Word: misse
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...their current girlfriends (you know who you are). But as anyone who has endured plastic surgery—i.e., Michael, Janet or LaToya—knows, beauty is pain. As I prepared for the pageant, I had to ask myself, “What will it take to be Miss Harvard?” More importantly (as my preparations proceeded): “What injuries am I going to sustain...
...First, Miss Harvard could not be hairy. Due to the sheer length and volume of my leg hair, a lawn mower would have been easier to use than my Gillette Mach 3. The night before the pageant, as I stood naked in the bathtub, warm water running, I watched inch-long hairs peel off into a watery mélange of foamy white shaving cream and occasional drops of blood. I awkwardly maneuvered my body as I shaved the rear of my thighs, only breaking more skin in my futile attempt to be careful and precise. An analgesic layer...
...Miss Harvard should embody fitness. In order to accentuate my calf muscles, I decided to parade around in four-inch stiletto heels. As I practiced walking up and down Winthrop House’s F entry, I felt like an elephant on a tightrope—the diameter of the heel’s base was only one centimeter. Apparently, women walk on their tiptoes; if you put any weight on the heel it’s likely to crack under the pressure, especially if you have turkey-shaped thighs like me. As I grew more comfortable, I added sass...
...Miss Harvard should also stick to her roots—culturally and in terms of hair. I’m half-Vietnamese and it was important I emphasize this. For so much of my life, Asians could only see me as white and whites thought I was Mexican. By selecting a black wig, I emphasized my Asian heritage rather than opting for a blonde wig that would scream Aryan beauty. Additionally, the wig would help dispel myths that blondes have more fun. Although I don’t have a Ken to call my own, I sported a Barbie look...
...Miss Harvard should carry herself with poise and confidence. During the pageant itself I found my greatest test. Prior to the talent competition, I stood outside Leverett Dining Hall in a dimly lit alley waiting for the stage door to open. Three local youths—two women and a guy—approached me with their bloodshot eyes and the stench of alcohol on their breath. The male pressed me to take off my wig. He wanted to run on stage, he explained, and shout expletives at the “faggots” in drag. I told...