As long as you weren’t part of my immediate family, I used to do anything to please people. All you had to do was ask (I was just lucky my natural demeanor was a stone-cold basilisk and people thought I was too cool for them, otherwise I might’ve been more taken advantage of!).
In high school, I remember sitting next to a hot girl during a biology test, and when she leaned over to ask me to show her my answers, I only hesitated to make sure the teacher wasn’t looking. Also in high school, I dated a girl who didn’t like my facial hair or what little I had of it.
“It just hurts when we kiss,” she pouted.
“Well, I’ll shave it more frequently,” I offered.
She took my face in her hands and brought her puppy eyes close to me. “But I still feel it poking my lips even after you shave.”
“So what can I do?”
“The problem is the hair’s still there. We should just remove it. I know! We’ll pluck them!” The timing of her statements, one after another, were a very clear sign this was all premeditated.
It hadn’t really registered what she was saying, so I went along with it knowing all that mattered was she would be happy. She told me to lay down while she ran to get some “stuff,” and when she was back, she had with her a tissue and pair of tweezers. I think I got to about twenty or hairs or so before the water in my eyes turned into a single tear each.
“This really hurts, you know” I said.
“Oh come on. You don’t even have a lot of hairs. And look, feel this part.” She took my finger and rubbed over the section she had just finished plucking. “Mmm, feels smooth right?”
It felt super smooth, but I wouldn’t admit to it. We finished about thirty minutes later, her tissue covered in tiny black hairs that were formerly part of my face. I remember the fat bulbous roots on every hair, each a painful reminder of what was plucked through my skin. And for some reason, I continued to regularly do this (except I had to do it on my own) for the next twelve months, which matches up with about how long I dated her. It wasn’t so bad initially when the hairs would only start regrowing every two weeks and she would kiss me profusely, but the hairs started regrowing faster and the kisses became more infrequent.
I can tell this stupid story now because this was when I was in high school, and I have finally put down the tweezers for good. I would recommend pleasing the right people about the right things. Hair-plucking isn’t one of those things.