Dear Face,
I thought we had an understanding, but it seems you’ve forgotten: I’m not a man. I have no desire for a beard or any of the random patches of hair you seem determined to give me, so can we please just stop?
Maybe you’ve always wanted to become a scalp, and this is your one shot at it. I get it; we all have dreams. But my dreams definitely don’t include resembling Dr. Phil or anyone named Phil, for that matter.
I let the eyebrow situation slide, even when they resembled two caterpillars crawling across my forehead. Once I discovered tweezers in high school, I was able to shape them into the skinny brows that were all the rage in the ’90s. We were cool again. I didn’t even blame you because, honestly, I was relieved that eyebrow maintenance was the only hairy challenge I had to face.
But then adulthood hit, and reality kicked in. I don’t know if it’s hormones or if you’re just seeking vengeance for all the brow hairs I plucked, or perhaps karma decided to play a cruel joke since I never had to deal with a mustache in my teenage years. Whatever the reason, I ended up with a full-on beard. A stray hair or two would’ve been fine, but no—you gifted me a dense chin carpet. If I didn’t stay on top of grooming, I could easily be mistaken for a hipster. It started with a few pesky black stubbles and evolved into something thicker with each pregnancy. After four kids, I could probably grow a better beard than my husband. One day, I might find it stylish enough—or simply stop caring enough—to let it grow wild. But today is not that day.
And that’s not all. Despite your ability to sprout a luxurious beard, I thought I was safe from having to manage a mustache. That was until one morning, while carpooling to the gym with my friend, she casually asked, “Do you ever wax your upper lip?” Her innocent question hit me like a ton of bricks, as I realized she was hinting at my not-so-glorious peach fuzz. I started waxing my upper lip out of a mix of gratitude and embarrassment.
Oh, and let’s not forget the day I discovered three rogue black neck hairs. Seriously, Neck? It’s bad enough that my own face is betraying me, but now you too?
Face, you must be tired of me yanking out hairs left and right, so please stop the madness. Chin, lip, brows—if my eyelashes start to cause me grief, they’ll be gone too. I’m done dealing with unwanted hair in places that aren’t my head or where puberty intended. You’re free to cease sprouting random strands at any moment. Just stick to wrinkling—it’s in your job description, and honestly, I’m not thrilled about that either.
This article originally appeared on January 23, 2018.
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In summary, I’m beyond frustrated with the unexpected hair growth on my face and neck. It’s time for my face to stop trying to experiment with unwanted facial hair and focus on things that are actually in its job description.
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