“Why don’t you shave your arms?” my friend suggested. “Then you wouldn’t look like such a freak.” That seemed an easy way to untangle myself, so one afternoon I did. Sheaves of blond hair clogged the basin, my mother’s leg razor overcome. My arms slowly emerged. They were weirdly soft, as if newborn. I blotted them dry and stretched them out in front of me. I hardly believed that they were mine.