This week, I am seriously annoyed. This is going to be a longer post than usual. I apologise in advance.
Let’s level with each other here, ladies. We all have hair on our faces, right? And I’m not talking about eyebrows and eyelashes.
I mean that stubborn upper lip hair that only responds to industrial strength bleach. The pesky chin hairs that happily play Tug-Of-War as you attempt to tweeze them out.
That hair.
We know it’s there. We reluctantly admit that other people probably know it’s there too.
I don’t know about you, but I pull hair out of my face every morning. Before the daily makeup routine, I plonk myself down in front of a mirror and scour my skin for protruding follicles. And if I see any, I grab at them until they’ve been forcibly removed. Dragged, kicking and screaming, from my face.
It’s painful. It’s embarrassing. Something I spend an unreasonable amount of time on, when I could just be enjoying my day. And yet… I still have hair on my face. Which is noticeable to anyone who gets close enough. Sigh.
Most of the time, people have the common decency not to mention a lady’s ‘tache in polite company. It’s like revealing her age, or her preference in undies. Just not the done thing. This week, I discovered that some people lack that tact in the same way I lack Veet cream.
It was brought to my attention – and not in a subtle way – that my facial hair’s more visible than I assumed.
My assumption was that I take care of this particular issue rather well. I’m proactive in seeking out errant strands. I try to pluck in natural light where possible. I double check photos of myself for noticeable peach fuzz, and most of the time (I think) I appear reasonably hair-free.
It seems that, in person, it’s a totally different story. Not only is my burgeoning lady-beard seemingly easy to spot, it can apparently be felt when you hug or kiss me. Putting your cheek close to mine means your face gets a gentle, friendly brushing. My furry version of an Eskimo kiss, except I didn’t know I was doing it.
That’s not what stung like epilating an errant bikini line for the first time. No.
What hurt the most was finding out that people actually talk about this behind my back. They bring it up in conversation to other people I know. And not subtly either.
“That there Kady is a nice enough gal, but wow boy howdy, from certain angles she’s really rocking a Groucho Marx!”
Not verbatim – I mean, I wasn’t there to hear it – but you get the idea.
Now… I don’t want to tar a whole gender with the same facial exfoliating brush here, but it appears that mainly (or, in fact, only) men have pointed this out. To other men. And if I consider what my social circle here literally looks like, it’s quite likely that they’re men with beards.
If you’re reading this – and you’ll know who you are – listen up.
The state of my face, and any hair which may or may not be growing out of it in a manner that’s visible from space, is not fair game. Not because you know me, and not because you know people who know me. Not ever.
The vast majority of people don’t go around commenting on everyone else’s face. In my case, and for many other women, this is because we’re too busy trying to maintain our own.
And it could be so, so much worse for both of us. At one time, before my Mum bought me tweezers and almost pulled my eyelid off trying to use them for the first time, I looked way more like a yeti. What you’re seeing and laughing at now is years of concerted effort to less resemble Chewbacca.
So… in the nicest possible way, with all of the decency and tact I can muster right now… fuck off, yeah?
Besides, I own an epilator now, and if you’re not careful I’ll test it on your bikini line instead.
