Coming To Terms With My Indian Body Hair In Quarantine
A few weeks into quarantine, I was as hairy as I had been since puberty. But for once, I didn’t mind.
I asked my mom for a razor. "Why?" she quizzed, suspicious shaving was a gateway drug to failed math tests, boys, and alcohol. I couldn’t tell her it was worse, that I needed to exterminate my Indian-ness to survive seventh grade.
The light dusting of hair on my stomach and strays near my nipples were a part of my heritage, as much as the Bhangra music and dance I loved so much. I smiled thinking about how my mom had black hair, just like her mom did.