It says something about me (something I don't like) that, on this day of an attack by terrorists in the city of London, with dozens killed and many more wounded, all I can worry about is my facial hair.
I have a problem with facial hair. If I were a man, I would shave, but I am not a man and, as I find it humiliating enough to deal with this problem (and it is a problem because I'm a woman), I refuse to deal with it in that manner. I find it ever so much more pleasant to have it ripped from my face by its roots, which is what I had done earlier this evening.
Each time this ripping out of facial hair occurs, I get very angry. Part of the anger stems from the pain. It hurts like--well, it hurts like having your hair pulled out by the roots. Part of the anger stems from the fear I have about what facial hair says about my femininity. I already feel like I've failed at being a "girly girl," and I have the beard to prove it!
I did see a truly bearded lady on TV a few nights ago. It was cold comfort.
So on this day that will be marked as the saddest by people all over the world because of the loss of a loved one or a part of themselves, all I can cry about is facial hair. I disgust me sometimes.