I have recently had an opportunity to go through very old photographs of, I assume, relatives from Greece.  My father is 100% Greek, and among his sister’s many years of paper hoarding are pictures that must go back to at least the turn of the last century.  Nobody knows who any of these people are, but we are assuming they are relatives.  The men are largely handsome, and the women are largely, well, large.  Short, chunky, classic hooked Greek noses, and most importantly, a prominent unibrow.

So at last I have proof.  It’s my dad’s fault I’m so hairy.  I always knew it must be so, since he is quite hirsute himself, and my mother hasn’t a hair anywhere but on her head.  I don’t recall my grandmother or aunt as particularly hairy, but I look like my father, and those pictures pretty much prove in what part of the gene pool I’ve been swimming.

This is something that in my youth caused a great deal of consternation.  I actually wondered at one point if any man would ever marry me, since who wants a gal with  a forest on her arms and legs.  The unibrow can be controlled, and I’ve been spared any significant other facial hair, but by the end of the day I’m sporting a pretty good 5 o’clock shadow on my legs.   Actually, even if they are shaved smooth, you can still see a little shadow if you look closely.  Those bastards are never gone!

I must have been about five when I first noticed that my legs were considerably hairier than those of my little friends.  By the time I was in third grade, I was begging my parents to do something.  My father finally let me use his electric razor.  At last I could be casual when my knee socks fell down, instead of rushing to pull them up before anybody noticed.

By sixth grade, I was mortified by my arms.  I had friends with hairy arms, but they were all blonds.  Mine looked like an old growth forest.  I recall a boy asking me why my arms were so hairy.  I was too young and insecure to do anything other than try not to die of humiliation, like maybe replying that my arms were hairy for the same reason his ass was where his head should be. I was born that way.  Anyway, at that point my mother took mercy on me and bought some bleaching cream.   The bleached blond arm hair didn’t exactly match the hair on my head or my coloring, but it showed up so much less than the natural me.  Years later, instead of bleaching, I actually took to trimming.  I used a sharp little pair of embroidery scissors to mow, er, thin the growth.

Of course when I was younger than I am today, and before I gestated three children, I liked to wear a bikini in the summer.  No need for details.  Just think weed whacker.

Did I mention I shave my toes?

Thankfully, as I age, the hair on my arms seems to be thinner.  Or maybe it’s just my weaker eyesight.  At any rate, I don’t care anymore.  I’m fine with shaving every day in the summer, and my bikini days are long gone.

Earlier this year my nine year old daughter asked me why her legs are so hairy.  She doesn’t have it as bad as Mommy, but she’s beginning to take notice that her limbs are not as sleek as some of her little friends.  My arm around her, I solemnly took out the Greek pictures, and explained.

“It’s Papa’s fault.”