Before geek was chic, I loved all things nerdy. I lived for Friday night episodes of the X-Files and had a crush on Sailor Moon’s boyfriend. I loved literature, often reading books hidden under my desk during school lessons. As hard as I tried to shake the reputation, I was a natural Teacher’s Pet. I was awkward and shy. 


As if I didn’t have enough things to be teased about, I possessed, although blonde and fine, abnormally hairy arms. Naturally, this was a source for additional teasing.

In middle school I used to try to mat them down with lotion. I even tried hair gel, to a very crusty conclusion. In high school I would shave them or NAIR them, which was difficult to keep up on and led to even more ridicule when they began to grow back. As an adult, I have learned that of all things to be insecure about, arm hair rates pretty low on the list.  After all, my husband has never proclaimed, “Not tonight, baby, your arms are just too hairy.”

So while I now leave them alone, my baby daughter doesn’t.

Her favorite nursing past-time is to gently pull at my luscious arm hair. She is so gentle, her fingers so delicate and soft that I am lulled into a state of relaxation every time she performs this mealtime ritual. It is now a habit to push up my sleeves immediately after we assume the position, lest she grow restless.

I love this time together.

All of the teasing and malicious pulling was well worth having this special interaction with my special daughter. It is a silly yet sacred memory I will always have of her babyhood. One that far out-weighs the memories of being picked on by my peers. I feel like I finally understand the purpose of my fuzzy forearms. Their destiny has always been written in the stars, just waiting for their day of glory and recognition.

It makes me wonder what other lessons destiny has crafted well before they become a revelation. It also makes me wonder if we are missing out on the secrets of our original form when we spend so much time–and money–plucking, dying, cutting, covering, lifting, and primping ourselves.

It makes me wonder…

But not enough to quit shaving my legs.