The Girl with the Red Beard

Let me tell you the story of the girl with the red beard. Only I can tell it, because the girl was me.

It begins when I was still in junior high, and the puberty fairy, perhaps as apology for sending me the wrong hormones, testosterone instead of estrogen, decided to give me a large dose as if saying it might not be the right one, but at least you now have a lot of it.

The one part of the arrival of puberty that was at least interesting, if not pleasant, was the fact that when my facial hair came in, it came in a fire engine red, a sharp contrast to the hair on my head, which was so blonde it was almost white.

And because of that contrast, I decided to embrace the beard.

By letting it grow, I was telling the world that if they wanted to make me an outcast, I would wear the label with pride.

Eventually, my anger ran out, and the dysphoria kicked in, and I shaved it off.

It never came back red again, instead it came back a shade of blonde only slightly darker than the hair on my head.

So since then, shaving has always been a lose-lose proposition. Shaving causes dysphoria, but having facial hair also causes dysphoria.

And how much facial hair I have is probably a pretty good indicator of how depressed I am at that moment, since I need a minimum amount of energy to face that dilemma.

Such is life.

End