No Shave November: the counterpart 

This is me. This is my beard. #NoShaveNovember 

  
Alright so I admit, I was last clean shaven in January and I started letting it grow out like this in May. So this isn’t just November, but who’s going to blame me for not wanting to shave this beauty.  

I also apologize for Mr.Young  Alcoholic himself and my early morning beard selfies. Nobody needs to see that….

I Had Tig Ol’ Biddies Too Young (.)(.)

I’ve been rocking 32 Double D’s for the better part of a decade now. And I still want them gone. I’ve tried to be lenient and accepting. But, honestly the quality of my life would be greatly improved if I didn’t have such large titties. And that’s the God honest truth. I have made a loose promise to myself that I would not continue to use the word “hate” in reference to any part of my body. So, let’s use the word disdain. I have disdain for them. I feel cheated out of having the benefit of the doubt, at times.

Girls who develop breasts early in life can be victims of sexual abuse most likely because breasts are sexualized parts of a woman’s body. That, in combination with an ass, that’s an ideal woman; especially a woman of color, where those assets are highly valued. I have seen 9 or 10 year old girls with bigger booties than I at 22. In addition, fashion for girls that age is “cute” or “sporty”. I remember Limited Too or now, Justice. But, what if those kid brands don’t fit you? What if you were a 12-year-old girl with C cups? We skip past cute and straight into an uncomfortable adolescence. A realm where suddenly these parts of your body hurt or men look at you funny.

The summer between fifth and sixth grade was a very exciting, life-changing event. I do not remember much about specifics; I was in Cincinnati and I think that was one of the first summers I spent all summer there. The point is, it would be the next year at my new, lily-white private school where I noticed my body was different. Luckily (somewhat…), there was another girl who got the bevy of attention. Let’s call her “Sheila”. Her father was a doctor and she was the first wealthy black girl I had ever met. Sheila was glamorous and perfect in my eyes. She had designer purses, UGG boots, and a woman who drove her to and from school everyday. Sheila wore intricate hairstyles with soft, buttery weaves. She lived in a huge McMansion. Her mom was a hefty woman with Sheila’s chestnut skin who always wore a Winnie the Pooh jean jacket every single time I saw her. Her father I saw at Costco once with my mother, canoodling with a mature blonde. I’m not sure whatever happened with that; I never told Sheila what I had seen either. I figured it wasn’t my place.

Back on topic, I understood why the Commodore lamented over a chick being built like a brick house; Sheila had back and front. And, she was a competitive gymnast, so she was very muscular too. Imagine a compact, 12-year-old version of Serena Williams. That was Sheila. I used to hate on her a bit before we became buddies but her body taught me a lot about my own. The positive and negative responses from our white peers were directed toward Sheila; she was a “Queen Bee” but also a victim of intense scrutiny. Sheila taught me about bras, Victoria’s Secret, kissing boys, and what it was like to be privileged and black. That being said, life must’ve been hard for her. To be surrounded by thin, white, childish-looking girls who see immature boys ogling her must’ve been both empowering and damning.

My own came in later that year. I remember an older girl, a mahogany-colored loudmouth we will call “Deja”, coming up to me in our school’s open library that I should be wearing a bra because I had big titties now. I also remember comments from a friend, a waifish blonde we will call “Debbie”. “Debbie” was stubborn about me wearing a bra. In my defense, I was wearing a bra but more like a bralette and it was the wrong size. I was not fashionable. I had just come from a school with a uniform policy. Navy, white, and khaki were the only colors I wore. I still love those colors to this day. Suddenly, I was in a world of Dooney and Burke bags and Abercrombie and Fitch. I was ill-equipped. Sheila actually gave me my first bra; a lime-green Victoria’s Secret bra with scalloped straps. I do not remember the size, possibly a small C-cup. I was liberated! It was then that I knew I possessed two balls of power strapped to my chest. But unlike Sheila, I was a literal twig. It screwed up the dynamic; I was referred to as a butterface (as in, she’s sexy but-her-face). It was before glasses were sexy; damn, I missed the boat on that.

Either way if you are a young woman and you have huge titties and they make you feel uncomfortable, that’s ok. But remember, there is a flat-chested girl on the other side of the field who would slice a titty off Buffalo Bill style. Ok, maybe not that bad unless you live in Florida, anything happens down there it’s a lawless land. I’m not going to be fake and say you have to love yourself though it. No, if you feel your body affects your life to the extent that they are hindering your success, you have every right to change it. As soon as my bullshit credit rating greats better, I’m investing in myself and getting a breast reduction. Of course, I’ll consult with a specialist and maybe even I’ll go to Atlanta to have it done because black folk when we get cut up it leaves scars and I saw that show Atlanta Plastic and the dark-skinned doctor is fire. He’s like a skilled butcher. He knows the way of the samurai.