Lately I’ve been fantasizing about what it would be like to be totally comfortable with myself as a hirsute woman. ...A hirsute woman who hides her hair.
Kind of an oxymoron, but in my fantasy it makes sense. In my fantasy, I still shave and pluck and cake on make-up and take three pills a day so as not to draw attention to myself, so as not to let hair get in the way of first, second, third impressions. But in my fantasy, I’m also okay with who I am, how I was born, how my body has developed.
I’m in a car with a bunch of friends. And friends of friends. Not all of them are people I know well, but probably people I’ll see again. And there’s an argument of the sexes going on, as often is the case with people around my age, trying to get a leg up on the other. A guy tries to win the argument of who has a harder job getting ready in the morning by saying, “Until you know what it’s like to have to shave every morning, you know nothing about hard work!” (And yes, I’ve seen this argument in action before. It has been used, heh.) I say, a little bit smug, “Well since I do know what it’s like, I think I win.” And when the raised eyebrows fly my way, I shrug comfortably and say, “What? I have a beard. So?”
...I guess, to me, being “okay” with being hirsute means talking about it. (It may not be so for everyone, and that’s fine. That’s awesome, in fact. I remember when being “okay” with it meant I didn’t wake up, look in the mirror and want to cry. Each step leads to another.) Not all the time, just when it would be natural to bring it up in conversation if there were nothing “wrong” with it. Talking about it as I would talk about my freckles; they’re there, they can’t be controlled, and even if some days I don’t like them, they’re nothing to be ashamed of.
I imagine it being common knowledge amongst my acquaintances that yep, I have a beard. And it ain’t no thang. So common that it’s as boring, as old news, as when I cut my bum-length hair to my shoulders. It shocked people at first, but now they have trouble even remembering it happened. Maybe once in a while they might think of it, be reminded of it in idle conversation, but it’s hardly a topic to ponder on. Or judge on. Or act on.
It’s just little old me. Just a girl who shaves her face. But dang does she ever make good cupcakes!
You know, as I'm formatting this for posting, it occurs to me to wonder something.
If I'm fantasizing, why am I not just fantasizing about not having hirsutism?
What do you suppose that means? ;-)