by Banah Ghadbian 

Growing out my mustache,
less than two weeks
it’s back in action
better than ever.

This is a proud moment for me
and a shameful one for the hundred
pounds of sugar wax
graciously donated to me
over the years
by aunties
with hairy backs.

This goes out to the group of girls
in the summer beauty
school circuit
I never completed.
 

For the time
we made that shit
from scratch
and waxed every hair
off the Miss Maria’s
menopausal chin.

She said I was a natural,
like the Druze lady
in the Waxing Moon
with no eyebrows
who slaps wax
on my upper thighs
like a greeting.

Bent popsicle sticks,
globs turned grey in carpets.
Waxing into womanhood,
pre-wedding wars
with our bodies.

Ayat shaved her face in the dark,
Zeena broke out in striped rashes
when she tried ripping
the soft hairs
from her chest.
Her husband
greeted her as
Zebra bride.
We all hid
our scars
in allied snide.

I only remember Laith Lestat
zuz he was the first to point out
the drops of burnt flesh
on the back of my knees,
crusty from dead skin gone,
Nair left on too long.

I only remember Kenan Kane,
cuz he was the first to point out
something was up down there—
I was scared to investigate
my own bushels and thickets.
I never knew my scars
were inside me too.

I thought we were all
cut up/ cunts / turnt burnt
We threaded away our hair
like shrugged-off threats.

First wax—eight years
First tweeze—nine

Wondering if this whole time
the decision was really
mine

---

sally hansen and the motherfucking lavendar scented tribe is part of a larger collection of poems that Ghadbian is working on, called Homegirls, Hashish, and the Moon. 
Submitted for Politics of Body Hair / Dec 2016 call for submissions
Thumbnail image is illustrated called Unicorn Vomit by homicidalcupcakes