Nothing to see here!!!!!!
Give me a break nature!!!!!
Hair removal—the never-ending, utterly Sisyphean endeavour. Yes, yes, I’m aware that hair must serve some mysterious biological purpose, though I’ve yet to figure out precisely what that might be (aside from relentlessly sprouting at the most inopportune moments). Personally, I consider it a wholly unwelcome visitor. If I could banish every last follicle from my body with the mere press of a button—head hair exempt, naturally—I’d do it with an enthusiasm that borders on unseemly.
After decades of plucking, shaving, and conducting various miniature battles against rogue hairs, I’ve finally decided to escalate matters. Surgical menopause, you see, brought with it an unexpected gift: face fuzz. Oh, yes. As if the hormonal upheaval weren’t enough, I now have the joy of random chin hairs cropping up like unwelcome guests at a party. So, I’m going nuclear. Laser. On my face, no less. I’d commit to the full-body package if I thought I could muster the dedication, but I suppose one battleground at a time.
The Waxing Trauma: A Tale of Skin and Suffering
Back in my twenties, waxing seemed like a perfectly logical solution. Smooth results in a single session—it all sounded so efficient. And so, brimming with youthful optimism and a tragically misplaced sense of trust, I booked myself a bikini wax. There I was, lying prone on a table, clutching the edges as though my very life depended on it. The executioner, I mean, beautician seemed determined to not just remove hair but, apparently, several layers of skin along with it.
And succeeded!!!
What started as a simple grooming exercise quickly escalated into something resembling a low-budget horror film. By the time it was over, I staggered out with the distinct feeling that I’d just paid good money to be voluntarily skinned.
And thus, my romance with waxing was over before it had even properly begun. To this day, the trauma lingers. No amount of lavender-scented oils or strategically dimmed lighting will lure me back. The trusty razor remains my stalwart companion, my tried-and-true ally. In fact, my partner has learnt to read my moods based on the state of my grooming. A smooth, impeccable bikini line? I’m on top form. A bit more laissez-faire? Well, let’s just say it’s been a week. He doesn’t need to ask; the landscape tells all. My mood isn’t great!
Surgical Menopause and the Follicular Fury
Then came surgical menopause, the crowning glory of my hair-removal woes. It’s as if my body, having endured enough indignities, decided it would throw in some additional facial fluff as a final flourish. Hormones in disarray, follicles on a rampage—suddenly, I found myself dealing with chin fuzz, sideburns, and the occasional surprise cheek hair. I’m convinced that whoever coined the phrase “the change” must have been a master of understatement. This isn’t a change; it’s an all-out follicular mutiny.
So here I am, armed with a laser and a steely determination. If this works, I may well erect a small shrine to the gods of permanent hair removal. I’ll keep you posted.
Why the Fuss? Because Hair Removal is a Lifestyle, Not a Hobby
For some, hair removal is an occasional indulgence. For me? It’s a lifestyle. My bathroom is stocked with an arsenal of tools that would make a medieval torturer nod in appreciation. Razors, tweezers, trimmers, lotions, and now, of course, laser sessions. If I dare to skip even a single day, it’s as if my follicles sense weakness and launch a full-scale rebellion. Eyebrows? They grow at a leisurely, dignified pace. But leg hair? Leg hair is on a mission!
So, What’s the Solution?
At this point, laser is my best hope. Every session is a small victory in my quest for a life free of rogue hairs. If I ever manage to clear my face entirely, I might just throw a celebratory “Goodbye, Follicles!” bash. Speeches will be made, confetti thrown, and tiny medals awarded to the last stubborn hairs. Formal invitations will be sent to mark the occasion with appropriate gravitas.
Until that glorious day arrives, I shall continue my tireless battle, razor in hand. Because I’ll be damned if a few wayward follicles are going to get the better of me.
P.S. I know some of you are wondering.
“Sisyphean” refers to a task that is endless, futile, and often incredibly labour-intensive, without any lasting achievement. It comes from the Greek myth of Sisyphus, a king condemned by the gods to roll a heavy boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down each time he neared the top. He was doomed to repeat this cycle for eternity, making his punishment a symbol of pointless, unending effort.
In modern usage, calling something “Sisyphean” suggests it’s an exhausting and seemingly impossible endeavour—just like trying to keep up with hair removal!
You are very welcome!
