Gina Vaynshteyn
August 17, 2014 8:05 am

Getting older is weird. You start paying attention to low APRs, whether or not you have an emergency pack of Tums in your purse, and the fact that everyone around you seems to be getting married and having chubby-cheeked babies. All normal. All expected. You knew that one day you would have to grow up, and life wouldn’t be fair or whatever. However, there is a day that comes for some of us, where we will look into the mirror to inspect a tiny black smudge on our necks or chins, and we will realize—in utmost horror—that it’s not a smudge. It’s A HAIR. A single, stray hair. Where hair shouldn’t be.

This hair is no ordinary hair, either. It’s dark, thick, and resilient. No matter how many times you pluck it, it Keeps. Coming. Back. You start to worry you’re in some scary movie, where the psycho killer returns at the end, even you thought he was totally stabbed to death. It’s like your personal, real-life twisted horror-story ending. You pluck it, you wax it, you shave it, sometimes you even have to tug it out with your thumb and index finger on the fly if you forgot to deal with it at home. You start panicking whenever you’re out and about, worried it could be growing back, sprouting at any given second. How could you possibly be taken seriously when you practically have a weed growing from your neck (or arm, leg, cheek, chin—it could happen ANYWHERE).

You become so fed up with this hair from hell, that you Google natural, DIY hair removal remedies. After all, our ancestors must have dealt with the same stubborn hair problems and it’s not like they had the option of lasering them off, either. You slather tea-tree oil, turmeric, blended papaya, chickpea flour, vinegar all over the affected surface area. You drown the strand of hair, hoping this time it will be gone for good. You research spells that specialize in the removal of all things annoying and life-ruining.

But a week later, it appears. Perky as ever. Immune to lotions, potions, and your despair. What. The. Hell. This is the part where you give up. You throw your hands in the air, cursing the gods for this unmanageable problem.

But that night, you experience a grand epiphany. You think, why am I letting a single strand of hair ruin my life? I am a strong woman. I am a warrior. I will not allow anything to make me feel badly about myself or my body without my consent. Isn’t that what Eleanor Roosevelt said? You go stand in front of your mirror like the brazen goddess you are, and you tell your reflection that from this day forward, you will stop worrying about what other people think. You will stop feeling self-conscious over something so teensy and pathetic. And you will invest in a shiny new pair of tweezers, because you’ve been wanting to go to Sephora anyway.

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