Unskilled in the art of plucking, my eyebrows ended up looking like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

But still, people persisted in asking me about my ethnicity. “ Where are you from?” they would say.

“Canada.”

“No, where are you from?”

Once, a stranger approached me on the street and said: “Wow, you look like you’re from a race that hasn’t been invented yet. No, I mean that as a compliment.”

People may think their questions fall under the banner of benign curiosity. But for women of color, these questions have dominated our lives. How many times do I have to be asked about the nature of my features rather than the nature of my courage, my spirit or my resiliency?

And let me tell you, I am the nicest, sweetest, most rage-filled person I know.

For the majority of my life, I have been embarrassed by my ethnicity. I have been ashamed of my looks. I have done everything I can to change myself, to rid my face of that which made me “other.” I am convinced I am the greatest authority on hair removal because I have done it all.

I wanted what, to a degree, we all want: to fit in. But if you want to look like everybody else, you have to play their game. I was the only one being asked about the party above my lashes, so clearly I was playing the game wrong.

Then one day it hit me. I make my own game.

And so I decided to grow the bad boys back in. I didn’t want to look pretty anymore. I wanted to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening.