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