Aging | Beauty

Hand Me a Razor! I’m Starting to Look Like My Father

I’m growing a beard

It happened. I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and there he was, staring back at me. For women, it’s usually the mother at the worst possible age of her life wrinkling up the mirror. For me, it was Gigi — my hairy Italian Father.

When I saw him, I gasped and ran away. What the heck was he doing in my foggy mirror? Did I see correctly? Shouldn’t he be popping up in my brother’s mirrored medicine cabinet? Why were his whiskers on my face?

My scrupulous, loving daughters had already put me on notice, always pointing out a few hairs here and there around my lips, the lone hair on my chin. I never saw them, or I just didn’t care. They were blond anyway because I spent so much time surfing in the ocean.

I don’t know. Just never noticed them until that morning in late February when, lo and behold, there was my father looking back at me. It creeped me out.

I’m a woman; I’m not supposed to have a 5 o’clock Shadow, am I? I thought only sexy male movie stars like Ryan Gosling had them. He’s hot. He’s sexy.

I’m a woman. Will I be sexy, too? Will men find me sensual and rugged like Bradley Cooper? George Clooney? Ben Affleck?

“No.” Anonymous on Quora says: “They (men) don’t like a girl to be masculine enough to have a mustache or other facial hair.”

Okay. I’m not a girl, but I am a woman. Did Anonymous mean me, also? Now what? Why do I have facial hair in the first place, and what the heck do I do with it?

Hirsutism

Apparently, there is an ism for everything — even my facial hair. The Mayo Clinic identifies my predicament as Hirsutism, which is linked to an overproduction of androgens, sometimes referred to as “male hormones.” Androgens can often stimulate the growth of coarse stubble on women’s faces.

Hormones are evil this way.

When hormones go bonkers in a woman’s body as it has in mine, all hell can break loose. The most common cause is polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS). This is a condition affecting the ovaries that can also cause symptoms such as acne and irregular periods. I don’t have this.

Going down the Google rabbit hole to self-diagnose was a stupid thing to do. (I predicted my death in a couple of scenarios.) I discovered that “hyperandrogenism of tumor origin, which is very severe, must be distinguished from non-tumor hyperandrogenism, which is often minimal or moderate.”

I’m assuming I have the non-tumor hyperandrogenism variety. If, in fact, I have Hirsutism in the first place. Whatever I have, I’m pretty sure I’m in a quandary as to what to do. What did women do in the past?

Surely, women through history faced the same dilemma, no?

Grooming Practices Through Time

Women plucked, shaved, waxed, sugared, and did everything they possibly could to remove these unwanted facial hairs. But, hey, women chopping down the hairs on their faces is complex and influenced by numerous cultural factors and beauty ideals, and like everything else, change happens and continues to shift over time as women gain agency over their own bodies.

My face. My choice.

That’s right. I can own my beard. Flaunt it around as a sign of dignity, age, and choice. Why not? Why do I have to live by male-constructed beauty standards of hairless female faces? Why am I living up to societal expectations and gender norms?

I had hairy legs and armpits in the 70s, as per the hippie norm. Plus, I’ve always been a bit eccentric. I could be even more so with a distinguished mustache.

Maybe one like Dali.

Why not Grow a Stylish Mustache?

Why not? What am I afraid of? Honestly, it’s probably what my daughters will think of me.

“There’s my mother — the one with the beard.”

Will they cringe when I show up at back-to-school events? Hide in the bathroom? Pretend they don’t know me? (I did that once to my own mother.) I certainly don’t want to embarrass them.

Then, there’s the other reality: I’m too vain and not ready to give in to the ravages of female aging. (Oh, trust me, it sucks.)

My friends tell me I have several options.

To Shave or Not to Shave

My Pickleball friends tell me to go and do a laser hair removal thing, which in my neighborhood ranges from $40 per treatment with at least six to eight sessions to get rid of it completely. I suppose $240 would be worth it if I had the time and desire to do it.

My eldest daughter sent me an at-home threading device she got from Amazon, which utilizes a twisted thread to gently pull hair from the follicle. Needless to say, I ended up cutting myself and bleeding.

Then, I tried the pumice stone like women did in the Medieval Ages to another bruised effect. Switched to waxing at my local nail salon and had a red mustache instead of a real one.

Now, I look like Bozo the Clown, and right before the Fall Semester starts, when I’m supposed to have the professional air of intellectual confidence, someone who knows something in front of her college students.

Instead, I’m a sorry-ass clown with a red-swollen face to prove it. I’m not ready to sport a 5 o’clock shadow at the crack of dawn, nor am I willing to yield to the stubborn stubble.

My face. My Choice.

My face remains under my jurisdiction — a declaration of personal agency. Within this stance lies the empowerment of understanding my capacity to embrace aging with grace and choice. So, hand me that razor.

Bio: I’m an over-educated clown juggling life one day at a time and dropping a few balls here and there.

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