I have hair on my legs, under my arms, and on my crotch,

But I do not consider it to be any different than the hair on my head.

But, when my boyfriend gently caresses my shin, I cringe,

Shrinking back,

Hoping the sprouting creatures on my legs don’t make me

Any less of a woman.

A remnant of a bygone era,

Razors were marketed to women to increase sales,

With words like “dirty” and “unkempt” used to describe what every human being possessed,

Yet only on a woman’s body is it not allowed.

And so, despite the growth on my boyfriend’s head,

Face,

Chest,

Legs,

And crotch,

I feel the divide between us like the nick of a razor,

And while every one of my hairs gets longer,

I grow smaller,

Shrinking into myself until I become nothing but a bundle of follicles,

A form that writhes under dark, black fur,

A beast who threw out her razors months ago.

And yet, what I see in my boyfriend’s beard is the struggle of thousands

Locked into Jewish curls

And the rapid maturation of a man who has been a man

Far longer than he should’ve been.

Every strand tells the story of a being,

Every moment spent indisputably alive.

In it, the form is complete.