my skin. I’d labelled it a legitimate resident of my body, and I planned to allow it to accompany me in sickness and in health, to the swimming pool and to the beach, until death (ideally, not mine) us do part.
The first day I left home in shorts with hair (lots of very long hair) on my legs, I felt absolutely vulnerable, yet euphoric. I didn’t know what would happen, but I was breaking a very rigid norm. A norm which I had invested time, money, sweat and tears in to uphold. I felt proud of my decision and, at the same time, ridiculous for the undeniable slightness of the gesture. Thousands of women every day fighting for noble causes – extremely noble, extremely important – and yet here I was, proud of showing a bit of hair.
In the fluorescent light of the metro, my legs seemed even uglier than under the brilliant sun that June morning. I ran my hand over them, as if I wanted to smooth the hair. The woman sitting opposite stared at my legs, hypnotized. She pulled a face of surprise, or shame, when she noticed me looking at her, as if I’d caught her doing something bad. I pulled my legs back under the seat, hiding them as much as I could.
I’d left home thinking that, in that moment, finally, I was escaping gender norms and definitively stating my freedom to be who I was. But, rather than feeling euphoric and happy, I felt ugly and ashamed. The most important path, that of truly accepting myself as I am – not as a draft of the optimal version of myself, not in inverted commas, not accidentally because tomorrow I’ll shave – was just getting started. And the hair on my legs was only the tip of the iceberg.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
