My sister, two years and one month older than me, was my leader for much of my childhood. I remember with a sad pang the day in middle school — I remember it precisely — that I was standing behind her in her closet, trying to borrow her clothes, and realized that I would never become her. Until that moment, I had always thought that when I was her age — just two years away from where I was RIGHT NOW — that I would be as vivacious, outgoing, confident and adorable (she is 5′ 2″, I’m 5′ 11″) as she is. At that moment, as I was maybe 11 and she was 13, I realized that the difference was more than just years — that it was personalities, and while mine had its charms, it wasn’t going to morph into hers.

Jennei and I celebrating something … Christmas? …

We were more the textbook ‘arguing’ sisters than best friends growing up, and so rare times of true tenderness stick out in my mind. In particular, I remember Jennei teaching me how to shave. We were living in the apartment we moved into with my mom after my parents’ divorce, and I think my mom thought I was too young to shave. I was, in the peculiar way of pre-teen girls, obsessed with the (pale, invisible) hairs on my legs, and was convinced that shaving would give me both street cred and beauty.

After whining and begging for a while, I convinced Jennei to teach me. She sat on the tub next to me, in a rare role of patient teacher (patience is not something my sister and I excel in). She showed me how to lather up on one leg, and then how to run the razor up it. I was terrified of cutting myself, and so she showed me again, and instructed me when to rinse off the razor. She helped me with my whole first leg, and then stayed with me as I did the second one myself.

Our interactions tended more toward anger and jealousy, fighting over who got the most affection and who was the most beloved, so my memories of true sisterhood, of supporting each other against the MAN (or the Mom, in this case), are very cherished.

It wasn’t that I needed to shave, but I did need a sister to stand up for me and teach me how to be a woman. Thanks, Jennei, for the helping hand and the loving lesson.