An Open Letter To My Boob Hair

Dear Boob Hair,

I remember when there was only one of you. I saw you from the corner of my eye and assumed you were an errant eyelash to be brushed away. No matter how hard I flicked, you stayed rooted like the sword in the stone, denying my right to victory. It was with an equal mix of horror and delight (look at what I have grown, all on my own!) that I plucked you.

That was years ago.

I’ve plucked you many times since, usually in the early stages of a relationship. Since then, your eviction has been reserved for special occasions like a beach vacation, a hot date, or my wedding night. Too often I forget you exist until my husband freezes mid boob-grab to lean in for a closer look. It makes foreplay very cumbersome when you’re suddenly panicking over whether or not you remembered to de-hair your left breast. “Leave my bra on,” you say. “Just pull the right boob out for now. Leave the other boob where you found it.”

I’ve tried to accommodate your existence by going topless only under the cover of darkness. Inevitably there will be a small sliver of moonlight that sneaks in through the window and shines upon you, illuminating you like a radio antenna glistening from the top of a hill.

We’ve had so many good times.

To be honest, I’m not sure I fully understand the purpose of your existence. Maybe there’s an undiscovered evolutionary benefit to having half a dozen inch-long hairs jutting from my aureolas. Perhaps your true advantage may not be known until I find myself in a post-apocalyptic scenario. Then again, maybe it’s a rite of passage – the longer I stay alive, the furrier my breasts become.

I didn’t realize how persistent you’d been until I replaced a bathroom light that’d been burned out for two years. I was torn between raising the terror alert and doting proudly when I saw you – “Oh my, how you’ve grown!” Here I was, living life without a care, completely ignorant of the franchises you’d been setting up across my lady lumps.

I have to admire your success rate, though. You go underground just long enough for me to forget you exist and then BAM! You’re almost long enough to braid. A girl has to admit when she’s been defeated.

Some women claim you don’t exist. They call you a myth – “no, not me,” they say, “I’ve never had one.” But I know you are real. I have seen you with my own eyes and felt you with my tweezer-wielding fingers and I will never forget. If anything, I wish I could be more like you – dedicated, tenacious, and motivated.

At the end of the day, I guess I can’t blame you for your persistence. My boobs are pretty damn amazing.

With newfound respect,

The Girl With The Tweezers