In sixth grade, all the other girls at church were already shaving their legs, so I looked like Chewbacca in comparison. The girls started calling me “Chicken Legs” as a result. I had enough and decided even though my parents thought I was too young to shave, clearly I was too old not to. I excused myself early from dinner and snuck into mom and dad’s bathroom. I grabbed dad’s dull Bic razor from the counter and scathed it up and down my dry legs. When I finished, I noticed the razor was filled with long blond hairs (which greatly contrasted my dad’s stubby black ones). Knowing I would be discovered, I quickly ran my finger across the blades to wipe them off. My finger gushed blood. I put on a band-aid; even though I could feel the pain, at least I wouldn’t have to see it. I bled through that band-aid. And another one. My finger continued squirting blood all throughout church that evening. That Christmas, my mom bought me my first razor: an electric one.
Knowing me now, you would hardly believe there was ever a period in my life where I didn’t have boobs. But there was. Try high school. I wore a bra, not out of necessity, but because I felt at my age I should. Then, summer before my senior year I went to Texas for ten days. I remember buying a souvenir T-shirt and thinking it made my body look good. I kept wearing that damn shirt (the Lone star state) as a result. As soon as I got home, my mom said, “where did those come from?” she wasn’t talking about the T-shirt, but my set of boobs which had finally grown onto me. Everything is bigger in Texas.
They say you become a woman when your body is able to procreate. In that case, I didn’t become a woman until I had almost graduated from high school. My little sister beat me, kids I babysat even beat me. Once you reach 18 and you’re still in a little girl’s body, your mom begins to worry. The doctor scheduled me for an ultrasound. I had to drink 32 ounces of water in gym class for my appointment two hours later. Driving to the doctor from school was pure hell. I sat halfway Indian-style the entire way, thinking my body would explode like a dam does when it can’t handle all that water. At the doctor’s office, they made me sit in the waiting room for what seemed like an eternity until I could no longer take the pain of retaining all that water and I started to cry. Not because I was upset, but because it was the only way to release liquid without wetting myself. The week after my appointment, I found out nothing was wrong with me and, sure enough, my body remembered it was supposed to be changing and reacted.