AWhat I observed was that it was women [who] shared this poem everywhere. The idea was to notify men and grab their attention about what the process of hair removal is like.
The only reason I took credits for this poem was to avoid plagiarism. I initially published it anonymously on the page because I wanted people to read what I wrote and not pay attention to who had written it. I have been receiving loads of compliments for my fifteen seconds of fame and motivating as they are, they don't really matter to me, to be very honest. What matters more are the people came forward and shared their stories. When I was writing this piece, I was just trying to let things out of my head so that if there was anybody anywhere who felt the same way, they would know that they're not alone in this, because I know what that feels like. I never want anyone else to feel that way.
So if you really wish to compliment me on what I wrote, stop getting grossed out by hairy women. That would be more than enough.
PS: people who made fun of my moustache in school told me they loved this. I still don't know how to react to that.
When a man tells me
I don’t believe him.
Instead, I relive my days in high school
When no matter how good I was
I was always the girl with a moustache
He doesn’t know what it’s like
to grow up in your maternal family
Where your body is the only one that
Proudly boasts of your father’s X
While your mother’s X sits back and pities
He doesn’t know the teenager
Who filled her corners with
Empty consolations of
Being loved for who she was- someday.
He doesn’t know hypocrisy.
He doesn’t know of the world that
tells you to ‘be yourself’
and sells you a fair and lovely shade card
in the same fucking breath
He doesn’t know of the hot wax and the laser
whose only purpose is to
replace your innocent skin
with its own brand of womanhood
He doesn’t know of the veet and the bleach
That uproot your robust hair
in the name of hygiene
Hygiene, which when followed by men
makes them gay and unmanly
He doesn’t know how bushy eyebrows are tamed
and how uni brows die a silent death
All to preserve beauty
And of the torturous miracles that happen
Inside the doors marked
So when a man calls me beautiful
I throw at him, a smile; a smile that remained
After everything the strip pulled away
And I dare him
Till my hair grows back.