I have superbly hairy arms.
When I was younger I used to get teased about my hairy arms all the time and it bothered me. Well, that's not really true. I pretended like it bothered me, because it seemed like I was supposed to be bothered by the ribbing, but secretly, I mostly just enjoyed the attention.
On multiple occasions, I trimmed the unruly, curly, ridiculously long arm hair strands with a pair of pink and white safety scissors. It seemed like the thing to do.
Come to think of it, I was a rather strange kid. Probably the arm hair was only an outward sign of inner awkwardness, a feature for the other kids my age to latch onto, an easy target for lame jokes designed to make the teller feel better about him or herself. Kids seem to have a sixth sense about these things. They smell one another's vulnerability and they circle around the weak like a shiver of sharks eager for blood. This is the way it seemed to me. Then again, I was both awkward AND paranoid. :)
Not much has changed over the years...
I just don't cut my arm hair anymore. Let it grow. The longer, the better; the crazier, the better; the more untamed, the better.
It's who I am.