Childhood (Hair) Trauma
The almighty trans confusion version
CW: Misgendering, bullying, narcissism.
I’ve been bullied my entire life — by my own family and friends!
If I could have everything Testosterone brings, but leave the hair, I’d be a happy little trans-masc non-binary vegemite. But alas, as all of those considering that monumental moment of medical intervention to finally feel, ‘normal’ (whatever the hell that means), have heard a million times and those on T can attest to, you can’t pick and choose your body’s response!
But it begs the question:
Why the hell am I so averse to hair?
Body hair and facial hair. Many, MANY, trans masc folx (not all!) crave the facial hair while here I am on the knife's edge between hating it and not knowing why.
Why?
Apparently, there was a thing with a beard that I don’t even remember. I was ‘told’ by my covert narcissist mother (I mention this because I’d like to pre-empt this with the understanding that I have no idea if anything she has ever spoken was true or not) that when I was a toddler, my grandfather picked me up and scratched me with his whiskery face and after that, I hated men with beards. I mean, sounds kind of weak to me. But…
I remember hating Santa.
Poor Santa — he never did anything to me other than have a beard (was that it?) but that was enough to make me scream at the idea of having to get a photo with him. At least, that’s what the mother said… see the problem here? Now, let’s for a minute ignore the whole creepy aspect of parents telling their kids to go sit on the stranger's lap. Go accept gifts from said stranger. But, you know, don’t talk to strangers or accept gifts from them. What the hell? But yeah, we’re ignoring that. Every Christmas photo from my childhood had my older sister snuggling up to Santa and me sitting as far away as the photographer would allow. The last Christmas I saw the mother, I took a photo, ON Santa’s lap, for her. Because she always complained she never had a photo of me on Santa’s lap. So much to unpack here! But again, let’s ignore all the levels of… everything. Gees!
Moving on…
I remember the first time I shaved my legs, because it was traumatic and I didn’t want to do it.
So why did I? To avoid teasing from my own friend group! I didn’t know how to do it. Who was I going to ask? Especially because it felt like a secret, like, I was doing something wrong, because I didn’t WANT to do it. Of course, this makes a little more sense post-egg-crack, but at thirteen, I just didn’t want yet another reason to be bullied. But, in not knowing how (and hey, we didn’t have the internet back then so I couldn’t just google a cute little video), I cut myself behind both knees. Then, I was laughed at about that, by the same damn people. Yeah, fuck you, Rhonda and Andrew!
The last time I shave my legs was about a month before my egg cracked. With eight and a half months of T, my legs are hairy AF and strangely, that is hair I don’t mind at all! BUT… I haven’t had my legs on display for anyone else to see. Interesting that.
Moving on…
…my worth only existed in the eyes of others.
I ‘had to’ bleach my upper lip from so young I don’t remember starting.
Had to? Yes, because the mother said I had to because the hair on my lip was too dark and not very feminine… or some shit. Basically, she instilled in me the fear that it would be something else I would be bullied for because my worth only existed in the eyes of others.
Later, I turned to wax. That bitch hurts!
Moving on…
I ‘had to’ pluck my eyebrows.
Again, had to? This is why:
Sister (to me): Why did you pluck your eyebrows? Mother: Oh, ‘she’ (misgender) had to. You remember what they were like. Sister: Right, ‘she’ (misgender) did have wolf brows.
And now, I have NO damn brows. Cheers fam! Now, I apply temporary tattoo liquid and fill it in with a brow pencil all while HOPING the T sends any hair growth there. Just there. Please! But no. At least, not yet. Everywhere butt. And yes, I do mean butt.
Are you seeing a theme here though? Because I am.
I’ve been bullied my entire life — by my own family and friends!
Is it any real wonder that I didn’t even know I was in the damn closet? A gay trans-masc enby stuck playing straight cis-girl because they didn’t know there was a choice. Because no one told them there was a choice — the choice to be themself. And worse, everyone told them how they needed to act, behave, present, speak, interact, think. They were taught their value was in the opinions of others rather than in their own desires and needs.
I was taught that I existed for the gaze of others.
I was taught, that hair was bad. Unless it was long flowing locks, hair on a girl was wrong. It should be bleached, plucked, shaved, removed. But hair on a man equaled pain. Did I really develop a dislike of facial hair because my grandfather, the one man in my life who I adored and was a true male role model, scratched me with his stubble? That seems weak. I think it’s more likely that my dislike of hair was never real.
What if, it was gaslighting?
Was I gaslit into hating facial hair and body hair? I still have a lot to unpack about this, but right now, something about that thought is ringing true. Guess I’ll save the next steps for my therapist!