I can wiggle my ears, flare my nostrils, curl my tongue, and raise one eyebrow. Oh, and apparently, I can also grow a beard.
Why is this beard noteworthy, you ask? Well, let’s just say I’m not exactly a man. It’s a little unfair when you consider that somewhere out there is a teenage boy who would give anything for a bit of facial hair, while I’m here, an unwillingly bearded woman sporting all the stubble a lad could dream of.
Describing my she-beard as a “surprise” feels a bit misleading; that word typically has a positive connotation. Let’s be honest, my beard was anything but a delightful gift. I certainly didn’t expect it, especially since I never considered myself particularly hairy. My fuzz level was pretty standard—just the usual amount in the usual spots, with no furry shoulders or wild hair sprouting from my toes. I’ve never even had a mustache (though I do keep my upper lip waxed just in case it decides to join the party like my chin did).
When I became pregnant with my first child, my formerly smooth skin began to betray me, thanks to a rush of hormones (or rather, hair-mones—ha!). My new goatee went unnoticed until my third trimester, which implies one of two things: either it appeared out of nowhere like a sudden beard explosion, or I was blissfully unaware of my new facial companion for an extended period. Regardless, the moment my fingers brushed against my chin and felt the stubble, I was filled with dismay. And, to make matters worse, the beard has only grown thicker with each of my four pregnancies.
Nothing crushes a woman’s vanity like sporting an attribute usually associated with men. What’s attractive on one gender is often less desirable on the other (just think of man boobs). No artist has ever portrayed a woman and thought, “She needs a beard to look more feminine.” So, to preserve my dwindling femininity, I find myself wrestling daily with my unruly chin-forest.
I’ve subjected it to various forms of stinging torture: waxing, shaving, plucking, and applying depilatory creams so strong they made my neighbor’s eyes water. Sure, I could try electrolysis, but it’s expensive. Plus, along with my beard came kids who need school shoes and healthy meals more than I need my facial hair removed forever.
I have to stay on top of this hairy situation or face the consequences. Miss a few days with my razor, and my chin starts resembling someone’s armpit, feeling as rough as sandpaper—definitely not sexy. I have a lingering fear that I might end up in a coma someday, but not for the typical reasons. I’m more worried that while I’m hospitalized, no one will take care of my beard. Picture it: me in a coma, sporting a wild beard. Nightmares on top of nightmares.
I wish beards would become trendy for women like they have for hipster men and lumberjacks so I could embrace my natural look without a second thought. After all, it worked for Abraham Lincoln and ZZ Top. Women have done daring things like shave their heads, and Brooke Shields’s thick eyebrows had a cult following. Is having a she-beard really so different? I dream of the day I can proudly step out with my beard styled or even adorned with some sparkling crystals—perhaps even long enough to combine with my hair into a Pinterest-worthy updo.
More realistically, I’ll keep battling it until I either die or stop caring, whichever comes first. At least, since it’s clearly a result of having kids, I can add it to my list of motherly guilt trips. I look forward to the day one of my sons is too embarrassed to kiss me goodbye, so I can call out, “Just remember… I grew a beard because of you!”
You’ve got to find the silver linings in life, right? For more insights on this journey, check out our other blog post about home insemination kit options.
Summary: This humorous piece reflects on the unexpected experience of growing a beard as a woman, attributing it to the hormonal changes from pregnancy. The author shares her struggles with maintaining her appearance in a light-hearted way, while also embracing the humorous side of motherhood.