The Girl With Shiny Legs

My legs smell of fresh lavender, pumice, and self-loathing; riddled with goosebumps piercing through my skin. “How are theirs so smooth and glossy?” I wonder, staring longingly at taller, smoother versions of my limbs — the new print of a magazine cover inked on my mind. I go to the salon every week for a pedicure, where a lady strips calluses of my insecurities and paints my dead keratin with the flourish of an artist. Two coats, please. I like my conformity in a deep, deep red. And then there are the stretch marks on my butt, lathered in cocoa butter because a friend of a friend of a friend’s mom said it ‘really works’. Of course, there are quicker options — radiofrequency, lasers, acids. Perfection is now made in laboratories. I could buy it but it’d cost me an arm and a leg and that would just be ironic. I put on my 21st birthday dress. A shimmery gold. I slap some foundation on my legs hoping to camouflage my ugly ingrowth. CONCEAL. COVER. BLOCK. How can I show myself when my makeup asks me to hide?

Eight years down, I get ready for date night. I wear a thigh-high slit, showing off the bruise from my pole dancing session. It’s a beautiful blue-green that will turn fiery red tomorrow. My unshaved calf has a wound from a surfing trip last month. A gorgeous burnt umber. And then there’s the tan from my swim in the sea. A buttery cocoa brown. A scab from my attempt to rope walk that's almost ebony now. It took me a decade to realise but it's better late than never - I’d rather have scars that dwell than be a girl with shiny legs and no stories to tell.