Sometimes I totally “get” what Michael Jackson was preachin’.
Uhhh…allow me to explain…
It’s just the whole “young at heart” thing, you know? The Peter Pan-obsession, the backyard amusement park, the slumber parties with 8-year olds, that Wacko-Jacko knew how to “young it up”…
I wish I had taken a similar crack at life, but instead, I find myself lamenting my shattered youth. I
often look back at that point in my life, where I realized that things weren’t as simple as punching boys, playing tag, and being a princess.
Eventually I had ”the moment”, where I knew that it was time to grow up…
This happened in 1993, a.k.a. age 12…
….As a girl of 12, I was grubby, fashion-backwards, and all about the ”recess”; I coulda stayed like that forever.
In reality though, nature had no room for perpetual”grub”. If anything, age 12 was the year of “the changes“, and if I looked close enough, I could see it all around me: girls were getting curvier, prettier, and more and more groomed by the minute.
When I first caught wind of “Project Groom”, I was huddled in the stuffy girls’ locker-room, slowly un-doing my button-fly jeans. I noticed two girls in the spotlight, giggling and showing off their legs, which were–OMG–totally hairless. Everyone approached them to cop a quick feel. A flurry of questions followed: Did you shave? Did you wax? Did you ask your mom? Do you feel like a woman?
Fascination turned into emulation: a week later, 90% of the chicks were going hairless.
And then there was me…
Now I wouldn’t exactly call myself a “wooly mammoth”, but being that I was ethnic and dark-haired, well…you know the stereotype, i.e. I was hairy and it showed mother-fuckers!!!
So with everyone else silky-smooth, I was now the very-hairy minority; it’s like it suddenly wasn’t cool to be a “furry forest friend”, wtf?
Let’s just say that one is a lonely number, so I needed to join the masses.
But wait: there was a massive road-block to my womanly development:
-My mom
I would so NOT be having the “woman-to-woman” chat with my mom. The reality was, I came from a very strict family; in MY house, any desire to be feminine was seen as a wish to “tramp-ify” (I’m almost certain that even today, my mom would prefer me as a large ungroomed a-sexual, who wears a sack and suffers from head-lice).
So with the “heart-to-heart” option out the window, if was time to get a little sneaky…
I needed some grooming supplies, STAT.
Trouble was, I was deathly afraid of snooping in my parents’ room. Their entire room had that whole “if you even breathe in here, we’ll know” kinda vibe.
So that left my older sister’s room, but knowing that she was gross, poorly socialized and ugly, I was more or less shit-out-of-luck.
So what was left?
Well…I had recently seen an ad on this ”waxy sugaring paste”, which could painlessly remove all your hair, and for weeks at a time!
Yo, sign me up!
Enter road-block #2:
-My disposable income was a whole lotta “zero” (I solved that problem years later, when I began to “whore-out” in exchange for gold coins…)
In the absence of cash, it was time to get resourceful.
And the resource?
My genius-brown-girl math skills (shut up, it’s all I had at the time).
Here’s the equation I invented:
sugaring paste = sticky and orange, which = the look and feel of honey, which = widely available in my kitchen cupboard.
And with that, I was off to the races!
So one Sunday night, I stole a jar of honey, took off my pants, and pretty much went to town:
-Apply honey across calf, cover with a strip of cloth (i.e. a cut up piece of t-shirt), and…PULL BACK!…………………………..umm……………………..”presto”???
Yeah…so that didn’t really work…
I was naturally confused, ’cause who says you can’t replace one sugary substance for another? I mean I may have only been 12, but mathematically, the theory seemed rock solid…
I made a few more attempts (on my thigh, on my arm, on my foot (don’t ask)), but again, NOTHING!
Well, since I’m pretty much the type who gives up VERY quickly, I scrapped “Project Groom” and decided to go “naturel“, for basically the next few years.
This meant a couple of things for me:
A: Not having a boyfriend
B: Being totally mortified in gym class, where I was forcibly put into shorts (with the alternative being a locker-room-rape, at the hands of our lesbian-teacher).
So yeah, call it ”super-embarrassment”, slow-moving (but no less de-bilitating) style.
Years later, I got myself a job (a.k.a. a disposable income), and AT LAST I became a girl!
Too little too late?
I await the jury’s response…








