Win some, Lose some

The awareness of one's body usually coincides with puberty. You go through many changes and you compare those changes to that of your peers. I noticed the difference of my skin colour much earlier than that -- only because it illicited stares and unwanted behaviour from others outside of my inner circle that I deemed odd or strange.

And that was the crux of my problem. Initially, I grew up innocent enough thinking that everyone else had the problem and not I. However, puberty does crazy things to the preteen mind and I came to the conclusion that everyone was perfect, except me. Physically. Thank God it was only a superficial affliction. Deep down, I knew I was one step ahead in terms of maturity and intelligence. But not intelligent enough to convince myself that I was just as pretty as everyone else, in my own hairy way.

God blessed me with an over-abundance of hair. And what made it worse was that the fairer I became, the more noticable the dark hairs were. Growing up dark hid the hair, ironically. Much to my father's relief, my skin colour slowly began to 'improve' over the years and I stayed more indoors to study, read and write, rather than run rampant through the streets.

I was endlessly teased from Grade 6 to 8 about my unibrow, moustache and hairy arms. Literally, I was one walking fur ball. And to make matters worse, while every girl was conscious about growing her boobs, I was already given that asset at age 12. I was the second largest in my class, behind the 6 foot tall tomboy,Wendy. No one dared to mention her chest size in her presence for fear of retaliation. Wendy had already beaten up a few boys in our class when they mentioned that her boobs resembled the dodge balls we used in gym class.

Most girls were stuffing their bras (padded bras were non-existent at the time) with tissues or socks to get the attention of the jocks in class. Instead, my mother was trying to find ways to hide mine. At one point, she insisted that I use the same bandage that she used for her wrist. It made me look flatter but the bulge above and below the bandage was worse. I cried and told her I was cursed. Nevertheless, that was the least of my worries. While every girl in class envied my boobs, my unwanted hair was more of a distraction.

"Hey Sexy Lady! You are rocking it today but you forgot to shave!" The boys would laugh as I hid behind my locker door. I buried my head inside and regretted the day I was born. One boy came up to me asking for my notes from the previous day because he skipped school. My first inclination was to hand them over for him to photocopy, but he was one of the worst culprits when it came to teasing me about my looks. I shook my head in defiance and closed my locker door.

"Will you go to the dance with me tonite? I need a date for my sister. She loves moustaches!" he yelled after me. I kept walking, trying to ignore him while the tears stung my eyes. I would never be pretty enough.

I looked in the mirror and studied my reflection. I locked the bathroom door in case my parents came in and laid out the tools on the counter. I took off my glasses and saw a fuzzy girl looking back at me. The lack of vision made it better. I could not see my unibrow or moustache. My teeth were crooked and my french braids were outdated. I needed to change.

After many years of my mother telling me how beautiful I was and not to change what God had given me, I finally bowed down and succumbed to peer pressure. I would never fit in until I looked the part.

I took the razor and brought it to my face but immediately dropped it on the floor when I heard my mother trying to pick the lock to the bathroom door.

"What is going on in there?!" she whispered loudly, so not to wake my father. She jimmyed the lock with her hairpin and found me standing with shaving cream in my hand and the razor on the floor. She almost fell over at this sight.

"If you are about to do what I think you are going to do, I am going to ..." she exclaimed.
Instead of finishing her sentence, she picked up the razor and took the cream out of my hand. She examined the counter. Magnifying mirror, eyebrow plucker, scissors and rubbing alcohol. I sheepishly looked down at the floor. Why did I go on the physical traits of my father? Why didn't God give me her gene pool? She was beautiful. Fair, a small delicate nose, naturally sculpted eyebrows, killer cheekbones and not one hair on her face or body. I watched how her hands moved with precision to pick up all my instruments and remove them from my possession.

"Now, if I EVER see you touch these objects, I will disown you. The minute you put that razor on your face, you will have a lifetime of hair to deal with. Do you want to join your father every morning to shave? There are other ways to remove your hair. But now is not the time. Wait until you get married," she explained.

I nearly fainted on the spot. Wait until I am married? Who wants to marry the bearded lady at the circus?

"Mama, I need to change. All the boys pick on me at school and even the girls don't want to associate with me. All they ask me is what exercises I do at home for my chest!" My mother shook her head disapprovingly.

"I told you that I love you just the way you are. And people need to accept you as well." I didn't buy her explanation. I needed to act fast.

The next day, I unravelled my french braid and looked at my bum-length hair. I took me exactly half the school year in Grade 7 to convince my father to allow me to cut it professionally. I had to manipulate and bribe him at the same time. And it worked in my favour, for the time being.

Lie #1:

"My hair is too long and it gives me headaches. That is why I only have a 'B' in Math. If you let me cut my hair, I will bump my mark to an 'A'. I promise." I hated Math and my father knew I was not interested in increasing my mark. His only wish was for his eldest daughter to have straight As that year.

Lie #2:

To achieve Lie #1, I convinced a flat-chested, brainiac classmate to tutor me before every test so long as I told her my secret of how to attain big boobs. I had no clue what that was but I knew I could come up with some 'innovative exercises.' Something to do with massage....

We went to Magic Cuts and I asked for my long, unruly hair to be cut, shoulder-length in layers which was the latest fashion. Later that day, I allowed my next door neighbor to multiply my "upper moustache" into a pair of identical, precise brows.

To top it off, I spent my piggy bank money and bought hot wax from the local drugstore and ripped off my moustache in three takes. Luckily I had the weekend to recuperate the swollen upper lip as a result of my failed attempts. But I eventually got the hang of it.

My mother cried when she saw me. Her message was foreboding. "This is not the end. It will go on and on..." I had no clue what she meant but I would soon understand what she meant.

That night, I looked in the mirror and was taken aback with the results. I did not recognize myself but was pleased. I imagined I would win over my enemies at school. I didn't sleep the entire night out of sheer anticipation.

When I arrived at school the next day, I was met by gasps and stares in the hallways. People were whispering to themselves and I saw some nods of approval. I walked confidently to my locker and went to class. Wendy walked straight up to my desk. She had a menacing look on her face and I cowered slightly in her presence. She bent down to face me.

"Nice hair," she remarked and then returned to her seat. I smiled hesitantly. Another girl sitting close by overheard Wendy and soon chimed in. "You look so different but you look nice," she said. I bit my lip so not to cry with joy. Even my teacher commented on my new hairstyle. I was a whole other person. Finally. To be accepted. I had a glimpse of hope.

I walked back to my locker with a gaggle of girls gushing around me. Some were touching my hair, others were examining my upper lip while others tried to find out who did my eyebrows.

At the end, 'happiness is a photo, not a movie' and my fame was short-lived. 

"Your boobs are so big, your eyes are black from running!" a boy yelled from across the hall and the rest of his clique snickered and laughed.

Mama was right... so why did I expect more? I got a B+ in Math that year and my classmate stopped talking to me after remaining an A cup until the end of Grade 8.

Win some, lose some....