My mum died when I was six years old. A tough experience, obviously, but this isn't a sad story.  

I'm sure you know the loss of a parent leaves unseen scars. Formed from painful emotional wounds and those less considered day-to-day practicalities. As a motherless girl, I became aware of certain gaps throughout my journey in femininity. Some were filled, others remain to this day. For example... 

Beauty (preening & pruning) 
Not that she was much of a (hashtag) influencer, with her perm, overly plucked eyebrows and daggy 90s mum-wear. My hair's always been straight, though I'll admit to being on intimate terms with my own tweezers in high school. (It was fashionable at the time! And they grew back, thankfully.) I was urged to put off shaving my legs as long as possible and to do it infrequently, so it didn't grow back as fast. Dad had to shave his ‘whiskers' daily, so I trusted the man knew what he was talking about! Even though I've since learned this isn't the done thing, I'll admit I've carried this hesitancy (read: laziness) with me ever since... 

My skill with a hair straightener (the only tool I've mastered) is probably on-par with that of an eight-year-old. (Grab a clump, throw it in and squeeze it down!) You can probably guess how I go with makeup (all four products). No amount of online tutorials can help this girl figure it out, but I know I'm not alone in this (and maybe it has nothing to do with my parental sitch...?). 

Outsourced for the most part. 

When I got my first period in Year 9, I cried my eyes out. It came on the weekend, while I was playing with my Barbies. (In my defence, this was highly sophisticated – and often sexy – recreation in the vein of my favourite daytime soapies: à la B&B.) Even though Dad had previously shipped me off to the lady across the road for an edu-fun Aunt Flo roadshow, my panic was palpable. I still wasn't ready! (Duh – weren't the barbies enough of a hint?) 

The task of buying my first bra – technically a bralette – fell to one of my best friends and her older sister. I still remember the teal material with its flimsy triangles for my very small bosom (not much bigger now). Under the same influence, I had a short-lived (and thoroughly unenjoyable) dalliance with G-strings. The details of one particular item remains as stuck in my mind as it was between my cheeks: a purple and orange piece with Tigger on the front. Tigger!!! Who the hell was that marketed to? (I still live in wonder.)  

Boys (dating them, specifically) 
They were never that appealing in high school. After the Barbies were put away (also, coincidentally in Year 9), I avoided the real thing for the most part with celebrity crushes and fan fiction. After a few near-misses, I met my first boyfriend at 18 (and married him 11 years later). Lucky! (Seriously lucky. Some pretty intense attachment issues caused more gaping chasms then gaps in this space, and this man helped me to traverse them with such patience and love. Perhaps I had a certain guardian angel on my side...?) 

*** 

I'm thirty-six now. There's still plenty of gaps, but I'm as whole as I can be, thanks to the countless beautiful women (and men) that have walked this long path by my side. Family, friends and everyone in between – I can see the light because of you, and I'll always be grateful. 
 
Britt McCarthy lives, works and writes on Whadjuk Noongar Boodja. A love of psychology and creative writing evolved together, and with a well-established career in the former, she's started to adorn that elusive second hat with more vigour. You can find her first published short story in the little journal Autumn 25: ROMANCE (Night Parrot Press).