Hair, Part 3

I don’t even have the energy or heart right now to conceive of a more interesting title for this post, and since it’s in many ways a continuation of the ongoing saga of hair in my life (see previous posts: Hair and Hair, Continued…), “Hair, Part 3” will have to do for now.  If I did have the gumption to think of a better title, it would definitely include words like “pain,” “suffering,” and maybe even “profound.”  Let me explain.

After having completed six rounds, in as many months, of laser hair removal treatment on my lower face and neck in early September, I am still left with good bit of white/grey hair.  Laser is not effective on hair without pigment, the wavelength of the pigment being what the wavelength of the laser is attenuated to in order to penetrate to the root and destroy the follicle.  I knew this from the start and have had several months to develop a game plan for removing the remaining hairs.  Unfortunately, there are currently not many options, and all of them are painful and costly.  

 

Eric and I discussed this at length, and the approach we settled on was waxing since it’s been very effective for other parts of my body (legs, under-arms, arms, chest).  In order for waxing to work, though, the hair has to be long enough to be yanked out by the roots (at least one-half to one-quarter of an inch).  This presented challenges for me as having any hair showing on my face at all triggers massive dysmorphia.  So, I waited till after my recent surgery to move forward with this, as I knew I’d be working remotely and could let the hair grow in the privacy of my own home.  I took pictures of this (to document the before and after) but I am not going to share them here because, frankly, they disgust me to the point of tears.  

 

This morning I had the waxing done, and it was one of the most indescribably painful things I have ever experienced—and I have a fairly high threshold for pain.  Unlike the pain I felt during a root canal when I was a teenager, or from the herniated disc I endured when I was in my mid-twenties, what I felt this morning was much more profound because it went way beyond physical—layered into this pain was also a deep sense of shame.  It’s one thing to get your under-arms or legs waxed; many women do.  The face is another matter entirely, and I think it would be a very rare woman (cis or trans), who would celebrate (or even tolerate) having hair on her face.

 

So, as I lay there on the table in nothing but my panties, shivering and vulnerable, I broke down and sobbed.  We had to stop for a few minutes for me to settle down, take a deep breath and prepare for more. It went on like this for about half an hour, and that was all I could take.  Even with all of that, it only removed about 50% of the hair (apparently it needed to have been just a bit longer), but that’s still a step in the right direction.  I left in a lot of pain, face still angry and red.  When I got home, I lied down on my bed and sobbed some more.  Eric went out and got me some aloe vera gel and Witch Hazel to sooth my face, and I’ve been nursing it all afternoon with ice packs, hoping there won’t be any scarring or acne.

 

I’ll be going back in about a month for another round.  At this point, it’s war.  And I am determined to come out on top, no matter how much it hurts, because it hurts almost as much to have to look at myself in the mirror every morning and have to shave my face.   For now, though, I’m licking my wounds and indulging in a little bit of self-pity.