Meantime Abby Reese Asimos   © Copyright 2026 Abby Reese Asimos

Photo by Fernando Serrano at Pexels.

I was, and can still say am, excited to be unattached to myself as I serve in the Peace Corps. It’s a new phenomenon for me to regularly not know what I look like in any sort of close-up clarity, and hopefully, to one day not care. Let’s ignore the fact I chose my malaria prophylaxis purely on the fact it doubles as acne treatment.

It has yet to begin working. There is no mirror in my mud hut, or at my training center, or at the market, or in my latrine. Instead I settle for window panes, puddles, bottoms of empty white porcelain mugs, or an immediately deleted iPhone 11 selfie for when I’m really desperate or say I walk out of the house and all my host family agrees I look “red red red.” But whenever I wear a dress, which is often, my host sister tells me I look beautiful. She says beautiful the way it’s meant to be said — softly, looking me up and down, head tilt, lips lingering on the “Llll” sound. I mentioned wanting to cut my hair and she screams no on our hour-long walk home. She tells our family my evil plan while we eat nshima dinner on the floor and they pet my hair, crimped from braiding, till it’s frizzy and I can’t imagine ever parting from it.

Danielle tells me a secret before our language class — her host brother Eva has a crush on me, crush his word of choice. I only see Eva when we pick Danielle up on our way to the training center mid-sunrise. I’m on my bike, breathless, shivering from sweat, helmet shining like a black licorice jellybean. Eva, the gorgeous and popular son of the village’s headman, is never not smiling. I smile back. It’s only been a few weeks, but I worry my teeth must have already befallen to stain without the peroxide, instant espresso and rooibos tea my current drinks of choice. (I do not have much choice.) But maybe, maybe I look cute on the bike. It’s possible the perspiration lands nicely on my cheekbones. Possible, but unlikely. I am too old for Eva. I imagine telling grandnieces and nephews I got these crows’ feet from my years in Africa. The sun harsh, my grin constant, the locals heartbroken.

I decide if I buzz my head I will wait till after homestays so my host family never has to see and feel ashamed. I’ll never get to avoid myself this much, my soft jawline and mismatched earlobes. My bucket showers would be shorter. Whole body lighter. Way less to fit in my licorice helmet. Just peach fuzz grown blonde from taking tea breaks outside. Meanwhile my teeth get darker, mouth muddled with polkadots of blood each supper. I can pretend away my ugliness but not my sensitivity. Knees buckling after every trek home, tongue fragile and hesitant to Bemba’s long Us and spritely Gs. Eva laughs at my pronunciation. Danielle says I’m trying, at least. Sometimes I get away with being dumb.

In the taxi one Sunday, my driver says he will name his child after me. The man at the gas station’s eyes light up as we pull in for a refill. I’ve never felt exotic before, but the way boys chase after me and my bike just to touch my arm makes me feel rare in an offensive way, like I’m interrupting. “I love you,” they say, almost mocking. Scoffing even. Like they are daring me to stop. I’ve heard it before. I love you. The pitch alters as I pedal away.

After lunch, in the PicknPay, my friend puts both of his arms around me. We can’t find any hydrogen peroxide. I’m sure he feels bad for my cut mouth and unthreatening stature made more pitiful from the biking, and for me being the one left behind. He’s leaving soon. Hours and hours away. No mirrors there either probably. He asks if I’m really going to buzz my head and before I answer he tells me I should. I want to ask if I would be pretty without it all, or maybe I want to ask if he would still think I’m pretty, or if he even thinks I’m pretty right now, washed in hotel soap and the fluorescent grocery store lights, wearing a linen dress I’m already getting sick of. He lets go fast and instead of a girl I just feel like a puppy. 

The next morning, wearing a different linen dress, instead of looking in a mirror, because I can’t look in a mirror, I think about his arms around me. Toned arms, kind arms, going to go to medical school after the Peace Corps arms. And it tells me at least at its most inessential, I look okay enough to hug.  I ask my real mom to send me a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in a care package. I finish my coffee with my eyes closed.