“Body hair on girls is such a turn off” he tells me
loftily lifting his hairy arms for emphasis, for contradiction, for evidence
that him and I are not the same, that the rules are different for me.
I look down at my arms,
my body is in full bloom with weeds that grow sparse and thick on mounds and in crevices,
kept in check, mowed regularly – gardening is second nature to me.
But today I was defiant, today I chose to celebrate the wilderness of my body.
“Body hair on girls is such a turn off” he tells me,
expecting me to shrink into invisibility.
How do I tell him, I wonder, that hypocrisy is a turn off for me?