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Two months ago, my friend Rose and I traveled to the south of France, where, over the span of two weeks, we traversed the Côte d’Azur, exploring coastal, seaside towns and eating our weight in bread and the freshest, briniest oysters that tasted like the ocean. It was a truly magical trip — my first international one in four years. The only problem: I forgot that tap water overseas wasn’t necessarily always the safest to drink. So, every night, I had to boil water and fill my bottle for the forthcoming day, and if I forgot, I had to buy a new plastic bottle of water, which felt like a dagger to my environmentally conscious heart.

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Over five years ago, in a dopamine-filled moment of gender expression euphoria, I threw away my razor. I was in my early 20s and at the beginning of discovering how my queerness would manifest in my appearance. At the time, it felt rebellious and powerful, it felt like taking a stance. It also felt like a necessity, both physically and mentally. I was struggling with matching my outward gender expression with my inner androgyny and growing out my leg hair felt like a surefire way to plaster some masculinity on my feminine-shaped body. My body hair grew, long and scraggly, most prominently across my legs. It survived bathing suit season and snide comments, it even persisted through trichotillomania (hair pulling) flares that tore through my eyebrows. As my body hair thrived, my queer self felt uplifted; until one day, everything changed.