I possess some quirky talents: I can wiggle my ears, flare my nostrils, curl my tongue, and even raise an eyebrow. But there’s one unexpected skill I’ve developed that stands out — I can grow a beard. Yes, you read that right, and no, I’m not a man.
It’s a bit of an irony, really. Somewhere out there, a teenage boy is wishing for facial hair, while I, an unwilling she-bearded woman, am sporting an abundance of stubble that could rival any young man’s. I’d describe my she-beard as an unexpected twist of fate, though “unexpected” typically implies something pleasant, like a surprise gift. My beard, however, was anything but delightful.
Before having children, I was quite the average woman in terms of body hair — nothing too excessive, just the usual amount in the usual places. I’ve never even had a mustache (thank goodness for waxing!). But when I got pregnant with my first child, my blissful hairlessness was suddenly replaced by what I now like to call “hormonal hair-mones.”
The transformation was so subtle that I didn’t notice my new goatee until my third trimester. This leads me to believe one of two things: either I experienced a rapid beard growth spurt overnight, or I was blissfully unaware of my burgeoning facial fuzz for some time. Regardless, the moment my fingers brushed against my chin and felt that tell-tale stubble, my confidence took a hit. And to add insult to injury, my beard has only grown thicker with each subsequent pregnancy. I now have four kids, and you can imagine the dilemma.
Nothing strikes a blow to vanity quite like sporting a feature typically associated with the opposite gender. What might be deemed attractive in one sex is often viewed as undesirable in another. Just consider man boobs. No artist has ever painted a woman and thought, “She could really use a beard.” To maintain my dwindling femininity, I grapple daily with taming this rebellious chin-forest.
I’ve subjected it to various forms of torture: waxing, shaving, plucking, and slathering it with depilatory creams that are so potent they made my neighbor’s eyes water. Electrolysis is an option, but it’s quite expensive, and honestly, my kids have more pressing needs — like school shoes and nutritious meals.
I need to stay on top of this beard situation, or face the consequences. If I neglect my razor for just a few days, my chin transforms into something resembling an armpit, complete with the texture of coarse-grit sandpaper. That’s not exactly sexy. I even have this irrational fear of ending up in a coma, not for the usual reasons, but because I worry that no one will tend to my beard while I’m incapacitated. Imagine being in a coma, and on top of that, sporting a full beard. It’s a nightmare.
I sometimes wish that beards would become fashionable for women, just as they have for hipster men and lumberjacks. If they can sport their facial hair with pride, why can’t I? Women have made bold fashion choices before, from buzz cuts to Brooke Shields’s iconic eyebrows. Is having a she-beard really that different? I fantasize about the day I can confidently walk out with my beard styled — perhaps even adorned with some sparkly accessories. Or maybe I could grow it long enough to create a Pinterest-worthy updo.
But realistically, I’ll likely continue this struggle until I either kick the bucket or stop caring, whichever comes first. At least since my beard is a direct result of motherhood, I can stash it in my arsenal of guilt trips. I can already picture a day when one of my sons is too embarrassed to kiss me goodbye, and I’ll shout after him, “Just remember, I grew this beard because of you!”
It’s all about looking for those silver linings.
For more insights on parenting and related topics, check out this post on Cervical Insemination. And if you’re considering at-home insemination, this site offers reliable syringe kits to help you. If you’re interested in learning about in vitro fertilization, this Wikipedia page is an excellent resource.
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