Tonight I came home exhausted from traveling down to San Antonio to help my line sister and her husband remodel their new home. After whisking back to the ATX, I had a moment to cry about having to leave again, change clothes, then head out (with paint still in my hair of course). I got home around 2 am. Despite my delirium, I’m still awake. My heart is disturbed.

When I washed up for bed, I took a look at my face. Razor bumps. I hadn’t noticed the hair had started growing back until I saw myself in a picture from earlier in the day:

Here I am holding my new niece Aliyah (YaYa) for the first time. I was happy about the shot… until I saw the hair.

Anyway, as I'm washing up I see the bumps and frantically look for the tweezers. I get as many ingrown hairs as possible. Then I slather the lower portion of my face with toothpaste to dry up the bumps. Can’t go to church on Easter Sunday with razor bumps now can I?

This is why my heart hurts. Despite the necessity to rest my chemo/radiation/double mastectomy/port placement surgery/infectious disease-induced surgery body, I stood in the mirror for a good 15 minutes, ignoring my physical pain, to take care of the bumps. I never thought the insecurity ran so deeply that I would ignore my body in place of beauty standards and presumed femininity.

I saw a lady on Friday that had a full gotee. I smiled at her, but inside I felt envy. She walked with such confidence. She knows people see her prominent facial hair. She doesn’t care. The reason I know she doesn’t is because the facial hair was well-groomed. She is intentional about her display. She accepts herself for all that she is. She refuses to let anyone force her to conform to an idea of feminine beauty that she did not create nor from which she could benefit.

As much as I preach about self-love and walk around without breasts, chest sticking out like a peacock’s plume, my breathe still stops if I think someone accidentally feels stubble. The encounter sends me straight back to middle school’s puberty episode. Other girls were growing breasts and hips and butts. My voice got deeper and my face hairy. Like a man. Because that’s what the video said about puberty in 5th grade. The voices of males deepen. They grow facial hair. Those characteristics were never associated with females. So, with me not seeing the feminine changes in myself (I didn’t get real breasts until I was 24….lost them at 30) but seeing what happens to males happen to me, well, I started thinking I wasn’t a woman or feminine. This notion was driven home by my peers. When boys did talk to me, either I was another homeboy, a disgusting object to be bullied, or just completely invisible.

I’m not invisible anymore. Knowing that you can be seen and heard makes you feel a part of the world. And I think that’s why I don’t have her courage. Having facial hair made me invisible before. If I embrace it now, I just may disappear again. For the most part I disappeared during cancer treatment. I felt my soul withering from the immense loneliness. It almost killed me faster than cancer.

I don’t want to be the invisible homeboy ever again, but I also don’t want to decide whether I’m going to rest or whether I’m going to church or not because I don’t feel my face is acceptable. I’m tired of feeling ashamed. I was born with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. It isn’t my fault and I want to stop apologising for my genes/explaining myself. I really, really do. But I don’t know how.

Maybe one day I’ll stop considering laser surgery that could burn my skin. Stop taking a razor to my face every 2–3 days. Stop searching for hair removal products that won’t cause skin cancer.

One day. But not today. *sigh* Not today.