I know I’m finally a woman, 

and not in a stereotypical gender bias, patriarchal bullshit way, 

but in the one dark hair that I have on my chin that I can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how much I’ve tried.

I’ve tried plucking.

I’ve tried shaving.

I’ve tried cutting.

I’ve even tried nail clippers as an extreme, but it still seems to stay, and I think that means I’m a woman.

I can relate to all my mother’s friends who used to sit around complaining about their bodies, about my mother, who would complain about those few pesky dark hairs that lay on her chin that I never saw, but she saw more than anybody.

Now, that has become my reality.

I think I’m an adult now.

I think I have finally grown up, and that’s scary.

Now, I have to choose if I’m going to be that insecure middle-aged woman who cares about the few small chin hairs.

I probably will be.

Even though I’m not a woman.

Even though I’m not middle-aged.

I think I’m just like my mother and the countless women before and after her; we’ve all been conditioned to see the minuscule imperfections in ourselves. 

We are taught to hate our bodies.

We are taught to pluck and shave, and exfoliate.

As I discovered this newfound womanhood and the troubling tactics that accompany it,

 especially now that I'm growing up, I try to do what my sister does.

 My lovely 16-year-old sister. 

She and I are like night and day sometimes, but in those very few small moments, we are the sunset and the sunrise.

My sister is the classic TikTok girly pop.

She has a 30-step skincare routine and makes herself feel like a princess every single night.

I watch her sometimes, in her lilac robe, dirty blonde hair thrown up in a messy bun, slathering creams, lotions, cleansers, serums, and toners all over her face.

I admire her.

She looks like she’s having fun.

She looks like she’s enjoying herself.

She wears all the fun little star pimple patches that you see kids wearing these days. 

She truly is so confident in herself and really does not give a flying fuck what anybody else thinks.

She loves herself, and this elaborate 30-step skin care routine is part of that.

She enjoys the routine.

And I think it’s okay to enjoy the routine; I even do it now, too.

It provides some peace of mind, but simultaneously, also upholds a socially constructed task that continues to erode our self-confidence and security. 

I wish we could all be satisfied with our bodies.

But in truth, this doesn’t just extend to women; this extends to men as well, and everyone in between.

 But it’s different for women.

 It’s different because we know people are looking at us.

 We know that as soon as we step out of the house, the world is taking a magnifying glass and analyzing every individual part of our body.

That’s why when I do walk out of the house, I think to myself…

Can everyone see my split ends?

Can they see the acne on my neck?

Can they see the pimple patches that I’ve so delicately placed over said acne?

Can they see that my lashes, even though I just got them done, aren’t curled and just the exact way that I want them to be?

Aren't the eyebrows that I paid so much to get laminated lying exactly how I picture them?

Are they focusing on the fact that my jewelry in my septum goes a little wonky when I laugh or when I rub my nose?

Do they notice the horrible tan lines that scatter my body as I’ve been lying out in the sun more than I should have this summer?

Do they see the acne, scars, and blemishes that litter my face, chest, thighs, and back?

Do they see the sun-kissed freckles that cross, divide, and multiply across my body?

This summer, I found a version of myself that I didn’t think existed anymore.

Lying in the grass, a warm breeze rushes over me. 

I look down at my stomach, the stomach that probably hadn’t seen any sun in my 20 years of life.

What’s that?

Oh my God, it’s a birthmark.

Now, I have a birthmark, it’s on my thigh.

It looks like a seahorse.

Or at least I think it looks like a seahorse, maybe like a really wonky one.

When I was younger, I was very proud of the birthmark on my thigh. 

It gave my small brain the illusion that I was special in some way. 

Maybe it was because, at the time, I thought God had perfectly designed me that way. 

Little did I know that pigmented birthmarks are caused by an overgrowth of the cells that produce skin pigment. 

I remember in elementary school I used to pull down my pants to show it to people because it’s so high up, so high up that I couldn’t roll up my jeans enough to expose it.

Years ago, I covered up this birthmark on my thigh (tattoo cover-up. It’s a long story, a story for another time).

Now that it’s covered up, I don’t think about it much anymore.

I’m only reminded of it when the UV rays of summer deepen and accentuate the freckles on my body. 

I see it peeking out from the layers of tattoo ink, packed into my skin.

But suddenly, there was another birthmark, squarely between my rib cage, sitting perfectly on my sternum.

A small collection of beige coloured freckles that resembles one on my thigh.

But it’s right on my abdomen, the very pale white abdomen that never seems to get any sun during the summer and remains pale throughout the year.

Except for this summer, I guess.

This summer, things are different. 

I’m discovering parts of myself that I didn’t know were there.

I think that’s what it means to be a woman.

To continue discovering new and beautiful things about yourself, even if you’ve known yourself your whole life.

Because, as any good woman (or beautiful person) knows, your body will continue to change and evolve over the years, and so will you. 

My 16-Year-Old Sister's Hair & Skin Care Routine

What you’ll need: 

• Enough skin and hair care products to fill your bathroom and/or bedroom vanity

• A microfiber cloth (cute pattern preferred, like flowers or something)

• A purple headband (I’ve been informed that the colour is very important)

• A black silk bonnet

• A light-up vanity mirror or a well-lit bathroom 

And finally, dedicate at least 2 hours each morning and evening to this self-care routine. 

Part One: The Hair Care Routine 

• Step 1: Apply charcoal hair oil on the ends and roots 

• Step 2: Purple Shampoo 

• Step 3: Brazilian Conditioner 

• Step 4: Leave-in conditioner 

• Step 5: Detangling spray 

• Step 6: Toning leave-in foam (for our blonde baddies)

• Step 7: Two Dutch braids 

• Step 8: Silk bonnet 

Part Two: The Skin Care Routine

• Step 1: Brazilian body cocoa butter 

• Step 2: Headband

• Step 3: Micellar Cleansing water 

• Step 4: Youth for the People Superfood Cleanser 

• Step 5: Peel off Face Mask (Rose gold)

• Step 6: Charcoal face serum

• Step 7: Glowing vitamin C facial serum with vitamin E

• Step 8: Glow tonic exfoliating toner (girl loves her glow products)

• Step 9: Charcoal face cream 

• Step 10: Lip and firm eye cream

• Step 11: Burt’s Bees honey and lavender lip butter 

• Step 12: Eyelash serum

• Step 13: Laneige lip sleeping mask

• Step 14: Face oil

• Step 15: Pimple patches (the star ones specifically)

And that’s it! Simple as pie. However, we haven’t even gotten to her beauty routine yet… stay tuned, folks.

Inspired By: From The Pyre - The Last Dinner Party & HSTR 329B @ UVic

My name is Jasmin Margaret Joy Naylor. 

I’m 7 years old, a carbon copy of my mother’s face, skin white as snow and a comparison drawn to the Disney Princess more times than I can count. 

I’m a good Christian girl, I swear. 

I sit in church. I sing the hymns and stand proudly beside my mother. I care for the children. I serve the community. I fulfill my ‘god-given purpose’. 

I’m quiet (mostly), I follow the rules, I read the bible, I repent for my sins, I respect my elders, or at least I try my best while still voicing my own opinions and being met with disgruntled stares and quips of my muchness…

You talk too much, child.

As I rapidly approached puberty, I realized that my femininity, my womanhood, became a threat to each of the men around me.

As my voice rose above the winds and questions swirled around my mind, challenges presented themselves time and time again. 

The lessons I had learned up to this point are as follows:

• In this world, I am not important unless I submit. 

• I am not important unless I am serving a purpose. 

• I am to be quiet, subservient, and know my place. 

I am to be myself, shine my light bright for the lord, not let a single individual dim it.

And yet, those dimming my light, my candle, my torch the most are those who claim to care for my future and well-being, even though they shut down a single original thought that challenges their own mode of thinking, something that contradicts what they believe I should inherit... traits that are desirable for a 'good Christian woman'.

The transformation from child to girl changed my brain chemistry in a way I cannot describe.

Suddenly, without warning, I was scolded for my thoughts, my opinions, and most importantly, my body. 

You must stay innocent and pure.

We will pick a ‘respectable’ husband for you.

You’ll do coffee after service, no fishing with the men, stay quiet... and most importantly, listen to us.

No. Fuck, no. 

I will not submit my mind and body to a system, a place, that allows a white, bald, decrepit pastor to verbally abuse and degrade the women in his life with no repercussions. 

In this case, empathy is offensive. 

Sympathy is unnecessary.

As a good Christian girl, I was taught to have empathy for every individual I encountered. 

Oh, give them grace, they’re going through a tough time… oh, let them off, they didn’t mean it like that…

I bet he didn’t mean it LIKE THAT... 

But what about me? 

What about my feelings and my opinions, and how does it affect me? Have you considered that for a second? I know you haven’t... my body is a space for projection, for absorption.

I am a sponge. Quiet. Fulfilling my task. This is my role.

I am your canvas. You are the artist. 

The older I grow, the more I can no longer brush off these sensations, these feathers that lay weight to my shoulder and reside there, seemingly pushed back on like a sack of bricks by those who expect me to carry the weight of not only my own emotional burden but the burdens of others, because that’s my role, isn’t it?

I am a woman. 

My anger must remain silent, my opinions must remain guarded, my detest must be channelled into sweetness like sugar dripping off my tongue with every word…

Honey. Candy. Sweetheart. 

So I learned to manipulate, to adapt, and to evolve.

I know just the right way to have men look at me with a sense of pity and an assumption that I am ignorant and blissful to the ways of the world…

If they’re going to assume I’m dumb, if they’re going to assume I’m stupid, I will let them think that, and it shall be their downfall in the end…

They don’t know that behind the velvet curtain of their assumptions, a mind garden lies awake, blooming with curiosity and observations as I learn their precise body movements and their motivations… 

What drives them to treat me the way they do… and this isn’t just men, this extends to women as well, their own internalized misogyny, something that is riddled within the Christian community and something that I can no longer ignore. 

At 9 years old, I had the mind of a fully grown adult, someone who was absorbing the cares of the world, the cares of my family, the cares of my community, and yet I was battling with something, my identity, that lay dormant inside of me… 

Yet, bombarded by the expectations that the world, my world, had placed on me.

Every time I looked in the mirror, I would recite to myself:

I am a woman, I am a good Christian girl, I am innocent, I am pure, I do not touch myself, I don’t know sex, I don’t know a man’s attention, I treat my body like a temple, I do not shave, I don’t intend to attract attention… what am I doing wrong? 

I do not conform to societal expectations of all women, only the ones that are pre-approved and sanctioned by my elders, and that makes me pure somehow… 

Explain to me your reasoning, oh, wise one.

God above, tell me how to live, tell me how to quell this fire burning inside of me, a fire that cannot be put out no matter how much I am drenched and drowned.

Now that I am older, I feel dirty; names dawned upon me such as Jezebel and harlot. 

Once insults were hurled at my character, a 12-year-old girl standing in a black and white striped dress was called a slut, I have embraced the true nature of what was blessed to me by this universe. 

My collarbones shall not distract you, unless I want them to distract you. 

My legs shall draw you in, but only if I choose to expose them. 

My body is mine, oh mine, and no amount of projections will rip my character to shreds.

I shall not tear myself apart, contort my body and spirit to quell your concerns. 

I made a promise to myself this year that I would never make myself small for a man ever again. 

But I realize that I, too, am projecting blame in a place that isn’t entirely fully to blame for this judgment… 

It isn’t just men who took advantage of the heart that was so visibly on my sleeve and twisted it to their own will, for their own gratification…

It’s women too. 

The women I had been groomed to despise were to be pitted against one another as if this life should be a competition instead of an enlightenment.

I will never make myself small for another person till the day that I die.

Please, Jasmin, Jaz, never make yourself small, never dim your light for nobody…

Never put out that torch that’s lit, that burns inside of your stomach and makes its way up your throat until it spits off your tongue like fire from a dragon’s breath spilling fuel onto the castles of your enemies. 

All that to say, at 21 years old, I know what sex is, I touch myself, I’m not good, I’m not Christian, and I’m not a woman. 

And yet, I am happy, truly satisfied with my lust and desire for life.

I am satisfied in every aspect of myself, every piece, networks of fascia that run through my nervous system, every muscle that arches through my back.

Am I the root of all evil? Am I your Jezebel?

I hope so, my love. I fucking hope so.