All Blogs from You're Somebody's Mother, Lady Stuff:Burn the Bras

Middle School Facial Hair

As a mother of two boys, I often get asked…

Do you want to try for a girl?
Do you want a girl?
Are you sad you didn’t have a girl?

     Sure, I guess it’s pretty typical in our culture to identify best with your own gender. I mean I love me a good girls night. My girlfriends are the best. They are weird, awesome, and make me laugh constantly. I need them.
Guys love each other too and have their own set of cultural norms. For example, have you ever watched a young guy exit a social gathering and shake every man’s hand but skip over the girls? Thanks a lot, bro.
Being a girl is hard. I don’t wish to be a guy. I think being a woman is powerful. The fact of the matter is, it’s harder. Period business alone trumps wet dreams. Periods can happen anywhere. Wet dream usually happens in your own room. If you are a guy and you think otherwise, you can shove it.  Until a teacher won’t let you go to the bathroom when you are 14 years old as you are bleeding all over your khakis, you don’t get a vote.  That is some deep seeded sadness that makes me hate light colored pants and fractions to this very day.
Am I saying raising boys will be easy? No way. Challenges here we come! I just don’t think you really can hold a candle to being an adolescent girl.
Sorry.

You still are not sure?

You think I’m bias? Fine, I’ll tell you a couple of tales of adolescents for me.
Naturally blonde haired girls, please click the X now. You don’t understand.

I’ll prove you wrong with just one topic. Let’s just talk about hair.
Oh, you got boners and had to put a notebook over your pants? Boo hoo. You want me to call the whambulance?


Alright, I’ll explain in 3 short tales.

# 1 
Caterpillar Uni brow:

I had a uni brow. Eyebrow, singular. Let’s call it a family trait.

One glorious giant curly caterpillar chillin on my forehead.  I was very lucky that I was a filthy tom boy/lake kid growing up. Also lucky that my parents praised us A LOT. We all know my Dad cheers for people. So, until I reached 8th grade I was pretty unaware.
Then 8th grade struck. There was so much hair gel and confusion. I realized I was a girl, but wasn’t quite sure how to be one. This boy in my grade, let’s call him Denton Loore for the blog’s sake. Well, old Dent was super cool and could be quite mean. He was the first person to point out my unibrow. Did he have to do it in the middle of Spanish class? Señora saw my sadness…
Well, I went home that night and told my parents I had a unibrow. They told me I was beautiful just the way I am. I realized they were full of crap. I appreciate what they were doing, but how was I suppose to pass notes with a boy if I had an ocean of eyebrow?
My Mom refused to help me. So I had to take matters into my own hands. I took my Dads shaving razor and pulled it directly down my face.  Making an exact razor size space directly cutting into my eyebrows.  Satisfied with my efforts, I left to play Mario kart with my siblings and verbally assaulted each other.
Well Spanish class came again the next day. Old Denton felt he needed to point this out to the rest of mi amigos while old Señora was out on hall monitor duty… “Britt shaves her eyebrow!! Britt shaves her eyebrow!!” Every one laughed.
“NO I DIDN’T!!!” I SHOUTED! Obviously.
Then Señora came in and I sat at my desk with 75 shades of red on my pale freckled face.

Don’t worry, old Dent and I buried the hatchet. We became friends.

 

I  had two eyebrows. All was good.

# 2 THE ZIP

    When my sister and I reached roughly 5th and 6th grade, my Mom decided to project some of her childhood sadness on us. She told us she was made fun of for having a lady mustache in the 5th grade. Although her intentions were probably good, her beauty regime was horrifying to us kids.
In our hall closet sat this giant mug of wax. She would heat it up, wax it up, and then just stick it right back in the closet.  It looks like a inactive volcano. Dried Lava crusting over the side of the mug, to haunt us in our dreams. Our Mother called it “the zip.” When we complained she would say, “Pain is beauty” or “I used to have to wax my Nan’s legs! You girls have it easy!” We would make loud disgusting “Ewww!” sounds, obviously.
Now my sister is not only tough, but she always followed the rules as a kid. She was by FAR my parents easiest, most well behaved, and intelligent child. (Don’t be annoyed by that statement, twins. I mean really…. Look at the scoreboard.) Ya my sister would just sit on the counter stool and take it like a champ. Wax smeared on her middle school upper lip and with no paper or anything on top, my Mom would just grab the end of the wax and let it rip. So much pieces left stuck on your face.
Now me on the other hand. Rules are gray to me. Some rules I totally see the importance of. Being a good person, I totally see the importance of. But agreeing to sit on a stool and let my Mother rip wax off my face before the middle school dance. No thank you.
My Mother would put the giant clump of hot wax on my face and then I would bolt. Yes, literally my Mother would be chasing me around the house trying to pin me down to rip wax off my face. I was faster, but eventually I would make a mistake. I’d climb up on the top bunk and be under the covers with no where to run. She would be ripping my legs off the bed. Yelling at my Father to come help her.

Good times!!…. Well, times.

Haha. Okay maybe this was a Mario themed pep-ralley. But still, you get the point. 

#3 
Pubic Rainbow Forehead

One day I asked my Mom to get a hair cut. She said what she always said, “Your hair is so beautiful, people would pay for your hair.” I was a pre-teen and wanted to fit in. Not to mention I was broody as the day is long. Therefore, once again, I decided to take things into my own hands. I cut off all my bangs at the root. Didn’t want them any more. Mom wasn’t giving me the answer I wanted. Problem solved.
Oh no. My under developed, hormone raging, preteen brain had failed me once again. I cut off all my bangs at the root. I swiped all the hair into the trash and headed out to join my siblings to watch TGIF.
I lacked the forethought and hair dressing skills to know that this wasn’t a solution. But in the natural consequence learning technique, I would soon find out some horrible news. If you cut super curly black hair at the root of your hair line, it will grow back looking like a giant row of pubic hair. Middle schoolers will not observe this silently. You can fill in the rest.

There are no photos of the first couple weeks. This is probably a month in. Nice curly bangs.

There are so many beauty standards that come with our culture that are just so wrong. Making little girls think they are supposed to wake up every morning looking like Barbie, is not okay. Guess what? I wake up every morning looking like Cruela Devil, and my husband is handsome as hell.
How did I do this you ask? Well, it’s because I was a girl scout, soccer player, basketball player, secretary of my class, country line dancer, geography bee runner up, essay contest winner, coach, ref, swimmer, professional ice cream scooper, frog catcher, talent show participant with no talent, trumpet player, captain, party host, capture the flag enthusiast.
Props to my parents for letting me explore anything I was ever interested in. For carting our asses around the one million places, to make sure we were happy. I may have worn hand me downs my whole life, but we did shit.
In a world that obsesses about beauty. It’s sad that we sometimes forget to tell our daughters: It’s fun to be smart. It’s really fun to get the last person out in dodgeball. It is also fun to dress up a in pretty dress and twirl and twirl. It’s fun to do back dives off a pontoon boat. It is fun to catch a frog. It’s fun to have your entire basketball team sleep over. It’s fun to learn how to use a camera.

You can be any one you want. Just be you.

So to answer your questions. Yes maybe I do wish I could have a girl, but I don’t need one.

I think raising women is amazing. I’d tell them this crap makes you better in the end. Makes you be able to laugh at yourself.  Makes you more interesting. Makes you realize you have to LET STUFF GO. If you hold onto stuff from high school, I feel sad for you. Everyone’s brains are psychologically under developed and hormonally crazy. You should let people grow up and become better.
Holding onto stuff is the worst.

I want to spread that to all young girls.
      Girls are the best.

But that’s not why I starting having kids. Who ever is supposed to show up, will. I swore Ben was a girl when I was pregnant for the first time. Claiming “mother’s intuition.” Well, When the ultrasound lady said, “Annnnnndddd….. there’s the scrotum.” I was like, “Um, Come again?”

Then as soon as that face showed up. I was like OH of course it’s you. Who else could possibly be showing up right now? It was a personal record for the fastest time I became best friends with someone.

 

I guess I am just destined to be the president of the frat house.

and I love it.

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