I’ve been meaning to write this entry for a while, and I just never get around to it. It’s a little hard to write, and maybe that’s probably my problem. Or maybe I’m just lazy?
At any rate, I’ll start by saying that it’s kind of a running joke in my life, my absolute abhorence of shaving. In winter, when I can get away with long pants, I seldom shave my legs. I rarely wear skirts or dresses, so it doesn’t really matter. I hate shaving my armpits, too, and avoid it if possible. Now, to some, it may seem that I try not to shave as a way to give the finger to a society that has certain definitions of attractive. To be honest, that’s not the reason at all.
If you’ve been reading long, you remember that I have PCOS, or poly-cystic ovarian syndrome. I was diagnosed years and years and years ago. There are many awful symptoms and side-effects, but the one I despise the absolute most is hirsutism, or extreme hair growth.
This symptom manifested itself when I was starting junior high school. Puberty had really set in; I’d finally started getting my period, and I left my private school to go to a public junior high. It was 1986, and it was a hard time for me. I went from a small school with a few friends to a pretty big school with no friends. To make matters worse, I was nerdy, fat, and I’d started growing excess hair on my face.
I remember a few boys who sat near me in my homeroom class. They liked to tell me on an almost-daily basis that I needed to shave, and that I had more hair on my face than their brother in high school. It hurt so bad to hear that, but I knew that if I let them see me cry, it would egg them on even more. I just put on a brave face and told them that they were ignorant, and at least I could get the hair removed. They’d *always* be ignorant.
In 8th grade, a boy drew a beard and mustache on my yearbook photo. That hurt, too, but it hurt more that the principal wouldn’t do anything about it. It left me feeling like I was some sort of freakish toad who deserved that kind of treatment.
I used to use facial hair bleach to lighten the hair – it softened and lightened it so it wasn’t as noticeable, and I would trim what I could with small scissors, but the stuff smelled so bad and burned so much! My parents also convinced their insurance carrier to pay for electrolysis treatments while I was in jr. high and high school. I went 3 times a week, for 15 minute treatments. Talk about painful! I used to take my portable cassette player and turn it up really loud – I had three songs on one tape that lasted just about as long as my sessions, and I’m sure the woman performing my treatment sure got tired of listening to it. Fifteen minutes of little shocks being administered to my chin and cheeks – not my idea of a good time. Oh, the cream she used to use on me afterward to help cut down the redness and irritation was horrible! It was thick and a dark orangey-tan color, it didn’t match my skin tone (not that it would match *any* skin tone) and it stained everything it touched. I think I hated that cream even more than the treatment because it seemed to me that it was screaming HAY LOOKIE HERE AT ALL THIS HAIR! I wouldn’t go anywhere if I had that stuff still on.
There’s a spot near my earlobes, right on my jawline, that’s smooth and free of hair. I remember being in 8th grade rubbing that spot and wishing, wishing as hard as I could for the rest of my face to feel like that. I wanted so much to feel like a normal girl – well, as much of a normal girl as I could. My defense mechanism was humor; I had to laugh or I knew I would cry! I spent a lot of time crying as I got older and my friends started going out on dates, to prom…things I never did. I had a horrible self-image, and that just did not help matters. I knew, though, that people were judging me because of my physical looks. Some of it was paranoia, but some of it was indeed true – it’s hard to ignore when you hear people whispering about it, pointing and giggling.
It’s still hard to deal with. I tell people I won’t leave the house without showering because I hate having dirty hair (that’s true, to a degree – my hair is so long and it gets so stringy and greasy looking when it’s unwashed!); in reality, however, it’s because I don’t want to leave the house with stubble on my face.
The other afternoon, at my second visit with my new doctor, he told me that if I ever decide to find someone to help me get rid of my hair to just let him know. I was honestly over the moon! I’ve never had a doctor even mention it in years! OF COURSE I would love to do something about it. I would love to feel pretty and normal for just a little bit, and not like some circus side-show freak. Sure, I’m fortunate that Craig thinks it’s not a big deal and says (though not often enough *cough cough*) I’m beautiful to him, but the fact is that I don’t feel beautiful *to me*. I want to get dressed up and made up and not have to worry about growth as the day progresses. I want my kids to be able to put their hands on my face and not ask about my hair. I just want it all gone! But it’s not an option in my life right now. Insurance won’t pay for treatment because it’s usually considered cosmetic, and paying out of pocket just isn’t feasible. I’ve lived with it for years, so I’ll manage, oh but it would be so nice….
And that is why I hate shaving. I have to do it every day to parts of my body that I shouldn’t have to shave. I equate it with embarrassment and ridicule. I don’t want to have to do it anymore.
