by Goh Li Sian, Change Maker. This piece was written for the Body/Language creative writing workshop, co-organised by We Can! Singapore and Etiquette SG, and performed at the Singapore Writers’ Festival 2014.
In my purple tank top, I yawn and stretch
Sleepy! A hard day’s work. Sensing vulnerability
My mother picks up where we left off,
Though I try in fewer words to tell her things are different now.
She says, “You know, you could.”
I say, “No.”
She says, “Just once-“
I say, “I don’t want to.”
She says, “Why not?”
I say, “We are not discussing this.”
My mother has tried before,
When the tweezers she favoured failed,
Razors, epilators, wax strips, waxing salons,
Until we’ve arrived at this final solution
To troublesome body hair
On troublesome daughters
Lasers!
My mother couches her disgust in tact,
Telling me, “Your father has asked me to bring you to a salon you know.”
Of course, when the noble patriarch says “Shave,”
It’s my job to say, “How close?”
Or brings it up in lighter moments, snapshots that could almost be happy-
“You like this dress? Sleeveless, you know! When you wear it, you must shave,
or wear a jacket. Some people may be offended. I’m just telling you.”
Ah, that bogeyman Some People.
How to explain to my mother, who is not just Any Person,
That I know Some People
And they have nothing to say about my body and how I choose to adorn it.
If they ever did,
I would choose to have nothing to do with them
The way I cannot have nothing to do with my mother.
On my mother’s head rests thinning hair
She dyes chestnut brown,
Disdaining jet black, her original shade, as “too harsh”,
Disdaining long braids that stretch to other ladies’ waists,
Or supermarket cashiers who pick at their hair before checking out her groceries
Shrinkwrapped packages of meat.
“Too dirty,” she says,
And I turn away, stifling casual rage.
My mother’s never shaved her legs in her life,
Has been known to exclaim wonderingly
Over her daughters’ layers of fuzz,
On shin or forearm.
Where does it come from? she asks.
After all, “Me and your Pa have no hair!”
I know where, but don’t say
Secret teenage hours spent locked in the bathroom
Experimenting with a baby blue plastic razor and shaving gel
Before I gave up. The rush of ritual:
Smoothing the gel. Running the razor. Over inches of pubescent limb:
Shin, calf, thigh.
Elbow to wrist, even inside of forearm, smoothed over sides.
Fingers, phalanges to knuckle.
They say
The hair never grows back the same way again, new growth sprouts
Against the follicle, not with,
Springing back with a vengeance against this tree-trimming,
Asserting its existence.
My mother uses tweezers to pick and pick at the armpits
I snuggled under as a little girl,
But to do the same to the hair on her pubic area
Would be inconvenient and obscene.
I try to explain why I feel the same about the fur under my arms,
Knowing a lost cause when I see one.
“Why?” my mother says, a plaintive moan,
And I turn silent, examine the clothes on the rack,
Rows of dresses without sleeves,
Stifling the impulse to swear,
Stifling the reason, “Can’t be fucked.”
Stifling the reason, “Fuck you!”
The hair under my arms
Is coarse and prickly at its roots, but curls
Into the softness of pelts at its tips
I have a sweet lover, who understands this,
Who would stroke the hair there,
Kiss it, a rest stop on the way to his final destination
Sniff, tell me that he adored the way I smell
This is not a battle in a war, but
A piece of the puzzle
She never will understand.
Sometimes, I suspect my mother would like me better
Bald as a newborn,
As sweet smelling
Infantlike,
Hairless.
About the Author: Li Sian works for AWARE. She enjoys trivial conversations with close friends and makes shy jokes in less intimately-known company. After five months of living at home, she is proud to announce that she is still resolutely hirsute.