your shoe, but not really. You can’t shake off leg hair. I know; I’ve tried that, too.
    So I locked the door to my bedroom and pulled out the lint-remover contraption. I flipped on the switch. It started buzzing. I lowered it to my calf, feeling equal measures of shame for having hair, and for buzzing it off with a machine.
    I cringed as it made calf contact, expecting excruciating pain. But it really only tickled, asserting itself as a machine manipulated for