The second obsession is more difficult for me to write about. (Deep breaths.) The need to be clean became confused in my poor, addled head with the need to be hair-free. I associated hair with being dirty. I don’t mean hair as in body hair or hair in areas that we don’t need to mention here (if only if it were that simple)! I mean the fine, vellus hair that our body needs to help regulate its temperature. All women have a covering of this light hair on their face, neck, arms, and so on. It’s not noticeable to other people, but still, I became obsessed with this hair – particularly on my face and neck. The compulsion to pluck this hair out became the physical manifestation of my deep distress. Now, step in my closest companion, the magnifying mirror. A ticking bomb. I would spend hours checking myself in it. Obviously, fine hairs are going to look pretty horrifying in a mirror like this, so I would try and pluck them out. Actually, “pluck” is too gentle a word. I would gouge them with a needle or tweezers, often leaving bleeding wounds on my face and neck.