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Story 202 Armpit hair

Since I was born a young monkey, I have already pushed my dad’s leg hairs with my dad’s razor since kindergarten, and then I have been treated as a person for 25 years. The act of shaving my hair has now become a natural lifestyle and habit, as if washing my face every morning.
But even my husband, who hadn’t talked about it once until he got married, seems to have been a little worried about me, having a razor in one hand and having a secret affair every night. One day, he raised an objection, looking at me with an unpleasant expression, with arms wide open in the bathroom.

“Who is shaving hair with a razor in these days? Now is the era of hair removal and pincers.”
“What do you care about whether I’m pushing with sandpaper or coming with scissors?”

I used the advantage of having a lot of age difference to make a charming protest, but it was useless.

“I don’t want to see a man’s razor on my woman’s body! I’ll be very amazed every time I don’t wear a platoon sash or show my armpits.”

Did he, who seemed to love me the way it was, forever, crossed the limit? Where did my lovely husband, who touched the dark armpits and smiled, disappeared?
Whether his affection has changed or my insensitive behavior is unacceptable, after countless wanderings and frustrations due to the lack of judgment that can be measured I bought a pincer.

I look in the mirror and see myself with pink pincers with one arm raised. No, specifically, I can see the hairs on my armpits, which I cultivated for 3 days for today’s work. First, to reduce the pain, the armpit was slightly paralyzed with cold water, and then a cold bunch was pulled out with pincers.

‘Stick!’

What should I say about this pain?
It’s an unexpected collision, as if a new mandarin orange, which is younger than the season, is cracked with a poorly tinkered molars. Feeling like an annoying stomach where the fresh white pain breaks instantly. Red blood is formed like dots.

However, since it has started so much, it has to endure. Isn’t there a saying in the old saying that if you stop going, you won’t be able to do it? If I’m thick, I’ll be thin, and I’m captivated by the hallucinations of the curls like pig tails on my armpits reflected in the mirror, laughing at me. okay. Let’s go out today. I clenched my teeth and started pulling out the strands. All of a sudden, 50 red dots look at me.

This time the other arm was raised. He raised his arms together, saying, Please save the hairs that are fluffy like the grass of a golf course. It was heartless, but I picked 50 again. Beyond the tingling, I am now sore and itchy. I got a lot of sweat on my back.

So far, my armpits have been soaping and kniving three or four times. I have lived like that for ten years and are indifferent and everyday. However, they come to me with the enormity of more than 100 groups and make me cry today.

In many ways, I hate summer.

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