He told me I had to be hairless – I told him I wasn’t a child
He told me I had to be hairless – I told him I wasn’t a child
He told me I had to be - Henry* offered a casual remark that left me unsettled: “Not one pube,” he said, his tone betraying a man who had yet to grasp the significance of his words. The comment came during a quiet moment in the evening, as we settled into a routine of casual banter. It wasn’t just the absence of body hair that caught my attention—it was the way he delivered it, as if the idea of a hairless body were the epitome of normalcy.
It was 2020, and I was lounging on the sofa, watching *Married At First Sight* with a man I had been on two dates with but had yet to share a night of intimacy. The show had become a backdrop to our conversation, but it was the question I asked that revealed the deeper issue. “Do you think the contestants have laser hair removal or just keep shaving throughout the show?” I wondered aloud, curious about the standards of appearance. His response, though brief, hinted at a mindset that would soon become apparent.
“Nothing?” he replied, his tone carrying an air of indifference. The thought of being completely hairless struck me as unsettling, evoking images of underdeveloped bodies—like children who had yet to experience the natural changes of puberty. I couldn’t shake the feeling that his fixation on hairlessness was more than just a preference; it felt like a demand, a way to impose an image of youth onto someone who was clearly no longer a child.
Henry had been a match on Hinge, and his initial impression had been unassuming. He was covered in tattoos, a relaxed demeanor that suggested a man at ease with himself. The first encounter had been friendly, with quick exchanges and a casual confidence. I had swiped him and he had swiped me back, a connection forged in the blink of an eye. But as the dates progressed, the conversations grew shallow. He answered questions without probing, and his lack of curiosity made it clear he wasn’t truly interested in learning about me.
Yet there was something about his charm that hinted at potential. After our first meeting, I had suggested a second date, hoping to explore the possibility of a deeper connection. He had arrived on a warm afternoon, his presence warm and inviting. But I had underestimated the speed with which he would finish his drinks. By 45 minutes in, he was already preparing to leave, his energy waning as quickly as it had arrived. I had barely had time to ask about his life or his thoughts before he vanished into the crowd.
That evening, he texted me: “Lovely to see you today, let’s go on a proper date soon? Next Sunday?” I took the bait, trusting that this was a sign of genuine interest. I adjusted my schedule to accommodate the late meeting, knowing that the next morning would require an early 6am wake-up call. The beer garden, now a familiar spot, became our second rendezvous, and as we sipped drinks and talked, I began to notice how different we were.
Henry opened up as the night wore on, his words revealing a perspective that clashed with mine. He made statements like “my ex was crazy,” which often meant “I drove my ex crazy.” He critiqued women in the pub, pointing out a woman in shorts so skimpy that her buttocks were on full display. “Does her man not respect her?” he asked, his tone suggesting a need to judge others’ choices. I felt a pang of offense but held my tongue, hoping that his words would one day reflect back on me.
There’s a concept called “cultural conditioning,” where repeated exposure to certain ideas makes them seem like absolute truths. I had heard the phrase before, but it hit me harder than ever that day. If every man kept saying women should be hairless, it would feel like a natural state, even if it was an artificial one. But the idea of a hairless body as a symbol of youth was something I couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to erase my adulthood, reducing me to an image of innocence and immaturity.
I had met Henry on a dating app, where profiles often hide more than they reveal. His tattoos and easy smile had masked a deeper curiosity about my appearance. When we met, he had promised to be there for a couple of drinks, his niece’s birthday a convenient excuse for a brief encounter. I had accepted his explanation, eager to explore the possibility of a connection that felt more substantial than our initial meet-cute.
But that evening, as we sat in the same beer garden, his words painted a picture of someone who saw me as a project to be perfected. “So you like women to look like kids,” I said, my voice steady but my frustration evident. “Because adults grow hair when they hit puberty.” His face flushed, a vein in his neck pulsing with a mix of embarrassment and defiance. It was the moment I realized we were no longer on the same page.
He had been attentive at first, but his behavior had shifted. He would come back to my place late that night, his hands lingering on me in ways that felt more like possession than affection. I had stood my ground, insisting I wanted to go home alone to avoid the awkwardness of a rushed goodbye. He had sighed, his disappointment palpable, but I had stayed firm. The red flags were no longer just hints—they were clear warnings I couldn’t ignore.
Still, I found myself wondering if I had been too quick to judge. There was a part of me that wanted to believe he was just trying to be romantic, that his comments were part of a larger conversation about beauty standards. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how deeply ingrained his views were. He didn’t just want a hairless woman—he wanted a woman who looked like a child, someone who could be molded into his idea of perfection.
As I stared at the text on my phone, knowing my blue ticks would signal I had read his message, I hesitated. A part of me wanted to reply, to give him another chance. But I also knew I couldn’t keep letting him define me. The next day, when he arrived at my door with a bouquet of flowers and a smile that seemed forced, I was ready to assert my own identity. I had spent too much time wondering if I was worthy of his attention to let it slip away now.
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