I can wiggle my ears, flare my nostrils, curl my tongue, and raise an eyebrow. Oh, and I can also grow a beard.
Why is this beard newsworthy, you might wonder? Well, I’m not exactly a dude.
It’s rather unfair, really. Somewhere out there is a teenage boy who would do anything for facial hair, while here I am, an unwillingly bearded lady, sporting more stubble than he could ever hope for.
I’d say my she-beard was a surprise, but “surprise” usually implies something pleasant, like an unexpected gift—definitely not the case here. I certainly didn’t see it coming, considering I’m a woman and not particularly hairy by nature. My fuzz level was standard: just a little in the usual places, no furry shoulders or luxurious toe-hair. I’ve never even had a mustache (though I do keep my upper lip waxed, just in case it decides to join the facial hair revolution like my chin did). But once I got pregnant with my first child, my blissful hairlessness took a prickly turn thanks to raging hormones (more like hair-mones, right?).
My new goatee went unnoticed until my third trimester. This suggests one of two things: 1) It appeared suddenly, like an overnight beard explosion, or 2) I walked around for an indeterminate period blissfully unaware that I was cultivating a patch of facial fuzz. Either way, once I felt that stubble under my fingers for the first time, my dismay was instant. And to top it off, the beard has only grown more robust with each subsequent pregnancy. I have four kids—see the problem?
Nothing hits my vanity harder than sporting a feature usually reserved for the opposite sex. What’s attractive on one gender is often not so desirable on the other (two words: man boobs). No artist has ever painted a portrait of a woman and thought, “She could use a beard.” So, to preserve my dwindling femininity, I struggle daily to keep my manly chin-forest in check.
I’ve tried all sorts of painful methods: waxing, shaving, plucking, and using depilatory creams so pungent they could make my neighbors tear up. Electrolysis is tempting, but it’s pricey, and with my beard comes a slew of expensive children who need school shoes and nutritious meals more than I need permanent hair removal.
I need to stay on top of this issue—leave my razor out of my hands for a few days, and my chin starts resembling an armpit and feeling like coarse-grit sandpaper, neither of which are sexy. I often fear I’ll end up in a coma one day, not for the usual reasons people worry about, but because I’m convinced no one will tend to my chin while I’m incapacitated. Imagine being in a coma—with a beard. Nightmares upon nightmares!
Wouldn’t it be nice if beards became fashionable for women, much like they have for hipster men and lumberjacks? I mean, it worked for Abraham Lincoln and ZZ Top. Women have done daring things like shaving their heads, and Brooke Shields’s bushy eyebrows had a cult following. Is sprouting a she-beard really that different? I dream of a day when I can confidently step out with a beard sculpted into some sort of shape or maybe bedazzled with Swarovski crystals—at the peak of fashion. Or I could grow it long enough to merge with my head-hair into a Pinterest-worthy updo, like a hair bonnet.
More likely, though, I’ll continue my battle until I pass away or stop caring—whichever comes first. At least since it’s clearly a byproduct of motherhood, I can add it to my arsenal of guilt trips. I almost look forward to the day one of my sons feels embarrassed to kiss me goodbye so I can shout after him, “Fine, but just remember…I grew a beard because of you!”
You’ve got to find the silver linings, right?
For more on navigating parenthood, don’t forget to check out the terms and conditions of this blog post. And if you’re interested in more about the journey of home insemination, visit Make a Mom, a fantastic authority on the topic. You can also find valuable resources about pregnancy and home insemination at News Medical.
Summary: This humorous take on unexpected changes during pregnancy explores the author’s surprise at growing facial hair, dubbed a “she-beard,” due to hormonal changes. With a blend of wit and candidness, the author reflects on the challenges of managing this unwanted feature while embracing the joys of motherhood. Ultimately, she finds humor in the situation and plans to use it as a playful guilt trip for her kids.