Piled into Evelyn’s double bed like sardines, Dave and I took turns reading Matilda aloud to her. This makes the fifth Roald Dahl book we’ve read together, and just like the others, once we finish the book, we’ll turn our attention to the movie.
As Dave read, my eyes wandered.
They settled on the light yet noticeable dusting of hair along Evelyn’s forearms.
That, and the flower decals on her wall, became my entertainment while I listened.
For starters, whoever designed those decals made a mistake. They’re adorable—very Scooby-Doo, very ’70s—but they gave the flowers white petals. On a white wall! They should have outlined them in black because, as they are, all you really see is the center of each flower.
But I digress. Hairy arms. Evelyn.
And suddenly I was back in fifth grade, when I wore nothing but sweatshirts and long sleeves because I was hiding a shameful secret.
Spoiler alert: my arms had hair on them.
Not like Mr. Nelson’s, our basketball coach. His black, coarse arm hair puffed out from beneath his quilted sweaters like he’d tucked fuzzy scarves into the sleeves.
Mine wasn’t like that.
But somewhere along the way, someone pointed out arm hair. Maybe they said it was gross. Maybe there was some comment in the lunchroom about hairy arms meaning something. I honestly can’t remember.
What I do remember is the line that got drawn. On one side was acceptable. On the other was me.
One day, bathroom pass in hand, I wandered into the restroom. After washing my hands, I stood at the sink wrestling with that awful dispenser that spit out gritty pink soap.
Standing next to me was Karlee Furtwangler. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Her arm hair was darker and longer than mine. And she was completely unbothered. She was funny, confident, well-liked. I remember looking at her arm, then at mine, and thinking…
Wait. If she’s not hiding hers… Why am I hiding mine? That was it. I said, “Screw the long sleeves.” I can wear short sleeves.
And I did. The end.
Love,
Jaclynn
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