Friday, June 26, 2009

Take a look at this face. (The hardest one I've written to date.)

Ignore the prime real estate up top, the disproportionately sized nose, the crazy left eye that’s always larger than its counterpart, my ridiculously pale complexion (you'd think I was dead or something), and the pointy chin.

Notice anything different?

Okay, I’ll tell you. My face… is HAIRLESS.

This is not an easy thing for me to talk about. For ten years (TEN!) I've gone through great pains to keep this problem hidden. But, in the last week, I've started noticing the improvement I was afraid I might never see. Not because I didn’t think the treatments would work, but because I was warned at my first appointment that even though I was a “good candidate,” the cause could be hormonal and something that wouldn't be affected by laser hair removal.

I know what you’re thinking. That’s it? Laser hair removal? THAT WAS THE BIG SECRET?

And to that I say, YOU SO DON’T UNDERSTAND.

This was not a few random stray hairs that some women complain about. This was thick, dark mutant hair that grew across my lip, chin, and randomly across my cheeks and down my neck. And the monsters would grow back nearly as fast as I could destroy them.

I spent a solid forty minutes each morning plucking and trimming, too afraid to ever try shaving (God forbid it make the situation worse) and too nervous and embarrassed to try waxing.

Forty minutes. Do you know how much time that is? Do you know how much time I've wasted on this over the last ten years?! (And, in case you're interested, that's 2,433 hours or 101 WHOLE DAYS lost forever.)

I’ve wanted to get laser hair removal for as long as I can remember. But, again, I'm a procrastinator. An excuse-maker. A fucking lazy-ass. What finally lit the fire? Several weeks ago, I had this thought. What if I’m in a car accident? What if I’m hospitalized for days or weeks or months? What if I’m in a coma and I wake up to find I’ve grown a full BEARD?!

I’d be horrified. I’d have to move to a new state. No, a new COUNTRY. Because even though I knew I wasn‘t fooling anyone, I’d convinced myself that I kept said problem a secret. I’d leave the house each day and tell myself it wasn’t THAT BAD, no one could really tell, no one was really looking close enough.

No, I wasn’t hiding it. Most people are just too polite to say anything. It’s only children that feel totally comfortable saying, “Hey, you have a moustache!” Because kids don’t hear that painfully embarrassed screaming inside your head. They can’t sense your desperation to bury your head, no, your ENTIRE BEING, in the ground you stand upon.


My aesthetician is a wonderful women named Suzanne. She is sweet and kind and reassuring and when my eyes began to water during the last treatment, she thought I was crying and almost cried herself. I love her and may have to name my first born after her. Boy or girl. I’m not even kidding.

At my first appointment, she told me I’d have to stop tweezing and start shaving. Because hair grows in cycles. And the follicle has to be actively growing hair in order for the laser to work. Hearing her say this nearly sent me into a panic attack. I didn’t want to shave. I was horrified that I’d walk around with a five o’clock shadow on my face. Damn it, I’M NOT A MAN.

Turns out, it really wasn’t that bad (oh, except for the humiliated and feeling very unfeminine part). At least, it wasn’t that bad after the first few awkward days, during which you could have heard me curse and mutter “this so isn’t fair” quite often.

The treatments themselves are painful. The laser feels like hot rubber bands slapping against your skin. Thankfully, it only lasts a few minutes. I have three more treatments to go, if necessary. And I've seen such amazing results since the last treatment that I wouldn't be surprised if I only needed one more.

Three treatments to finally rid myself of this agonizing problem. That's a total of forty-five minutes. Spending forty-five minutes in painful laser hair removal over the course of three months has freed me from spending forty minutes EVERY DAY plucking hair OUT OF MY FACE.

I have felt such an abundance of relief over the last few days, it's almost overwhelming and difficult to describe. It's truly an amazing feeling knowing that I can wake up and face my husband each morning without worrying what I look like (well, except for my monstrous hair).

I can travel ANYWHERE and not worry about how I'll "get ready" each morning or how much time will be wasted while we could be out and about.

I don't have to worry about what someone might feel if they touch my face. (Not that I really want anyone touching my face, but damn it, THEY CAN IF THEY WANT TO. God knows I've spent quite a bit of time feeling it myself and reveling in it's new soft, smooth texture.)

I'll never again have to listen to The Husband nag me about how long it takes for me to get ready to go anywhere. Because now? It's only takes me FIVE FREAKING MINUTES. I'm not even exaggerating.

And I won't even have to worry about being in car accident. (Well... except for the obvious reasons.)

This... this is the most reassured and confident I have felt in a long, long time. Ten years, to be exact.

1 comment:

  1. You have pretty eyes. They look the color of amber.