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Writer's picturethe graveyard zine

Beauty is Pain

by: Zahra Daya


On Monday, I get the powder out. I try holding my breath, try keeping out the faint memories of Grandma buried in the tan dust. I can’t get distracted today. I clench my nose tightly, take the fluffy powder applicator, pat it firmly against the powder once, twice, then thrice, for good measure. I hit it against the skin on the side of my neck, stretching the skin to see if I got the ‘beauty’ spot. I did. The applicator lets out a sigh each time the powder meets my skin, disapproving of my action. I hit harder each time, one phrase becoming a cycle in my mind: beauty is pain. I repeat the process until no sign of the spot is there.

On Tuesday, I steal nail clippers from my brother’s bathroom while his snores ensure my privacy. Mum and Dad are out of town; this is my only chance. I scurry back to my bathroom, concealing the nail clippers beneath my shirt like it’s a crime tool. The pictures on the wall disapprove of my actions, a giraffe furrowing his eyebrows and a little girl hanging onto a balloon bearing a dropped jaw when she sees me rush by. Of course, Mum didn’t install these wall pictures. We rented the house, in an extremely White-dominated part of town. When safely in my bathroom, I open the clippers and get to work. Little pieces of dark-black eyebrow hair drift serenely to the floor, no longer a part of me. Good. Cut off, erase, rid myself of all these little things that separate me from the rest. When satisfied with the slightly wonky but thin eyebrows, I return the clipper to my brother’s bathroom. His snores still fill the house and occupy my mind, leaving no room for sane thoughts.

On Wednesday, I loot the kitchen’s scissors. I get to cutting, thinning out my hair. Locks fall dramatically to the ground; I ignore their attempts to get my attention. When done, a circle of hair surrounds me, keeping me in. I stare at it, but when my anxiety starts to climb, I step out, leaving the hair there for evidence. Evidence that I can escape my roots.

On Thursday, I make a trip to the local grocery store. I find the hair straightener somewhere in the back aisle, under a heap of rotten potatoes. I dust it off, pay with my mum’s money, and return home. I plug it in and watch when steam unfurls from its ceramic plates. I’m entranced by the way it looks the same but is burning inside, the way it releases steam and tries to remain undetected by being odorless, but soon, the burning smell reaches my nostrils. It can’t hide. I take the straightener and clamp locks of my thinned hair between the plates, stopping at every part of hair till it sizzles and drops a couple shades lighter. Two birds with one stone. Then, I inch the straightener a little lower, smiling when I hear the fizz. Eventually, all the snakes on my head have been killed - now hanging limp and pale like the dead do.

On Friday, I bring out the wax and heating machine. The last step. This time, I’m not even scared. The sticky box holds many memories of screams of pain, yells, curse words in two languages, and any and every insult a daughter could hurl at her mother. After heating up the block of honey-colored wax, I take a wooden stick and apply it thickly onto my left arm. I allow it to sit on me for a minute, then, when my anxiety alarm rings, I take a wax removal sheet, press it onto the cooled wax, and pull, hard. I grit my teeth and force myself to think of the end result. Beauty is pain, I’ve always been told. And so beauty is unblemished skin, ruler-straight hair, plucked-perfect eyebrows, hair-free arm.


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