A few days later, I went for a run with overgrown armpits. New moms sat on stoops while couples sipped coffee on the sidewalk. For the first time, I didn’t feel like there was a spotlight on me. Insecurity no longer clung to me; instead, I felt protected by the skin I was born in. With life tasks divided into essential and non-essential , hair removal fell into the latter. And so suddenly I was liberated from it. The light dusting on my stomach and strays near my nipples had hung out with me when no one else could. They were a part of my heritage, as much as the Bhangra music and dance I loved so much. I smiled thinking about how my mom had black hair, just like her mom did.