Weird but Normal

by Mia Mercado

  Not to partake in the second annual Oppression Olympics: Body Hair Edition, but if I tried to pluck my upper lip hair, the first half would start growing back before I had time to finish the second. After that conversation with my sister, I thought about trying to pluck my mustache. When I stood, tweezers in hand, looking at the teeny forest above my upper lip, I audibly laughed, and my reflection looked at me and went, “You truly are a crazy li’l bitch, aren’t you?”

  Cultural beauty standards and expectations of femininity and women in movies who lifted their arms up and had smooth, hairless, light pit skin, have taught me to tie self-awareness to shame. I’ve been trying to undo or at least examine the things I’ve allowed, subconsciously or not, to seep into my daily routines. It’s not like I spend all my waking moments thinking about all of the weird places my female body has decided to grow hair, though I can easily call each of these hairs to mind: the single hair on my chest I am convinced is a pube gone rogue, the armies of nipple hairs that guard my areolae, the one chin hair that happens to grow in the exact same place as my mother’s one chin hair. How do I acknowledge each of their presences without implying that they are gross or weird or bad?

  I don’t know if I’ll ever not be hyperconscious of my upper lip or the razor burn bumps around my bikini line or the discoloration under my armpits from my dark-haired stubble. I don’t know if it would be better to have never been aware of these things: how my life would be different if I never knew to worry about my fingers being “too hairy for a girl” or wonder whether my butt crack was extra hairy or the normal amount of hairy. I don’t know if I wish my mom hadn’t told me I should start thinking about shaving my armpits in the dressing room in fifth grade. I don’t know if it was too soon for me, personally, or too late for me, societally. I don’t know how I will talk to my hypothetical future daughters about their own body hair, how I will weigh that delicate balance of helpful and harmful my own mother was so concerned about.

  There is one thing, however, I do know for sure: I’m glad my mom didn’t let me buy that Cool Girl shirt from Fashion Bug. By any and all beauty standards, it was ugly anyway.

  I’m a Guy’s Girl

  Oh, I didn’t see you there—I was too busy watching sports and shotgunning beers. I’m a pretty typical tomboy. Also, I’m pretty. It’s confusing, I know. People are always like, “Were you created in a lab?” And I’m always like, “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

  Kidding! I love humor. Nothing is funnier to me than a boy fart or saying “pussy” for no reason. And, yes, you can swear around me. I’m used to it because I grew up with a bunch of brothers. It was so many brothers but also a normal number. Like, seventeen? Does that sound right?

  I’ve always been a guy’s girl. I love meats and video games and how gasoline smells and tires taste. You know—just dude stuff. I’ve never been into girly things like makeup or being culturally conditioned to hate my body. What even is “bronzer” or “eyelashes”? I don’t understand why girls take so long to get ready. I put my human flesh on one leg at a time, just like one of the guys.

  Girls are always so jealous and sensitive about everything. I don’t get that. I literally feel nothing except interest in whatever you like. I don’t think I’d get along with girls if I ever met one in real life.

  Boys are just easier to hang out with. I guess that’s what makes me a guy’s girl. Specifically, the girl of some guys who created me during a thunderstorm. They glued two basketballs to a flagpole, waited for lightning to strike, and here I am.

  Joking! Oh my god, you should have seen your face. You were like that guy from that movie you’re so good at quoting. You remind me of Ryan Gosling, but I’d actually have sex with you.

  Was that too forward? I don’t want to come on too strong. But you know what they say: “Don’t be a fucking tease like Lisa.” That’s the saying, right? I love sayings. Is now when I show you my basketball boobs? I mean, do you want to play basketball? Ha ha, I’m such a guy! Except I’m a girl!

  Other girls are like, “Why are we being pitted against one another for the gratification of the male gaze?” But I’m like, “Because when we’re against each other, our boobies touch and it’s cool, duh.” Speaking of cool, a cool thing about me is that my butt is just for decoration and that’s all.

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been more into guy stuff than girl stuff. My memory only spans the length of a day and restarts every morning because I’m just chill like that. I’m so good at chilling with the guys that Flip Cup is my middle name, which is funny because I don’t even have a last name. Do girls have last names?

  I thought I met a girl once, but she was just a maple-syrup bottle. We sat across from one another in the kitchen and quietly kept each other company. Neither of us spoke because there were no boys in the room for us to fight over. I thought about bringing her to life in a lightning storm so that I’d have someone to listen to me. But that’d be selfish—I wasn’t brought here to think only of myself. I was brought here to think only of myself in relation to men.

  Plus, I didn’t have any basketballs to glue to her.

  National American Miss Pre-teen Wisconsin

  Soon after I hit puberty, I got a letter in the mail saying I was eligible to participate in a statewide beauty pageant. It was as if my period had sent a press release to the world announcing my coming of age.

  (August-ish, 2001—Grafton, WI) Menses is excited to announce Mia Mercado kind of has boobs now and is technically fertile. She has affirmed to her mother that she “totally” knows what sex is, adding, “Ew.” (We have yet to confirm from Mia whether she does, in fact, know what sex is.) We look forward to the confusing horniness she will experience, and welcome the onslaught of inappropriate sexualization she will inevitably face. Also, she’s twelve! Further questions can be yelled to Mia through a bathroom door as she tries to figure out which part of the tampon stays inside of you and which gets thrown away.

  Like American males are required to register for the draft at eighteen, I was enlisted to serve my country through choreographed group dance numbers and being good at wearing ball gowns. At twelve, I both craved the approval of others and was delusional with preteen hormones. I applied for the pageant, obviously.

  I do not remember specifics about the application process as I have buried them deep within the shame part of my brain. I’m guessing it required a headshot as my mom recently cursed me with a stack of pageant-era photos she found in the basement, glossy eight-by-tens of me close-mouthed smiling with braces and looking moody on our family’s front porch. I’m assuming I attached some sort of “résumé” consisting of my GPA, extracurricular activities, favorite color, and other innocuous things about my twelve-year-old self. There may have been an essay portion. If there was, I’m sure I wrote something sad, desperate, and pseudo-inspirational, like, My name is Mia, and sometimes I hope I’ll become famous overnight so I don’t have to turn in my social studies homework in the morning. If you accept me into this pageant, it would mean the world to me as it would finally give me something to talk to my crush Matt S. about. Thank you and, also, you’re welcome!

  I know, with certainty, it cost $400 to submit an application. (Did you know the average US college application costs about $50?) I was twelve and had no money. My parents were rich with unconditional love.

  My application for the pageant was accepted, and I was named a “regional finalist” or “county finalist” or some other meaningless title the pageant coordinators chose to best convey, “This mess of acne and braces hereby referred to as ‘preteen girl’ somehow convinced her parents to pay hundreds of dollars so she could stomp around in a fancy dress and have adult strangers decide if she stomps the prettiest.” I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone who applied for the pageant and paid $400 was named a “finalist.”

  I don’t know if I will ever understand why my parents let me do it. “Disposable income” was not really a thing that existed in my family of six. Th
is isn’t to say I felt deprived of fun little treats growing up. My mom, sister, and I would raid the Kohl’s clearance rack before every school year. Every once in a while, my parents would take all four of us kids through the Dairy Queen drive-through and we’d all shout “Dilly Bar” or “StarKiss” from the back seat. This is to say, however, that I still feel a sense of guilt when I peruse regular-priced racks. Also, I had no idea Blizzards were an option on the Dairy Queen menu until well into high school.

  Maybe my parents thought letting me do this pageant would shut me up about thinking I deserved my own Disney Channel show. (It didn’t.) More likely, they were overcome by the aforementioned unconditional love and worn down by the hyper-dramatics of my preteen self. Regardless, they have yet another humiliating thing to hold over my head should I ever threaten to put them in a home.

  My preparation for the pageant was minimal. My mom took me to the juniors’ clothing store Maurice’s—most of my coming-of-age moments happened in juniors’ clothing stores—and I picked out the twenty dollar-est dress for the “formal wear” portion of the competition. I may have Naired my entire body. I did not pluck my eyebrows.

  The pageant took place the summer before my eighth-grade year, in a hotel in the middle of Wisconsin. Girls from across the state came in their department store finest to parade around a conference room and say their name nervously into a microphone. My entire family and my best friend, Sami, came to the competition, all seven of us staying in one hotel room together. I’m sure I started anxiety sweating the moment I walked into pre-pageant prep meetings with my extremely suburban entourage.

  In trying to avoid being associated with my family even a little bit, I remember sitting with a fellow competitor named Jenna. She had blond hair curled into perfect ringlets and looked like a tween who’d be cast as an extra in a Lip Smacker commercial. She was a girl who would usually be too cool to talk to me, but here in this carpeted hotel ballroom, we were equals.

  “Ohmigahd are you really not wearing foundation?!” she asked me at one point, staring closely at my face. I told her no as it was against competition rules to wear any noticeable makeup. Ball gowns, heels, and media training for preteens? Good, fine, very normal. A detectable smoky eye or tinted lip? That’s where the pageant organizers drew the line. The mindfuck that is “natural beauty” entered my vocabulary around this time.

  During one of the first pre-pageant prep meetings, the contestants and our parents were greeted by the woman who ran the show. Her hair was big (teased with the hopes of preteen girls), and she had a slight southern accent I’m still not convinced was real. She is exactly who you picture when I say “pageant head mistress.” She gave us a rundown of the next couple days and playfully assured the parents that when they left the room, she would not be “taking the girls to Denny’s.” Though I don’t have kids, I’m guessing a bad way to reassure parents is to say, “I won’t kidnap your kids, promise!” However, “taking the girls to Denny’s” is now the euphemism I use whenever I cook eggs topless.

  Pageant Head Mistress also repeatedly mentioned how the pageant after-party would only have cake and punch, “NO SHRIMP COCKTAIL.” She was adamant the post-pageant party would include absolutely zero shrimp cocktail. I’m sure this was a deal breaker for the highfalutin crowd definitely in attendance at this suburban Wisconsin preteen beauty pageant.

  Once the parents left, the pageant prep meetings were kind of like a wedding rehearsal: the pageant coordinators told us who needed to go where and when to stand. They told us when to smile (always) and how the show would run (poorly). We were taught choreography to the show’s opening number, a group dance to “Jump Jump” by Aaron Carter. I can probably still do the choreo, and I’m guessing you could too as we basically just did whatever the lyrics said to do. When Aaron Carter said “JUMP,” we jumped. When Aaron Carter said “to the left, to the right,” we pointed stage left and then stage right.

  After a handful of prep meetings, the actual pageant began. Unlike contestants who’d hired coaches or the television toddlers who you may have seen in tiaras, most of my experience with pageants involved watching Miss America on TV or seeing the Kirsten Dunst vehicle Drop Dead Gorgeous a little too young. I assumed a pageant was one singular event where we, the contestants, confidently walked around onstage in sporty outfits, casual outfits, and then evening gowns. (What kind of evening did I anticipate having at twelve that required a gown? Who knows, but it certainly required matching heels as well!) I thought there would be a lot more waving elegantly. I thought there would be significantly more posing. I thought I’d get to answer questions live onstage like “In thirty seconds or less, how would you solve gender inequality?” and “Is ISIS really that bad?” The actual pageant was only kind of like that.

  Most of the judged events took place prior to the big show that was open to the public. (Who was this public desperate to attend a preteen beauty pageant? TV agents? Modeling scouts? Perverts and yet more perverts?) There were three portions in which all girls were required to compete: the opening number, formal wear, and interview. The opening number—the choreographed dance to Aaron Carter—was the only judged event that took place during the actual “show.” The show, which would be attended by parents, the public, and perverts alike, was the final pageant event, where winners would be announced and awards given out.

  Over the next day or so, contestant interviews were conducted. We were told to wear business-appropriate attire for the interviews, which involved us sitting one-on-one with one of the pageant judges. I wish they would have made us develop a backstory to go along with our interview wear, going into detail about what kind of business I, a twelve-year-old girl who’d barely left the state of Wisconsin, intended to conduct in an ill-fitting power suit. I donned a cream blazer and a matching skirt I’d bought with my mom at, I’m assuming, Sears. While shopping for the outfit, we probably left my dad and brothers to stare at the dishwashers or Cheetos—Sears truly had everything. I’m guessing I cried in the dressing room.

  On interview day, I wore a powder blue, mock turtleneck sleeveless top under my blazer. (It should be illegal for a garment to require that many descriptors. I will give you a moment to process.) I know I complained more than once about the blazer’s shoulder pads, which I worried made me look old but not in a cool way. Once dressed, I slipped on my half-inch cream pumps, likely the first time I’d worn heels. If you need to wear high heels for the first time, it’s best to do it while twelve years old and walking down a carpeted hotel hallway to a pageant interview. It really amplifies just how stupid everything is all the time.

  The sight of a hundred or so preteen girls in business wear must be like a renaissance painting come to life. You learn quickly whose parents made them wear pantyhose (and called them as such—much different than “tights” or “nylons”). You see whose mom had taught them to shave their legs, some the morning of the interview. You see which girls had parents with money based on who matched their braces’ bands to their outfit, their shoes to their shirt, their sweaty foreheads to their sweaty feet. You see who, at twelve or thirteen, already had more confidence than you will ever be able to muster as an adult person.

  The interviews were conducted in a speed-dating style. The handful of judges sat at separate circle tables around a hotel conference room, waiting with clipboards and coffee breath for a new round of girls to file in. I only remember speaking with one judge. I may have spoken to more and blacked out completely, but I know for certain I was interviewed by one kind woman with strong grandma vibes. (She could have been in her late thirties, but my child brain registered her as “grandma.”) We may have shaken hands. I likely stumbled when saying my own name, like it wasn’t something I’d carried with me my whole life but a surprise the Pageant Head Mistress had thrown at me moments before I walked into the interview room and I’d just barely managed to catch. The interview couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, ten tops. There were over a hundred girls competing and no more t
han five or six judges. I doubt they kept the judges in the conference room for more than an hour and a half. Any more would certainly be illegal for everyone involved.

  The only question I remember being asked in my interview was, “What is your favorite book?” A softball. A gimme. Truly an easy and inconsequential question. Sometimes I wonder if my pageant score would have been different had I answered with a different book. Was Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix the butterfly that set off my pageant fate?

  If you aren’t familiar, Running Out of Time is a YA novel from the mid-’90s about a thirteen-year-old girl who lives in the 1840s . . . or so she thinks. Through a diphtheria outbreak, she learns the year is actually 1996 and everyone in this village is part of some social experiment/tourist attraction. If that sounds like an M. Night Shyamalan–level twist, that’s probably because you saw The Village, the 2004 Joaquin Phoenix vehicle that has undeniable similarities to Haddix’s story. What I’m saying is I blame any and all of my pageant-related problems on M. Night Shyamalan.

  I like to imagine how the pageant judge would have reacted had I said my favorite book was the Bible or A Clockwork Orange or There’s a Wocket in My Pocket! What if twelve-year-old me had looked this pageant judge in the eyes and said, “My favorite book is all the softcovers because those taste the best”? I wonder if that would’ve gone over equally as well as me talking about a book that I hadn’t read since fourth grade.

  The judged formal wear portion of the pageant happened next. While we would be wearing our formal wear during the actual show, we would be scored beforehand. I’m guessing the judges wanted to figure out their winners way before the night of the public show. Or they just liked the idea of making a bunch of preteens feel uncomfortable in floor-length dresses as many times as possible. The formal wear event went like this: The pageant emcee would announce each contestant with an index card she’d gotten beforehand. The card would have our name, where we were from, and an interesting fact like our hobbies or what we wanted to be when we grew up. When we heard our name, we’d walk out onto the stage, accompanied by a male.