Camping 2013

August ended up being a tough month.  Immediately after coming home my dog got sick and had to stay in the hospital.  Recovery has had its ups and downs but he was getting back to normal.  He relapsed yesterday, but thank the good vets at the animal emergency, he's already on the mend again.  I had this blog post already written, though, so you'll have something to read for now.  If there's another long silence, though, you'll know why.

Camping was lovely.  A few circumstances were different, such as our site being farther from the showers.  But hey, I’d had laser done this year, so I didn't need to shave as often, yes?  Well, unfortunately I got paranoid that more of my chin hair was starting to grow back, so after trying one day of not shaving, I changed my mind.  Sure, I felt a little defeated that I wasn’t going to shave every other day like I planned.  And then came something unexpected.  The weather got so hot that our family decided to move to a hotel.  Suddenly we had our own private bug-free bathroom, with a sink behind a locked door.  Brilliant, right? 

But no, I was already giving up on shaving every other day.  I wasn’t going to just go back to my normal routine that I follow at home.  I thought of something else that I could do this year that I could never do before: shaving at night instead of the morning.  And when the weather went back to normal and we returned to tents and campfires, I kept the routine going.  I would shave in the closer bathroom which had no showers, just a couple of toilet stalls and two sinks with only cold water that were out where all could see.  At night, though, it was much less likely someone would walk in, so my only audience was the moth population and the spider that lived behind the mirror.  It worked pretty well, and took a lot of the pressure off the morning.

It’s amazing how much hirsutism changes your life.  For the first time in the history of my camping trips, I could wake up when I felt like it.  And instead of worrying about when I could sneak away to shave and not miss out on anything, I could sit and enjoy the mountain morning, chat with everyone, share in the communal breakfast.  It definitely helped the experience. 

This trip also surprised me by showing me how much emotional strength I have built since I was a teenager.  This was highlighted by my step-sister, who is not in any way hirsute, being unable to cope with camping.  I guess I had always assumed that if you’re not paranoid about your body hair, whether it be simply legs or also face/tummy/chest, camping is a breeze.  Turns out it can still be an ordeal for some.  When we checked out of the hotel and went back to the campsite, she did not want to stay, and ended up going home early.  I was shocked that someone found it more challenging than I did.  How was I, with my hair issues and self consciousness, and my nervous stomach problems, and my fear of insects (particularly spiders), able to have a wonderful time?

I suppose, and this is just my guess, that you have to really want to.  And if you really want to enjoy yourself, you’ll allow yourself to be challenged, try your best to be adaptable and to accept things as they come.  If I had gone home early with my sister, I probably wouldn’t have gotten sick that one night and would have avoided kneeling retching in a ditch in the pitch darkness.  But I also would have missed out on so much more.  I dislike being sick as much as I dislike arachnids, but I lived through it and came out the other side much more relaxed.  I really didn’t think I was that laid back.  I certainly never used to be.

I tried paddle boarding this year, which is fun but a lot harder than it looks--or maybe that’s just me.  I’ve never had exceptional balance.  That swimsuit, by the way, you can purchase (in all sorts of colors) from Modcloth.  They’re very modest, but very trendy right now, so you can look retro while hiding your treasure trail and that bikini line that breaks out in a painful rash when you try to shave it.  I love that swimsuit and would highly recommend it to anyone.

But my favorite thing of all was just lying in a hammock and reading, with nothing but quail chirping around me.  It’s something I could have enjoyed just as much whether I’d had laser hair removal done or not, but I can say it was worth it just to have my mornings like a normal person.  I guess in a sort of way I got my wish.

Also, I found this book on my travels.  What?

I Told My Sister

After I made the video about my third treatment, something surprising happened.  I was in the kitchen with my step-sister, cleaning up for the night, when a voice trailed in from the laundry room.  I couldn’t make out a word of it, and called out, “Pardon?”  But my step-sister had heard it clearly and repeated what had been said to me.

Feeling a little abashed, I laughed my partial deafness off as part of my burgeoning sinus infection, and to support the argument, I proceeded to tell my step-sister how I’d had to get the laser technician to repeat almost everything she said to me that afternoon as well.

“Why were you seeing a laser technician?” she asked.  And then I realized what I’d done.

“Laser hair removal,” I said, as lightly as I could manage.  “That’s why my face was so red when I came in.”  Instead of staying in my room after I made the video, I’d taken my ice pack downstairs to the couch and plunked myself down with the family.  I never do that.

“I didn’t even notice,” she said.  And we haven’t talked about it since.

Somehow, starting laser hair removal again has caused me to let my guard down.  I told a coworker I was going to the consultation because I was terribly nervous, I told my cousin about my problems with body hair when she had her wisdom teeth out the same day as one of my treatments. 

And now I’ve told my step-sister, someone I’ve lived with for almost nine years now without telling.  I did expect her to know that I’m hirsute, though.  I had to bleach my face in front of her one day when we were traveling and I couldn’t keep the bathroom to myself, and told her it was just cream.  She’s shared a home bathroom with me for ages and has seen all the weird shaving apparatus I have, and surely she’s noticed it all gets wet in the morning when I say I’m going to “wash my face.”  And as I’ve started to get more accepting of my hair, I’ve ventured outside my room when I’ve taken shaving breaks and even gone so far as to make dinner for everyone with a day or two of shadow on my chin and jaw.  But apparently she never looked close enough.  I think very few people actually do.

But why is it when we start to do something about our hirsutism we feel better talking about it?  I’ve noticed that’s often when women start their blogs or make their videos.  Somehow, knowing we’re getting command over our situation, or even that our situation might eventually be gone (or reduced significantly), gives us bizarre amounts of courage.  I figured I had a pretty good handle on acceptance of myself, but now that laser has been reducing my issue, I’m out of control!  My secret’s slipping out all over the place.  And not a backlash to be seen.

We all appreciate knowing about the challenges of those we’re close to, right?  It has enriched my love and respect of others to learn about their chronic pain, traumatic memories, anxiety and depression, and more.  When we see them going about their days as if nothing’s wrong, it is very inspiring.  As Peter S Beagle (author of The Last Unicorn) says, “Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed.”   Our struggles, even if minor in comparison, might be just the thing to encourage someone else out of bed in the morning.  So many people are like that for me.  It's important to share, if and when we can.

Vlog: Second Treatment

Well, here we are at treatment number two!



And I am happy to sum up the video for those who aren’t comfortable watching me talk.  (Maybe it’s just me who hates watching myself talk.)

The laser technician was pleased with my progress, in fact she said (and this isn’t in the video) that my sideburns look “pretty much fine.”  She increased the laser’s intensity and did some of my stubborn chin hairs a couple of times.

What surprised me, though, was that she said I may only need to come in on an “as-needed” basis now.  I’m still trying to get my head ‘round this.  She thinks that the series of treatments I did eight years ago might have permanently damaged at least some of my follicles, because she doesn’t see much of a new hair cycle starting.  Normally it takes several rounds of laser to start seeing a noticeable reduction, because we’re killing off active cycles each time.  But as it had only been one treatment and no new hair coming in to replace it, perhaps the old treatment really did make an impact.

And, now that I’m on medication, I don’t have testosterone stimulating new dark cycles.  I may not need six treatments after all.

But I’ve scheduled an appointment in six weeks, just so I have one, and if I find I don’t have any hair to laser by then, I’ll cancel it.  I really can’t imagine it.  It’s frightening to think this may actually work.  Will anyone read a blog about hirsutism by an ex-bearded lady?

I also mentioned in the video that after my laser treatment I went right over to visit my cousin, who had just had her wisdom teeth out.  I muscled past my own embarrassment--I know I would need some cheering up if I ever had to have dental surgery.  So I talked to her about my issues a little, and she had never noticed but she was not startled or horrified by the news.  She told me about some of her own cosmetic concerns, and it was a great bonding moment.

That’s the first time I’ve told anyone in my family that I’m hirsute, besides my mother, and it was anti-climactic and an all-around relief.  And now I know someone who can use the products I’ve tried that don’t work for me.

Why does it get easier to tell people your problems once they’ve been taken care of?

Well, let’s see what falls out in a couple of weeks...

Can't Go Back On It Now...

I am going camping.  Yep, I’ve committed.

And not long after I did, I felt a surge of panic.  I’d have to go into a spider-infested shower stall every day to awkwardly shave without a mirror.  Other women would complain I’m taking too long.  My skin would be terrible.  I’d be avoiding peoples' cameras.  I’d dread waking up every morning to do it all again.

I can’t do this.  This won’t be a vacation.

The feeling hasn’t stopped with time.  I’ve been getting waves of doubt and worry intermittently since.  I’ve tried to distract myself by buying some cute new swimsuits, and reminding myself that I have a right to feel good about myself as I am and no one should be able to prevent me.  Not the people I’ll be camping with, not the impatient women in the campsite washroom, or me when I look at photos of myself.  I’ve told myself my self esteem and my skills at hair removal have changed a lot since the last time I went camping.  Thanks to my medication, the severity of my hirsutism and acne have improved, and I'm more comfortable with stubble than I ever was before.  Even my family has changed in that time.  And I’ve been to this campsite before, so I know exactly what to expect of the facilities.

So between moments of alarm, I’m working on mentally preparing myself.  How do I know I’ll be mocked this time for being so adamant about showering every morning?  What if I shaved over one of the sinks of the campsite bathroom where I’d have a mirror, so everyone could see exactly what I'm doing and why it takes so long in the shower?  How can I be sure I couldn’t endure the curious looks?  Heck, my morning ablutions could turn into my own personal educational demonstration on what so many women have to go through in secret.

But I don’t think I should be using all my prep-work to obsess about my hirsutism.  That’s not what a holiday is for.  I’m supposed to be looking forward to the things I’ll see and do.  It’s been so long since I’ve eaten at a campfire, talking and laughing with the smell of woodsmoke in my nostrils.  I can only distantly remember the morning fog clinging to the lake and the mug of instant Swiss Mocha coffee mix to stave off the cold.  I used to love clinging to a biscuit dragged behind a motorboat until my arms got tired and I would fly off into the freezing lake.  And I’ve totally forgotten what it’s like to be cut off from technology and work and responsibilities, and just lie on a beach and read. 

I have to think about why I felt the urge to go in the first place.  This is supposed to be fun.  I must refuse to let hirsutism get in the way of that.  If I refuse hard enough, maybe it will be so.

Contemplating Camping

It seems that suddenly, everyone wants us to go camping with them this summer.

I have always loathed this topic, which comes up as summer looms.  Often it’s a half-hearted discussion within the household, where they well know my stance on camping even if they don’t understand it.  I usually don’t have to worry.  When it comes to things that take that much effort and planning, my closest relatives are all talk.  (That’s not to say that sometimes they don’t shock me by actually booking a vacation now and then.  It’s impossible to accurately gauge how serious they are for that reason.) 

But when outside invitations are extended, it’s a different ballgame.  They want a full explanation.  I can say it’s an issue with lack of plumbing, but I’m really not a wimp in that area.  I don’t mind foregoing showers and swimming in a lake for a week.  It’s the getting hairy that’s hard.  Or rather, the expectation to not be hairy.  Even if I could risk offending people with poodles under my arms and cacti for legs, a beard would be hard for them to process. 

Then if the inviting party says the campsite has good facilities, I don’t know what to say.  I’ve camped where there have been public showers a short walk away, but that never used to ease the pressure I felt as a hirsute teenager.  It's robbed me of a fun, relaxing holiday more than once.

It probably didn’t help that I was much younger then, and was still coming to terms with this mysterious change in my body.  Or that I was with people I instinctively did not trust.  So this past weekend, when the subject of possibly going camping came up in mixed company, I stayed silent, thinking.  At first I was angry that my family one by one replied with interest, leaving me to give the answer they know I will give and not showing the least bit of hesitance for my sake.  But I remembered the numerous comments on this blog that express how silly it is to let this thing hold us back from what we really want to do.  I remembered that I’ve said it, too.

And this time, I could see myself clambering out of my tent in my flannel pajamas one cool mountain morning, plopping down in my folding chair in front of the fire with a cup of coffee, freely itching my chin stubble and saying to all the company, “Sorry, haven’t had a chance to shave yet.  I’ll do it before we go out in the boat.”  And then shaving with my razor and a bowl full of hot water from a kettle on a picnic table in the middle of the campsite.  It didn’t scare me.  It made me laugh.  Maybe I’m ready for camping this year after all.

A Girl's Gotta Have Priorities

This past weekend I was enjoying a day off from shaving and was lounging around in my pajamas as I worked on one of my many projects.  I did have some things to get done and this day felt like the day to do them.  I had nowhere to be, no one to see.  However, in the afternoon I got a text from my cousin asking if I wanted to meet up in a couple of hours with a bunch of people and see Star Wars Episode I in 3-D.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a cut-off time fixed in my mind, and if I haven’t shaved by that time, I won’t shave at all.  This is because it messes with the success and comfort of the next morning’s shave.  The hair is too short, especially since the medication has slowed down the growth a bit, so I have to really stretch my skin out and press hard with the razor to get a close shave, which means more irritation and sometimes ingrown hairs.  Usually that time is 12:00--even 11:00 is pushing it.

Once, on a similar shaving-free-day, I got a call to go to the beach with a bunch of acquaintances (one of whom was a guy on whom I had a little-girl-type crush) at around the same time of day.  And I declined without hesitation.  That turned out to be a regrettable choice in my opinion, because it was an eventful day, and it led to other invitations for the people who were there... and also gave them the opportunity to talk about me as I found out later.  (Not about my hair, I feel I should add, but about other things.)  I’d been having a low self-esteem day that day, though, and could not have forced myself into a swimsuit to save my life, never mind wear it in front of a guy I liked.  And though I’m very much an original-series Star Wars girl (Han Shot First, and all that), I wanted to experience the whole thing in 3-D in theaters, just to say I did, and with people who felt the same way.  A couple hours is hardly enough time for me to shave, shower, pack on the make-up and get halfway across town in time for the show, but I agreed.  And so, despite having places to be the next day, I took the risk and shaved after 12:00.  For Star Wars.

I’m telling you this to give you a better idea of who I am, because talking all the time about hirsutism doesn’t really give you a good idea of me as a person, I think.  And  I also want to once again say that hirsutism should not hold us back from doing what we want to do.  I had a great time, met some new people, and reaffirmed nerdy bonds with some of my family.  And you know what?  Shaving the next day went fine.  Absolutely no regrets.  Just a good time had by all.



You know, with all those alien races, a lady with a beard could fit in quite comfortably, I bet.  Ooh, bearded lady jedi!  I should draw that, that'd be bitchin'...

Smacking Myself

I guess even a woman with a beard has some sensitivity lessons left to learn.

My step-sister has been getting eczema off and on for a while now, and recently developed an infection in the eczema around her eyes.  It's gotten emergency-room severe a couple of times now, as antibiotics in pill-form seem unable to help her overcome it.  Her face has become a hard, cracking, crusty, scaly, itchy, painful visage.  Because of the infectious nature of the infection, she is not allowed to attend her college classes.  So she spends much of her time in her room.  She says its because she doesn't like people looking at her.

I caught myself saying, rather haughtily, "Well, now she knows how I feel all the time!"  What the heck was that?  When did I start thinking I have the monopoly on humiliating cosmetic conditions?

So what if a sudden acute attack of a skin condition is not quite comparable to an incurable chronic issue that calls into question one's gender identity?  That's just technicalities.  It's all about the way a person feels about themselves.  Whatever the severity of someone's perceived "problem" with their body, it's all relative.  It's not a contest to see who is the most hard-done-by. 

There are girls who call themselves "bearded ladies" who simply have a lot of blond vellus hair on their chins.  I might wish that was all I had to contend with, but the way they feel about themselves is valid.  They might very well feel worse than I do.  I've got to be careful of this tendency to be too full of self pity.
 
I think sometimes, as human beings, we enjoy self pity.  We enjoy being in pain.  Maybe becoming okay with ourselves as women with beards involves letting go of the pleasure of wallowing.

I have promised myself to be more understanding and encouraging to my step-sister from here on.  Maybe it could be worse.  But to her, nothing could be worse right now.

Living with a Pharmacy-Tech-To-Be

A month ago, I talked about how my step-sister hinted at wanting to know what my prescriptions were for her classes.  I didn't tell her.  I knew she knew what Spiro is, as a diuretic, because it's on her whiteboard.  She might not be so aware of the off-label usage--yet.

The other day was a great day.  It was one of those days where you are full of energy and get a lot accomplished, feel really good about yourself, and treat yourself to something special (for me that would be a Filet O' Fish from McDonald's).  I was buzzing around the house, chipper as anything.  Across the room, my step-sister is studying.  Out of nowhere, her voice carries from the family room to the kitchen: "What diuretic do you take?"

I hesitated for half a second between the sink and the refrigerator.  It's hard to avoid a direct question.  But as I began to wonder how to squirm my way out of answering, I realized I was not terribly bothered.  And so, barely missing a beat, I called back, "Spironolactone."

"I know that one!" she exclaimed with triumph.

"I know you know," I laughed.  "I've seen it on your w--"

"--Whiteboard, yeah."

I came back to the family room and we sat in companionable silence.  I wasn't troubled at all.

I have to wonder, really, if the step-family hasn't noticed after all.  I do walk around with a days' worth of stubble now and then, and although I figured safe to assume most people are not all that observant (I know I'm not), perhaps it's not something worth betting on.  When I was taking one of my days off shaving and was wandering around the house in my pajamas, my step-dad warned me one of his friends was over and had just stepped out to get something from his car.  I wasn't wearing immodest pajamas (I'm a big fan of flannel, and it's gotten quite cold here) so I did wonder for a split second if he meant something else.

Maybe I'll never know.  But eventually, they'll probably figure it out if they haven't done so already.  Maybe by then, I'll be totally okay with it.  And so I'm not going to rush it.  But I sure am not hiding it like I used to.

Outed by a Curriculum?

Readers who have been around for a while may remember that I came to live in a blended family in my very late teens.  By then, I was reaching my peak of hirsute awesomeness, and not about to let these virtual strangers in on my secret.  I didn't know if I could trust them, and thank goodness, because one of them could certainly not be trusted.  After she moved out, however, there was still some concern about what would happen if I let people in on this oh-so-embarrassing part of me.

And it hasn't been easy to hide it.  The odd places I keep razors outside of the shower, the plethora of shaving mediums under the sink, the doctors visits, the very obvious prescription refill runs...  Maybe that only seems obvious to those of us who know what the clues add up to, but I still worry and keep things to myself.

My step-sister started her accelerated course in pharmacy tech, and the stuff she tells me she's learning is so fascinating.  There's a lot of memorization, and she's working hard using many different techniques to make all the drug names stick in her head.  The other day,  I walked past the whiteboard she's using, and my eyes were drawn to something written there.  The very familiar word "spironolactone."  I am so used to seeing that word now that I almost didn't stop to think about it.

But I glanced up and down the whiteboard, trying to get the context around this unprecedented appearance of my magic-pill-for-hairiness.  She was listing diuretics.  Of course.  The on-label use for the medication.  Not likely she'd be studying the non-FDA-approved uses just yet... right?

Also of interest was last, when the two of us were chatting with some friends, and everyone was coming up with humorous ways to help her study.  And she gestured at me and said, completely casually, "Maybe it'd help if she told me what medications she was taking..."

Over the years, I've worried less and less about what my cohabitants know about me.  But I'm so used to hiding it I do it now by reflex.  I'm still scared of what might happen if they know.  But that's another entry.  For now, I just thought it was pretty comical that she might clue in through such a totally independent means.

Now, I know I've got some comments and emails and notifications waiting for me, but I'm trying to stave off a migraine so I'll have to get to those later.  Thanks for your patience!

What's Happening to My Beard?

I've come down with a flu (again!) so I haven't been at work.  In fact, I haven't been out at all, except into the yard to soak up a little sunshine and supervise the dog as he explores.  So that means that I haven't been shaving my face.

Well, I say I haven't been shaving, but what I mean is that usually around dinnertime when the family gets together, I'll quickly scrape in the direction of the hair growth with my razor.  This basically only "trims" my stubble, but it causes less stress on the skin.  You can still see the dark shadow, and if you came close enough you'd be able to see those pesky individual prickles.  However, it makes it a little less obvious than having one or two day's growth of beard.  I still haven't talked about my hirsutism with my step-family, and am still not really comfortable having that conversation.  Even if they have already figured it out, I'd still prefer to keep it out of sight and therefore out of their minds, lest it appears in their own conversations with others one day.  (I know I ought to get over this.  Getting people to talk about it would be a good thing.  Even if it's ignorant and judgmental speech, at least it would make people more aware that it's not something unique to a few Victorian-era unfortunates and Hollywood.)

Anyway, before my not-shave yesterday I was stretching my skin and looking for any ingrown hairs, which I'll usually nip in the bud by plucking and then dotting on a bit of Polysporin.  And I turned my face to examine my left cheek and jaw, I thought I noticed something, and leaned in close to the mirror, nearly squashing my nose against the glass.  No, I wasn't going crazy, there really was less dark stubble there.  In fact, there was a spot about an inch to an inch-and-a-half across that had very few dark hairs at all.

When did that happen?  I ran my finger up my cheek, against the direction of the hair growth.  It still felt like the same amount of hair there, but very little of it was dark in that spot.  Had the coarse hairs just lost some of their pigment?  Was this a sign of things to come?  Now don't get excited, I thought, and turned to my right cheek and found everything was still the same as ever.  Am I going nuts?  Was the left side of my face always like that and I've forgotten?  Or are androgens affecting my face less and less?  I have read that the face is usually the last to be affected.

Maybe things are about to get better.  We can only wait and see.



And hey, I've seen a few people have already seen and voted on the 4th Anniversary poll.  Thank you!  I'm really going to be taking to heart your opinions.

Problem? What Problem?

I'm willing to agree that being so consumed with hair removal techniques and ways to hide my hirsutism can be distracting from a more important thing. That thing is self acceptance. Self respect. Self like.

That's a thing that's hard enough for any person to develop, never mind a girl or woman who, through no fault of their own, grows a socially unacceptable amount of hair. When we are inundated by images of smooth and flawless "beauty," when people in general don't understand and accept the hair, how can we?

I don't know. I'm still learning as I go. I'm getting better. Six years ago when I moved in with my new step-family, I bleached or shaved every day. I hid my supplies in my room and took them with me to the bathroom every morning, then methodically put them back out of sight when I was done. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone getting the smallest inkling towards my secret. Now, my various shaving tools are all under the sink and I routinely have one day of the week where I don't shave at all at home, and go about in my stubbly glory. I still try to stay out of bright light and don't get to0 close to people, but I'm not as afraid as I used to be. Let them see and wonder. I'm still me.

I think maybe when we go around behaving as if we don't have a problem, most people won't even notice--or once dazzled by our true and radiant selves they'll forget the shadow, the stubble, the razor burn, the flash of a treasure trail. And anyway, really, do we have a problem? A problem is literally defined as: "any question or matter involving doubt, uncertainty, or difficulty" by Dictionary.com. If we remove the doubt and uncertainty within ourselves, will hirsutism really be a problem?

People come in all shapes and sizes. Most are not society's "ideal." I have met my share of people with disfiguring illnesses or scars--things that can't be disguised. They go about their business because they simply have no choice, and when their lives intersect with mine, even for a brief moment as I service them at my job, I see what they probably wish I couldn't see. But as I talk to them throughout the course of a transaction, their personality comes through. Cheesy, I know, but it's true. They may or may not be wondering if I'm looking, but when they're not worried and are just having good old gab with me, you can bet I'm not thinking about what I see.

Act like it's not a problem, and others probably won't see it as a problem. Act like that long enough and perhaps we'll actually end up feeling like it's not a problem. And then, when confronted by the mockery or rejection of a shallow, short-sighted bigot who is really not worth knowing, will their ignorance really bother us?

But how to get that point where we don't give a damn what others think, because we're content with ourselves? That's the challenge. Some of it comes with time, I've found. Even though I've been cowering in fear and protecting my secret, plucking and bleaching and trimming and shaving for years, I'm slowly hating that reflection less and less. I think it helps that once a week I address the Internet as a pointedly hairy woman and speak as frankly as I can about it.

Maybe for now, hiding the hair and trying medications to make life a little easier is what I need to do so that I have the confidence to go out into the world and gain as many experiences as I can. It's up to me. No one else's love or respect is truly going to make me like myself. It has to come from within. And the more I know and trust myself and feel proud of my accomplishments, the more content I will be--not as a bearded lady, but simply as me.

Almost-Slip

The other evening I was invited to a "Girl's Night" with the family. I've never really done such a thing before, so I was curious about what it would entail. I was definitely nervous, but I see some of my family so rarely that I'm willing to put up with most anything to see them. We had all been given hints that make-up would be involved, and I just prayed it would not include someone else getting up close and personal with my face. It seems like my skin has changed overnight, and the methods I've been using to make my concealer go on smoothly no longer work. I've been extra self conscious lately.

Most of the evening was filled with intentionally embarrassing but innocuous games. I think the worst thing I had to do was roll across the floor, which excited the puppy into trying to hump my head. When it came to the make-up, it was just a challenge to put on as much as possible in two minutes, without a mirror. I'd already been to work, so my usual make-up was already in place, and I was certainly concerned about having to wash it all off afterward. That was the plan, it turned out, followed by mud masks and foot soaks. Slight panic.

I pleaded sensitive skin--which is true, to a point. Fortunately, the games had run late, we were tired, and no one insisted. We put our feet into warm water smelling of grapefruit, and then someone asked what the problem was with my skin. Dang, I'd forgotten one of them used to be an Avon lady.

I want to blame this partially on fatigue--I've been painting my room and sleeping (or rather trying to sleep) on the couch, and it had been an exhausting week. Or perhaps it was the camaraderie that grows between women who have done numerous undignified things in front of one another. But the words: "Well, I have to shave my face every day" were right there on my lips, in danger of taking flight. I can't believe how close I come to blurting it out sometimes.

But I always draw back. The more I blog and get to know other amazing girls and women who face the same things I do, the less I think about it as a physical flaw to be ashamed of. In my head it's becoming more of a health condition, and goodness knows I was aware of everyone else's medical history in that room. Some of the ladies surrounding me that night have some real health challenges, debilitating and terminal. Why was I hiding this little thing away? It would be so nice to tell them, to educate them if their minds clicked over into the cultural norm of "Ew", and maybe make them feel even less alone to know that I have difficulties too. But I've gone so long without telling anyone. I wonder if secret-keeping is an addiction?

Anyway, I answered the question vaguely, complaining of dryness and flakiness and irritation, and latching on to childhood skin problems as a way to divert from the challenges I have now. The conversation took off from there, and in the end we didn't even do pedicures after the foot soak. We sat and talked and ate cake until it was so late I was literally falling asleep in my chair. I went home with my little secret in tact, but I have to admit I felt a little emptier for not sharing it. Is it that hard to trust people? Is it worth the risk to trust them?

Hiding with Hair and the Sucky Social Subtext

Just for this last little while, I've had so many days of work in a row that my chin is crying out for a break. Today is my only chance. I was so looking forward to it, and I made sure no one had plans that would oblige me to leave the house, and warned my mother that I would not be shaving so she would dissuade any last minute plans to go out as a family coming from other members of the house. We're actually not really big on going out to do things as a family, but it always seems to be my luck that when the urge strikes, I'm trying to give my skin a holiday from the razor.

My mother can be a really great advocate sometimes. And other times... well, not so much.

I remember once, she went out to visit my aunt for the morning, and things snowballed into an invite to have everybody over for dinner that night. Well, I hadn't shaved that day, and if I shaved that evening I would not have a very successful shave in the morning for work when I really needed it. I told my mother to pass on my regrets, but anyone who knows my aunt would know this would not be the end of it. Apparently the excuse given was, "She needs some time to herself." My mother didn't bother to defend me while my aunt later accused me (in a joking way that meant she was offering serious criticism) of being antisocial. I was a shy child, and as an adult I've been trying to reverse this impression she seems to have that I didn't like her when I was young. That attempt took a backward step that day.

But back to yesterday morning, I declared my intent to stay home and be beardy. My mother had been considering taking the long drive out to visit her dad, and everybody always goes together as this is a rare treat--but she agreed this wasn't the best time to do it. However that evening, she said she had changed her mind and everybody was going to go down the next day. I urgently tried to remind her that I had not planned on going, and she replied with a mother's classic: "You don't have to come," which translates into plain English as: "If you don't come you will be exposed to ridicule." I pretended not to see the subtext and will take what comes.

I admit a lot of my frustration tends to come from knowing I'm letting my hirsutism cut me off from my family. But at the same time, we have so much opportunity to do things as a family; why does it have to be this particular day, when it's already established that I won't want to go? It makes me feel antisocial, like I'm a bad granddaughter for choosing to be hairy and cloister myself.

That's one thing I don't like about summer. I am getting better at handling the smaller clothes that come with the warm weather, but the family also gears up to spend more time together, and the merits of planning ahead seem to melt away with the snow. Not too long ago it was put before me to go camping in conjunction with our bigger vacation--but the question came from my mother. In front of everybody. There was the obvious impediment that I wouldn't be able to get the extra time off work, but my mind flew to what I felt should have been obvious to her: that camping is uncomfortable for me, as hair removal is a lot less convenient, and it saps the joy out of the experience. I think I cranked out a flabbergasted "No...?" after which she openly disparaged me while the rest of the family listened.

Yes... Yes I know it is my choice to let hirsutism rule certain parts of my life, even after a decade. I know that I put the way I look on a higher priority than it should be. But I also know I'm not alone in this. Even people without such obvious limitations won't go out without make-up or if they don't have clothes they feel they look good in. And I also know a family should be able to accept someone's limitations, even self-imposed ones. This is why it's so hard to trust them with the truth. My own mother can't seem to remember them.

I mean, if you're cooking a meal for your family, you remember the kinds of foods they don't like or are allergic to. Is the beard on my face more subterranean than that?

That should be a good thing, right?

Right, rant done, I feel better. Today is another beautiful day. Man is my chin itchy...

The New Love of My Life

Once again I miss a week. This is becoming a very bad habit, I apologize.

But I hope this photo explains it!

I've wanted a dog for as long as I can remember, but have never lived in a place that allowed pets. Above and beyond the fact that a new puppy needs to be supervised all the time, I am so in love with this little guy that I can hardly bear to be away from him. I haven't read or written much at all since we got him.

What's interesting is that in the past week or so since he joined the family, there have been a few instances where I have allowed people from outside my trust zone to come near me while I haven't shaved.

As some of you may already know, in the interest of having a better shave when I must go out, I often skip a day and go stubbly if I have nowhere to be. When I do, I tend to stay away from certain members of the family, and absolutely never answer the door to visitors. I've had family visit on errands and have greeted them and introduced them to the puppy. I've even let them hug me. And when a neighbor wanted to bring her children over to see the puppy, I sat in the backyard with them in direct sunlight to supervise. These are all things I have never done before. With my mind on the puppy, it hasn't bothered me as much. I've still felt self conscious, but just... haven't cared. Because I have a tiny, dependent life to love.

I knew pets were good for your well being, but I didn't expect it to mellow me out quite like that.

Beautifully Imperfect

Not about hair, but...

...it's a poignant reminder about what's really important in a relationship. Yeah, I cried a little.

Acceptance Stipulation?

The other night, my family decided to have a little movie-watching time. We were sitting in front of the TV, waiting for one for two stragglers to join us, when my step-sister piped up, out of nowhere, that one of her workmates was getting laser hair removal.

"She has some dark hairs under here," she said, gesturing to her chin and neck.

The way she said it was as though she was proud to know someone undergoing the procedure. I was surprised and intrigued, because you may remember our last exchange regarding a woman with facial hair. My mother expressed her sympathy while I tried to puzzle that out.

Finally, I had to ask, "Has she had tests done to make sure she knows the cause?"

I went ignored, but I wasn't going to press it. I'm still not comfortable with everybody knowing why I have any sort of authority on that topic. But it made me wonder if the teenager who laughed at a hirsute stranger and called her ugly would in fact be magnanimous to other girls she knows once she finds out they're bearded.

Do people feel it is "okay" to be bearded only if you take pains to hide it?

Almost Forgot

Third week on spiro, and nothing much to report. My stomach is bothering me much less, which I think has more to do with emotionally adjusting to the idea of taking these pills than anything the pills might be doing to me. I'm still drinking a lot of water and taking many more potty breaks, but I'm fine with that. Anything that encourages me to drink more water can't be all bad.

The only time I don't appreciate the diuretic effects is in the morning, now that I'm taking the bus to work. No longer is it a twenty minute drive, but an hour-long journey in the cold with my nerves taut from the unfamiliar experience. Add diuretics on top of that and it is agony.

Another inconvenience to taking the bus is that my scarf chafes my chin, rubbing off all the carefully placed makeup and encouraging flaky skin. I have not the tools nor the lighting at work to fix this problem, and end up patting on more powder which hides the redness and shadow, but makes the flaking worse. And a scarf is not optional in weather that's thirty below in Celsius.

I've been so exhausted from both my new routine and the emotions revolving around it that I didn't even remember I had a blog until today, when my day off finally allowed my skin a rest. I was asked to come down to dinner with the family and couldn't. The difficult thing, besides missing out on "family time" such as it is in our house (not always much to be said for it, really, but it's still important) is that I'm trying to keep my hirsutism from becoming common knowledge in the house. It's vastly unappealing to sit directly under the light at the kitchen table in close proximity with people I either don't trust or simply feel uncomfortable telling.

Even if I warn my mother ahead of time that I haven't shaved and won't be going out anywhere or hanging around the family in well-lit parts of the house, she forgets. I guess once a person gets used to the idea of someone they know having a beard, the awareness fades from their mind. So she never expects me to refuse to come downstairs.

So she'll send someone else to tell me to come for dinner, and I have a hard time deciding how to say, "No thanks." So I acknowledge their announcement that dinner is ready, and then just... don't... go. And until I know they've figured out I'm not coming, I fidget in a puddle of anxiety and guilt. Are they all just sitting there waiting? How long before they get sick of the pattern? Do they think I just plain don't like them?

And then I remembered. There are people who know what it's like. Hello, people. It's just another one of those days.

Why I Hide It At Home

Yesterday evening after work, Allerleirah was talking to her family about a difficult customer...

Allerleirah's step-sister: "Did she have a beard?"

Allerleirah: "What? What does that have to do with it?"

Allerleirah's step-sister: (Completely jovial, as if this is a great joke.) "Once [a coworker] and I had a woman come in with a beard, and we did rock paper scissors to see who would deal with her. [Coworker] lost."

Allerleirah: "Why? Was she unpleasant?"

Allerleirah's step-sister: (Gleefully.) "No."

Allerleirah: (Trying to hide growing offense, not very skillfully.) "So what does that have to do with it?"

Allerleirah's step-sister: "She was just ugly!

Allerleirah: "Don't you think that's a little bit prejudiced? She can't help it--"

Allerleirah's step-sister: "That doesn't mean you have to let yourself go just because you're old! She could shave!"

Allerleirah: (Through clenched teeth.) "Maybe she's tired of shaving."

Allerleirah's step-sister: "She could wax!"

Allerleirah: "Maybe she was waiting for the hair to grow long enough for her to wax."

Allerleirah's step-sister: "No, she was definitely growing it out."



...Soon I gave up trying to argue. She obviously wasn't going to feel bad about it, and I was afraid it was becoming obvious this was personal to me, when to her it was just a laugh. I was tempted to whip the rug out from under her with the truth, but in the end decided it wasn't worth it. The unnerving thing is, since she moved back in with us I've come so close to coming down to family dinners when I haven't shaved. I've been tired of hiding just because my skin needs a break. I was forgetting the very strong feelings I've always had that letting her know this thing about me will come back to bite me in the rear.

I simply don't trust her with it, and not just because she thinks a bearded lady is a good butt for a joke. That's pretty normal, pretty human. But the horrifying conversation was a piercing reminder of the shallowness and immaturity that make it so hard for people to accept what exists outside their comfort zone... and so hard for girls with hirsutism to be comfortable with themselves.

Maybe she thought bearded women are so rare that it's safe to mock them from a distance. They'll never touch her life. One day she's in for a surprise.

But for now, in my own home, I'll keep hiding it.

Don't make me say it.

Allerleirah: "I think I'm going to start walking in the mornings. I'm tired of feeling like crap when I wake up."

Allerleirah's mother: "Oh, do you want some company?"

Allerleirah: "On the treadmill?"

Allerleirah's mother: (After some laughter) "...I thought we could walk outside."

Allerleirah: "I don't want to walk outside. I'd have to shave and I'd rather do that after I shower."

Allerleirah's mother: (Scrunching up her face) "I don't shave when I walk outside."

Allerleirah: (Always loathe to say "beard" out loud) "I don't. Want. To walk outside."

Allerleirah's mother: (Sighs like a kicked puppy)


Ugh. I guess I should feel glad that people who are familiar with me tend to forget my... limitations.

Camping Fears

I'm delaying my conclusions about mineral oil as a shaving medium. I just want to see how it goes for another week. Some days I think it's better than shaving foam, some days I think it's worse. I can't make myself decide.

Here's a wonderful current struggle of this particular bearded lady. I spent Sunday with some extended family. I used to camp a lot with my uncle and cousins in my younger years, and now they've got a boat so they have been making the most of their summer. They want to include me in their plans. Sun, lake, forest... water sports, tents, campfires... highway fruit stands, coffee to stave off chilly mornings, unbelievably starry nights. I love camping.

So it feels so wrong to shy away from it because of a lack of facilities. It's just not me to be all, "Eww, no showers?" Were I not worried about body hair on the trip I'd be sleeping in at my leisure, then downing some coffee and running with the kids right down to the lake. But instead, even if we managed to book a campground with shower facilities, before doing anything else I'd have to run to a dark, rickety shack infested with spiders, enduring the mockery of family who thinks I'm just being prissy and fastidious, shave blindly and hurriedly without mirrors in a cold, piddling stream while others wait impatiently for their turn, and know that the next morning I'd have to do it all again. In addition, with the warm weather reducing clothing and lake water eroding any make-up, I'd be unable to hide how my skin loathes "roughing it."

But try finding a way to handle being asked if I would go camping this year. Repeatedly, every five minutes. In front of everyone. The first couple of times, I had a good joke to distract from the question--make it sound like I wasn't really turning it down, but discouraging the question from being asked again. After a while, though, it began to pain me to have all eyes turn to me and have no witty retorts to divert the tension. I mean, I couldn't just say "no" after others had said "yes," and have people think I'm a killjoy. Nor could I keep insisting I don't like the shower facilities--I'd never hear the end of that one. They were already picking up on the spiders and running with that one. By the way, arachnophobia is nothing to joke about--and I'm not nearly as bad as some.

It's frustrating to think such a harmless, physical thing prevents me from doing what I want, but I also have to realistic. It won't be a very enjoyable holiday if I worry so much about how well I'm hiding things, or know that people are waiting impatiently for me while I try to bring myself to some semblance of normalcy. I can resolve to adopt a different attitude about it, and pretend it doesn't bother me as much. But it's hard to control your feelings when you're holed up in a dingy shower stall, waiting for spiders to drop on you and feeling your way across your face with desperate sudsy fingers and a razor. Just like you can't rely on others to accept something that's important to you without judging you for it. I know if I wasn't given a hard time about wanting to shower every morning before breakfast--if people just shrugged it off and let it be--that type of holiday would be much more appealing.

But they couldn't even tell when to stop bugging me on Sunday, even when I gave them a long, pained look as I tried to think of something to say to divert the conversation. It sucks to be unable to trust your own relatives not to see the line between teasing and bullying. How could I trust them with the real issue?