Would you believe...

...that with all the hair on my body, my eyebrows require very little maintenance, and I have been told are very nicely shaped?

Yeah.

Real update soon, I promise. It's just been a tremendously busy week.

Persistent Awareness

It was a tough day at work and I feel like I'm coming down with something, so I'm not going to talk about what I'd been planning to talk about (which was something more in-depth).

You know you’re hirsute when someone passes you a really strong drink or a really spicy food with the perfectly innocent phrase, “That’ll put hair on your chest,” and you wonder how hard you should laugh to overcompensate for the fact that you really don't find it funny, or whether you want to discourage the use of the joke.

In my case, I always wonder if it would be comical to say: “Well, actually...”

It's supposed to be humorous. To have hair on your chest means you're robust, healthy, virile, and mature. But said in the company of the secretly hirsute woman, it becomes secretly a little offensive. Irrational, maybe, but it pricks me a little each time I hear it, reminding me that I react differently to it because I'm different. It's not about the joke. It's how I feel about the joke.

I've been thinking about that little innocent phrase recently. “That’ll put hair on your chest” is often spoken in the circles I wander. I have some very cliche acquaintances, I guess.

Last week I was standing in line at a fast food place with some members of my family, and one of them chuckled and pointed at my brown lace sweetheart neckline.

I immediately thought, Oh crap, did I miss one?

“You’ve got a thread,” he said. “Looks like a chest hair. Right in your cleavage.” More chuckling.

It was a thread from the seam of the lace, poking right up in the middle of my chest. Relieved, I tucked it down, laughing myself. “Thought I’d got all those.”

It’s an almost constant awareness, and when you manage to forget, someone or something helps remind you--often in ways much more subtle than what I've just mentioned. I’d love to be able to describe it to relatively un-furry gals out there so that maybe they can understand, and feel fortunate. But it’s so easy for the few people who know me this well to forget my limitations, as well. I still get criticized for being unable to get up and go right from the bed to clothes to door.

Picking chest hair as an example, imagine having to plan your wardrobe around whether or not you can wear any of your open-collared shirts that day. I can only shave there once every few days or I risk irritation that takes weeks to go away. If there’s a special occasion and the special outfit I want to wear has anything lower than a crewneck, I have to make sure my skin has had enough of a break to ensure the most flattering results. On holidays I need to pack for the hope that I’ll be able to wear cheery open tank tops and fun pendants--but also pack for the assumption that the entire time will really be a battle against a rash of in-grown hair further aggravated by sunburn.

It sucks to live this way. Hiding. But we do it. It’s a kind of maintenance a lot of women can’t imagine having to worry about, and you know what? It takes strength. It could be said I'm one of the lazier ones, and it still takes a lot out of me. It takes strength to carry that with you every day. You should be proud of your ingenuity and tenacity.

As well as your robustness and virility, too.

Hesitate.

I wonder if anyone finds my posts too long? I really like to type.

One of the things that made me really want to start a blog like this was hunting for resources on the internet to explain, support, give me hope for the issues I'm facing, and seeing the hurtfulness of ignorance playing out before my eyes.

Say, for instance, a beauty site posts a little article on excess body hair and plugs some methods of hair removal. Often you'll see a barrage of thankful posts from girls and women who live with the condition, just to have their troubles acknowledged. To have an opportunity to lay out on the table: "I have that, too." To simply have the existence of women with beards accepted, published, put out there for all to see. It was an amazing relief for me just to know I wasn't alone.

But then you see a response from somebody saying, "Ewww, are there really people like that?"

Ah, the Internet. Home for everyone's opinions. Isn't it wonderful?

I remember when I was conducting a search for similar blogs like the one I was considering starting, to see if there was really any niche that needed to be filled, I would follow lots of links that mentioned bearded ladies or some version thereof and be disappointed. But none so much as someone's blog entry about discovering a stash of shaving cream in an older family member's bathroom and upon finding out that it was for her face, joking that it might be time to put her in a home.

I just hope my fellow hirsute ladies have some resiliency and forgiveness, and the strength to believe these reactions come out of people as easily as flatulence (and look just as complimentary to the person to dealt it).

There's no crime in being ignorant, insofar as not being aware of something. The issue becomes when someone acts on that ignorance and the results are harmful. Not knowing is no excuse for being unkind. That kind of automatic closed mindedness, the immediate revulsion of the very idea that a lady has a beard, has got to be one of the biggest fears for a lot of us.

I don't think I could propose the world to "stop." Judgment and categorization based on physical appearance is so innately ingrained in us. I admit, I'd love it if this blog warmed someone up to the idea of us slightly more furry folk being just as human as the rest of the world. But I know how strong the instinct is to judge.

So what if we all started with something smaller? Like thinking before we speak or hit "post?"

Looking Forward

I hope the laser hair removal entries helped some readers. I know from experience the amount of curiosity surrounding the procedure. If anyone has any questions that weren't answered in those two posts, don't be shy. I will do my best to answer them. But just because I suffered through it doesn't make me the expert. I'm in the same boat with you all. ;-)

I apologize for not updating last week. I've started to become fashionably morose on my birthday. You know how it is on sit coms, when a woman moons over all the things she hasn't attained yet--wedding, babies, etc. Should a girl be doing that at 23? Please!

I had such a rough time last year, turning 22 and hating the way I looked. I was experimenting with astringent skin products at the time, thinking that if zits became one less thing I had to worry about, I'd be so much happier. The products were drying me out and making my sensitive complexion even worse. I actually broke down in a restaurant after a day out shopping because I felt so miserable about my appearance. I thought, "Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?" The situation has been better since I've figured out a few things that my skin likes (see this entry for products I currently won't do without), but still, the age of 23 rolls around and I'm as bearded as I ever was.

Of course it makes me think I can't get a date, let alone a wedding, even though I know that's not entirely true. For the most part, I'm far too particular, and far too stand-offish in first impressions. Those are things that have nothing to do with hirsutism, but added all together, I get to thinking with cloying self pity how much of a romantic pariah I am. And don't even get me started on children. What if my hirsutism is hereditary? Could I risk imparting that to my children and have them go through these fluctuating times of hope and shame?

It even influences travel, which is something else I really enjoy. I have a hard time camping in its truest sense. ("What do you mean there are no showers?!") I feel limited about any place where I might need to wear shorts or swim suits. And the change in lighting in a hotel bathroom, or the fact that the sink and mirror may be out in the open where whoever I'm rooming with can witness my required ablutions, are also factors.

So I need to seriously pep talk myself into a better state of mind. This physical detail does not bodily prevent me from these things I feel like I'm missing. It's the way I feel about it that prevents me. I need to either be okay with that, or find a way to control that.

So I haven't had a proper date in five years? A lot of that is because I'm picky about personalities, or have been too busy with post secondary education, or because I've never been the kind of person to risk embarrassment my sharing my feelings first. If the dry flaky skin or outbreaks from shaving repel a guy, I should be thankful. He's not someone I would have found lasting happiness with anyway.

I also try to think about all the things I've done, to remind me that there's even more to be done out there. I've galloped on a beach and swam with dolphins. I've made it through modeling and dance auditions (I know, I was surprised, too!) I've written first drafts of novels and earned a bachelor's degree. I've rode some of the biggest roller coasters in Texas and been to famous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and Chichen Itza. I can't help but smile to think about the things that have thrilled me over the relatively short time I've been alive. The beard is a large part of me, but it's not everything about me. I should be grateful, not disappointed. I should be optimistic, not defeated.

And there it is, a nutshell version of what I've been telling myself this past week. Because as soon as my inner dialogue circles around the thought, "Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?"--fearing showing my skin, battling every day to get the closest shave I can and then get foundation to lay smoothly over it, feeling terrified when talking to a handsome man, making vacation plans around the plumbing arrangements--I need to smack myself.

Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? For goodness sakes, I'm lucky!

'Fire the "laser!"'

This is a continuation of the post: 'Begin "laser" ignition sequence!'

I went to the laser clinic once every 4-6 weeks, in order catch some hair in its growth cycle. Those are the follicles we aim to damage when we get laser hair removal--the active ones. I went the first time without any local anesthetic for two reasons: one, I didn’t know what it would feel like, and two, I didn’t want to walk into the office with saran wrap stretched over white cream on my chin, as I had seen some women do. I preferred the average person to have little or no clue why I was there until I went into that particular door.

I lay on a beige chair rather like a dentist’s chair, which the technician (who had also been my consultant) reclined most of the way back. She took off my glasses (and commented every time how she would like to steal them), disinfected my jaw line, and squirted cold gel onto my skin. It came from a plastic bottle resembling a diner ketchup bottle, and because I couldn’t see what she was doing, the slurping sound and sudden chill of the gel always startled me. The laughing afterward helped to break the ice.

Then she started up the laser with a gentle humming sound, and distributed eye protection to everyone in the room. My mother often sat in with me, possibly out of curiosity as well as moral support. She and the technician got to wear orange lab goggles. The protection I had to wear as a laser-ee was the much less stylish tanning booth kind that basically blocked the world right out.

The laser was about one or two centimeters in diameter, and she held a plastic gun-like apparatus to my face before she zapped. Sitting in the dark, I could always prepare myself that way. An elastic snap is a good way to measure the pain--it certainly wasn’t any more intense than that. But for myself, it felt less like a snap against the area and more like a one or two centimeter square of needles poking my skin for a fraction of a second. I could feel the heat flow down each hair shaft into the follicle. Some areas were less painful than others. I found the point of the chin, where the hairs were coarsest, caused a more vivid sensation. Some hairs under the jaw made a close second. As soon as I would jump in surprise at the feeling, it was gone. She would always ask if I was all right before continuing. I always was.

Though it did hurt, I was very gung-ho. I liked feeling each of the offending little follicles burning. Sometimes, you could smell it.

When it was done, she took away the goggles and wiped the rest of the gel off my face. She spritzed it with something light and cool that smelled like lavender, and my skin which was beginning to feel like I’d been out in the sun, was relieved. The last thing she spread on was a light SPF 45 cream, and handed me my glasses and an ice pack.

I thanked her, said the procedure wasn’t bad, but that I would like to use the anesthetic cream from now on. She gave me a small tube and explained how to use it, we made our next appointment, and I was on my way. Though a little singed, I felt excited about this path I had embarked upon. That very day the family--the family who doesn’t know about my facial hair--was going up to a resort for the weekend. No sooner did I come home than we were in the van and on our way. There was still growth worth shaving on my face the next day, but that was normal. The follicles, the technician explained, were shedding, and then a new cycle of hair would begin in dormant follicles. I slathered some SPF 45 on after my shave, and some foundation over that, and I went on as normal. The skin was red and irritated, but not much worse than a shave could do.

The next time I went back to the clinic, I was prepared. I unfortunately have forgotten the name of the topical anesthetic I was given first. It was the kind that has to be applied with plastic over top and left to sit for half an hour. I was advised that I could wash it off before I set out for my appointment, so that is what I did. After I had used up that tube, though (in about two appointments I might add) I was given something new called Maxilene 5, which contains lidocaine and is used for things like burns, insect bites, and hemorrhoid relief. It was much less of an inconvenience to apply, because although it had to sit for just as long, I didn’t have to keep plastic over it which made a huge difference. I found myself thoroughly entertained by the effects of the anesthetic. I could still feel pressure, like fingers on the skin, but I could not feel temperatures or textures. It was fascinating--but as a word of caution, don’t get it near your mouth. Lips lose their feeling very easily, and it can be very unnerving.

Did it work? Well, it certainly improved the situation. I would wash it off before getting in the car so the feeling in my skin was returning by the time I got into the chair. I was still gritting my teeth by the end of each session, but it was a big help.

I began to look forward to my appointments. The technician was lovely, and I was glad to be doing something about my hirsutism. I wasn’t seeing any difference overall, but then, these were always new hair cycles starting that hadn’t been affected by the laser yet. Every now and then, a treated follicle would give up and release the entire hair and it would come out on my washcloth. That was a thrilling event in my day.

When I came to my sixth session, however, she was going over my skin before applying the cooling gel and said, “Huh. You’re not noticing a difference at all?”

I told her no, and she went very quiet for a moment. “By now, you should be. Did your GP get you to take a blood test before referring you here? You know, to check for hormonal abnormalities and such?”

“No,” I said darkly. (I must segue to add that this was the third time my GP had jumped to a conclusion without making any more investigation than a few pokes and a flurry of questions. That’s why I am currently and voluntarily without a GP.)

My wonderful but now slightly flummoxed technician said she would be sending the order for a blood test to my local lab, and in the mean time, this final session was on the house. She said I could call back in about three weeks for the results, and we would go from there.

After the session, I stared out the car window on the way home, realizing for the first time that it was very likely this had all been for nothing. That was the time my mother asked me, “Would you rather have this--or would you rather be fat?” Anything but this, I thought. Anything but a bearded freak--especially one who doesn’t know why she’s bearded.

I took the blood test as soon as I could, and called back in three weeks. My technician wasn’t there, but the woman who answered the phone was very confused about my request for my results, and said I should probably calling the dermatologist who referred me. I thought that was odd, because I had very little to do with that dermatologist since starting treatment. But I called his office, and the lady who answered that phone was just as baffled. She said the doctor was on vacation and she had no record of it here, but I should probably call whoever had ordered the test in the first place. Disheartened and more than a little annoyed, I can’t recall if I ever contacted anyone after that.

But then, after about four weeks, something curious happened. I took my washcloth away from my face and noticed several full hairs lying there, root and all. I scrubbed again. More came away. I peered into the mirror. Could it be there were less hairs than usual? I almost cried.

Gradually, the damaged follicles released their hairs and no new ones grew in. I still had the odd dark vellous strand, but the terminal ones had disappeared completely. That summer, I didn’t shave once, and rarely plucked. I went on a houseboat trip with my family and could wake up in the morning and climb right onto the top deck without having to worry about my face. I had three wonderful, carefree months, as far as my face was concerned.

Then fall came, and I began to have to pluck more. It was identical to my first onset of hirsutism. When I was spending far too long each morning plucking, I moved on to bleaching. And when bleaching became too much of a chore, and was turning the terminal hairs golden instead of blond, I went back to shaving. And here I am, nearly four years later, in the same boat I was when I started.

See, the thing is, I don’t know why this happened to me. I haven’t had the heart to break down doors to find out what happened to this rogue blood test. I can’t say that it’s not worth it either, because I had three months of freedom from all tweezers and blades, so something there was working for a while. The results have been even better for some, I’ve read. It is absolutely worth a try.

Would I do it again? Yes. If I had the money to spare and knew it might only give me a quarter of a year of hairlessness, you bet I would. In a twisted way, it was enjoyable to be doing something about the way I felt about myself.