artificial insemination kit for humans
Written by Jamie Silverman
Updated: Feb. 20, 2024
Originally Published: Aug. 19, 2022
As a child of the 90s, I’ve carried a lot of baggage regarding body hair. How do I navigate this when it comes to my daughter?
After neglecting my eyebrows for months due to the pandemic, I finally decided to get them threaded. Halfway through the appointment, the friendly brow technician noticed a photo of my toddler on my phone lock screen. “Oh, she’s adorable!” she exclaimed, before adding, “Bring her next time, and I’ll help with those brows!”
I glanced at the picture resting on my lap. My 22-month-old was mid-air, laughing joyfully as my partner tossed her into the air, her lovely monobrow accentuating her bright, almond-shaped eyes. I cherish that moment captured in the photo.
I smiled at the technician, admiring the neat arches she had created on my own brows. I wish I could have confidently defended my daughter’s natural beauty, perhaps channeling a Lizzo anthem of self-love. Instead, I simply nodded in agreement, feeling an internal surge of frustration.
My little one can barely talk, yet here was someone suggesting she should erase her natural body hair. Why? To conform to narrow societal norms of beauty that often feel outdated? It’s important to note that these pressures aren’t just Western; my technician is Indian, and I’m Persian, both cultures having their own long histories with hair removal practices.
But by removing my own hair, wasn’t I inadvertently endorsing those same ideals? Sitting in that salon made me question the example I was setting for my daughter. Did I just unlock a new level of parenting guilt?
The truth is, I have a tangled history with body hair that often silences my voice in these moments, instead of promoting the acceptance I wish for my child. As a kid, I was teased mercilessly for my dark hair against my light skin. One bully even left a razor on my desk with a note that read, “You need this a LOT.” I was crushed. In a predominantly white school, I felt isolated in my experiences.
For years, I begged my mom to let me shave, but she feared it would make my hair coarser, a myth I later learned wasn’t true. I don’t blame her; she was trying to protect me from societal pressures that viewed women’s body hair as unattractive. But it was hard to feel confident when I was constantly reminded of those standards.
The 90s were a time when hairlessness was equated with beauty and desirability. I spent countless dollars on hair removal methods over the years, from waxing to lasers. The obsession was so ingrained that even during pregnancy, I worried about my appearance in the delivery room, a time when I should have been focused on the miraculous act of giving birth.
Remember when Julia Roberts showed off her unshaved armpits at the Notting Hill premiere? The backlash was brutal, highlighting how far we have to go in accepting natural bodies. I wished it had been a feminist statement, but it turned out to be a simple miscalculation.
Yet, there is hope for change. This summer, British Vogue featured Emma Corrin, a gender-fluid actor, whose armpit hair was a subtle yet powerful statement against traditional beauty standards. More influencers are challenging the norm, advocating for self-love and acceptance beyond hairless ideals.
It’s crucial to create spaces where body hair is celebrated, especially for future generations. While we’ve seen progress in literature encouraging kids to embrace their natural hair, there is still a significant gap in promoting acceptance of body hair—particularly facial hair.
So, what will I do if my daughter asks to wax her hair in a few years? Honestly, it will be a challenge to deny her. My partner is against any alteration to her face, but I want to shield her from the bullying I faced. I’m hopeful that by the time she reaches puberty, societal norms will have evolved, with more representation of diverse body hair in media and advertising.
I want my daughter to inherit a world where she can embrace her natural beauty without fear or shame.