my hormone levels were normal.
“Normal? Are you sure?”
“Totally normal.”
So my doctor was telling me it’s normal to be a hairy beast. I was relieved, terrified, and lost.
I couldn’t quit the laser. I continued treatments at a place called American Laser, on Broadway near Twenty-second Street in Manhattan. In the waiting room, they had magazines like People and OK! in a pile. I think they put them there for a reason; they wanted me to look at Kim Kardashian’s poreless and follicle-free face and get turned on about having my body blasted with a machine I didn’t understand in the slightest.
I dislike those magazines and think of them as vapid and a waste of time, but that’s only because I can get sucked into them for hours and I always end up feeling guilty about my desire to know how many hours a day Angelina leaves her kids with the nanny, instead of using my time to start understanding the crumbling economy.
So I’d get into the laser-treatment room, conjure the hair-free cover girl, and tell the laser lady to put the damn thing on the highest they could without causing my face permanent damage.
“It’s going to hurt,” she’d say.
“I don’t care,” I’d say.
“Tell me if it’s too high.”
“It’s not high enough!”
Hair brought out a little bit of psycho in me. I never acted like that anywhere else, except for maybe when I’m baking. (I get really bossy when I’m baking.)
The American Laser office was in the same building as a casting agency. Sometimes on the elevator ride up, I’d pretend to mouth some scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire and reapply ChapStick in the mirror so that no one would suspect that I was actually lasering.
No, silly, I’m not hairy. I’m an actress.
I also kept it from the guy, Dave, whom I’d started dating in 2008. I would throw away the laser appointment cards so that he couldn’t find them and instead use code—“lunch with Leslie” or just an exclamation point—when I wrote down the appointment in my calendar.
When I moved in with him in 2010, a whole new challenge emerged. Close quarters put my secret in jeopardy. I carried out my depilatory duties like they were a covert Navy SEAL operation. I had extra razors and tweezers in my gym bag and purse and hidden in bathroom corners. Mixed martial arts fights were my saving grace. Dave would be attached to the couch for hours at a time, watching hairless men grapple each other, while my stainless-steel Tweezerman and I got it on in the bathroom. If Dave asked what I was doing in there for so long, I’d tell him I was picking at pimples or that the milk in my coffee was working its way through my intestines. That usually shut him up.
The point is, I’d rather have Dave think I was shitting than plucking. His knowing that I was so hairy would have rendered me faulty, almost broken—like he’d driven off with a lemon from the used-car showroom. But I also yearned for him to know and accept me as I was. I realize it doesn’t help our relationship that the only thing I can think about when we cuddle is how to position myself to keep him from seeing any stray hair that might break free. To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t even be writing this if we weren’t already engaged. Publicly divulging my hairiness during my dating years would have ruined my ratings on Jdate and Match.com.
You can’t sell a car by pointing out the jagged, deep dent on the driver’s side.
I hate that I feel that way, but there it is.
And as long as I’m talking about things I hate—this is a little off the point, but you know what always kills me? It kills me when girls compliment my eyebrows, because in the aughts, eyebrows with girth came back into fashion. “Wow, they’re so nice and thick. I wish I had those,” friends would say. The compliments are always by women who are fair-skinned and light-haired. I’ve never had a thick-browed lady say one thing about my eyebrows. You know why? Because they know the behind-the-scenes story. If any of those light-haired ladies knew what those two caterpillar-shaped suckers actually meant, they’d back away from the situation with their hands up.
Anyway, I kept up the laser treatments for three years.
After my last appointment, I asked to speak to the office manager.
“It didn’t work,” I said.
I wanted my chin as hairless as a piece of polished granite or my money back. Even though I knew the truth—that laser can be very good for dark hair (pubic, armpit, man beard), as it targets the melanin in the follicle—it has a much harder time getting rid of fine and lighter hair like the gang of strays I had on my face.
“Well, the face is a very stubborn place,” the office manager said. “We always tell all our clients that. If you want, we can sign you up for another treatment.”
“Why should I sign up for another treatment when it didn’t work after three years?”
“The face is a very stubborn place,” she reiterated.
“If it’s stubborn, why should I do more laser?”
“It takes time,” she said. “The face is stubborn.”
I stared at her. Then she giggled.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked.
She straightened her posture and relaxed her mouth.
“This is not funny,” I said, raising my voice. “I’m. Still. Hairy!”
I got up and walked out without finishing the conversation. I left that place knowing that I couldn’t go back, but kind of wishing I could lock myself in one of their treatment rooms and shoot the laser at my face until the SWAT team came and ejected me.
I knew that I was sick, but I didn’t know of any other way to become comfortable with myself besides burning my skin off with a weapon.
So over the months since the doctor’s appointment and my last laser session, I was in a hair purgatory, contemplating my next move. Instead of just going moment to moment, working to eradicate each hair as it surfaced (though I did that, too), I began thinking more about an odd irony. To be a complete woman, I felt as though I had to get rid of a part of myself. But why? Why does there have to be all this shame and angst about something that’s a natural part of being a woman? The pressure to be hairless has driven me to feel like I have to hide something from my fiancé, to spend thousands of dollars, to feel less worthy than my female peers.
For years I’ve been pretending that I don’t have something that I quite clearly have. That takes a lot of energy.
I like getting answers to questions, so I pretended to be an objective reporter and called up Allure magazine. I asked to speak with the beauty editor, Heather Muir. To be honest, I disliked Heather before I even spoke to her. I disliked her because of what she represented, and also because her name conjured the image of downy blond hair on her thighs, the sort one doesn’t even have to shave. Also, even if I might follow some beauty customs set forth by magazines like Muir’s, I’m generally opposed to people imposing their subjective view on millions of women. It’s because of people like Muir that I’ve put myself through so much hair-removal pain over the past fifteen
