A Guide to Body Hair
A Hermit Crab Fiction by Mairead Robinson
Lanugo: a type of body hair a foetus develops in the uterus. Babies typically shed lanugo before birth; however, those born premature don’t shed it for several weeks after birth.
You, in the incubator, miniature doll hand clutching my fingertip, fragile arms needle-bruised, lullaby a pulsing machine. ‘She’ll pull through,’ says the midwife, and you do.
Your father, a one-night stand, wants to be involved. We’ve agreed on once a week, but he hangs back, nervous laugh, and I wonder what I saw in him when he asks, ‘Is she a baby or a chimp?’ I nuzzle my lip to your furry ear. ‘It’s normal,’ I murmur, ‘it’ll shed.’
And it does. Soft down on the cot sheets. I gather it up, as I gather you up, nights you won’t sleep. I take you to my bed, drift off to the milky sweet scent of your breath.
Lanugo falls off in the last weeks of normal-term pregnancy. It mixes with amniotic fluid, which the baby swallows, thus forming your baby’s first food.
You, bashing a spoon in the high chair as I blend squash and potato, broccoli and carrots, stewed apple and parsnip. I eschew processed food; I know what’s best – fresh, nutritious.
Your father, as you grow, takes you out for treats; burgers, ice-cream, sweets. ‘Don’t tell your mum,’ he winks, but you do, when I probe.
‘Do you want her unhealthy? Overweight?’
He sighs, checks his watch, and leaves.
Vellus hair is fine hair that grows on most of the body. Children and young adults have more vellus hair than adults.
You, at school, struggling with words you can’t read, with sums that won’t sum. I teach you at home every night, find a tutor, a private school.
Your father complains. ‘Let her play, let her breathe,’ but I want you to succeed, and you do; prizes and certificates, violin and piano, lead role in the show.
‘She’s exhausted,’ he says, but you’re busy; no time to see him.
During puberty, increased androgens cause vellus hair to thicken into terminal hair in the pubic region and beneath the armpits.
You, teenager, push toast around your breakfast plate, leave your lunch-box on the kitchen table, and I get a call from school. You haven’t arrived, are you sick?
Your father phones; you’re at his house. He thinks you’re too pale, too thin. He suggests a doctor, but what does he know? You have exams, it’s normal to be stressed.
I pick you up and put you to bed. You’ve shaved your arms, your legs, translucent skin, sliced with a razor; it bleeds.
Lanugo grows on an adult when they don’t have enough body fat to keep them warm. It is a side effect of eating disorders such as Anorexia Nervosa.
You, arms needle bruised, pulsing machines.
Your father blames me; too much pressure, control, but it’s not; it’s love, it’s love.
Your small hand’s in mine, you, soft as down, and I ache just to gather you in.
Author: Mairead Robinson lives in the South West, UK. She has been placed in competitions with Bath FFA, The Propelling Pencil, The Molotov Cocktail (Flash Monster) and WestWord. Her flash fiction was recently shortlisted for The Bridport Prize, and can be found in a range of literary journals and anthologies.