Dear Facial Region,
It seems you’ve momentarily lost your sense of identity. Allow me to clarify: I am not a man, and I have no desire for facial hair, particularly not a beard or any of the random patches of hair you’ve decided to gift me. So, let’s put an end to this, shall we?
Perhaps you’ve always dreamed of transforming into a scalp, and this is your only shot at it. I understand that we all have aspirations. However, my aspirations do not include resembling Dr. Phil, Phil from “Duck Dynasty,” or any Phil, for that matter.
I was able to overlook the brow situation when they resembled a pair of inching caterpillars across my forehead. Once I found those handy tweezers in high school, I managed to achieve the sleek brows that were all the rage in the ’90s. I didn’t hold it against you, as I was secretly relieved that brow maintenance was the only task I had to tackle. Shaping my eyebrows into a perfect, slim line was challenging enough. The last thing I needed was an unwanted mustache. I wanted to catch the eye of teenage boys, not be known for my ability to grow facial hair.
But adulthood hit, and things got serious. The brow saga was child’s play compared to what was to come. Whether it was hormonal changes, some vendetta against me for having plucked half my brows, or just karma reminding me that I once smirked at those who struggled with facial hair, I was suddenly gifted a full beard. Not just a few stray hairs, but a thick carpet on my chin. One that, without diligent upkeep, could earn me some serious hipster street cred. It all began with a bit of stubble but, after four pregnancies, I can almost outgrow my husband’s beard. Someday, I might just embrace it—if only I reach that level of nonchalance. But today is not that day.
And let’s not forget the upper lip surprise. It wasn’t until I was carpooling with a friend who casually asked, “Do you ever wax your upper lip?” that I realized my face had a hidden agenda. Her innocent inquiry felt like a gracious yet mortifying hint that I couldn’t ignore. Fast forward to me adding lip waxing to my routine.
Let’s not even discuss the horror I encountered when I discovered several rogue black neck hairs. Seriously, face? Betrayed by my own body? This is getting out of hand.
I’m sure you’re exhausted from my constant plucking and waxing, so let’s agree to end this madness. The only hairs left are my eyelashes, and if they start acting up, they’ll be next. I’m fed up with hair sprouting anywhere that isn’t on my scalp or in those areas puberty sanctioned. So, consider this a gentle request: please cease the production of unwanted strands. Perhaps you could focus on wrinkling instead—at least that’s in your job description, even if I’m not thrilled about that either.
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In summary, the battle with unwanted facial hair is far from over, but I hope for a truce moving forward.