I Don't Shave My Hands

2001, May or thereabouts.

Junior year was a time of great upheaval and change. In Algebra II, a rehash of Algebra at my old school, I met a more diverse group of people than what I was used to in a math class. I was no longer with the best and the brightest, because my Pennsylvania and Texas differed on what to call certain mathematical concepts.

I met a girl there that I thought I loved. The meeting is its own memory, but one that's far lighter is that once we did get to talking, we'd have this thing of taking turns asking random questions via AIM. (I would pour over these in the Library for further obsession.)

One day, at a particular timestamp I used to think was important, she asked, "Do you shave your hands?" I was surprised and wondered what prompted the question. When I was 16, I had a lot of arm hair that for some reason just stopped after my wrist. She thought it was because I shaved them and that she did too, because she used to play piano.

My hands remained free of hair until around 18. At 24, I still have a section on each hand that's uncovered. And no, I don't shave my hands.