Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I begin my nightly ritual: counting the hair between my eyebrows. I run my index finger up and down, back and forth — an old, anxious tick. The skin used to feel so soft. Fuzzy, like a caterpillar. Now the gap feels sparse, coarse. My head urges me to reach for the tweezers. But another, quieter voice whispers a reminder. That my brows will never look, never feel the same again. Before entering elementary school, I remember accepting my facial hair at face value. It was a fact of life: The sun rose and set, the subway was forever delayed, and I had strands of hair sprouting all over my face. My peers were eventually the ones to point out that my facial hair did not fit the standard of American beauty, and as a first generation Middle Eastern New Yorker, neither did I. I was called names. At first, werewolf or gorilla. But as I grew older, I was likened to a terrorist. By middle school, I had a mustache thicker than that of my male p...