Long As God Can Grow It, My Hair

Hike Time: 1 hour, 10 minutes
Amount of Hike Completed: All 3.5 miles!
Wavelengths Present: Nola, Kristyn, Xianne

Three weeks. I can't believe I've stuck with this three weeks. To the normal person, this probably seems like a short amount of time. But, believe me, it's a big deal to me. I've never stuck with anything exercise or diet wise past three weeks before. So it really didn't surprise me this morning that I hit a wall, that inevitable three-week wall I've spent my life banging my head against.

Walking up the hill this morning, my calves and hamstrings were contracted so tightly that every step I took was excruciating. I've got to take time to stretch before I head up those hills! I also had to pause at the top of the second hill, just to catch my breath; this was a downer, as I had thought I accomplished at least a little bit of something by cutting down the stops in the hike. When we got to the first running stretch, I even had to stop before we got to the road marker. It's as if my gas, will power, and motivational tanks all pooped out on me at once.

After a few running stretches, however, my legs warmed up. By the end of the hike, I was a little bummed that it was over. Even though it wasn't a personal record breaking time, or didn't involve adding more running to the routine, at least I did it. I made it to the three week wall. Will I push past the wall? I guess we'll see on Friday.

The main purpose of this post, however, isn't about the hike. Or about my struggles with eating well. It's about my hair. And this is going to be another one of those posts that makes me glad that I only shared this link with a prized few. Because I get to talk about embarrassing things, like my hair. How can hair be embarrassing, you ask? Read on, and trust me, you'll be glad you didn't share this link with anyone else either. Then again, don't read on if you ever, EVER want to look at me in the same way again. Or if you are easily grossed out and have a weak stomach.

I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. On the one hand, I absolutely adore my hair. It's a gorgeous color, has striking natural highlights (despite a few grad-school induced gray hairs), a lovely and controlled natural curl, and, although my hair is quite thin, there's buckets of it to work with. When I was younger, I used to desperately want straight hair; I guess the grass is always greener on the other side. Now that I'm older, I realize how lucky I am to have this head of hair. If I want to go somewhere quickly, I don't have to spend a lot of time blow-drying and styling my hair - all I have to do is scrunch in the curls with about a palmful of mousse and voila! instant awesome hair. Total prep time: 30 seconds. Thanks to my straightening iron, I can also have straight hair whenever I want. In fact, I have sort of a pattern down. On a hike day, I can shower after running, throw some mousse in my wet hair, and head on off to work. On an off day, I can take about 15 minutes to straighten the semi-dirty hair; the amount of product that remains in my hair after a hike day is just enough to keep it nice and shiny on an off day. If I was ever asked what my favorite thing about my body is, I would probably say my legs. But my hair comes in a close second.

On the other hand, I hate my hair. Not the hair on my head, mind you, but the hair everywhere else on my body. I'm sure pretty much all women eventually detest the hair on the legs and underarms because society dictates that we should be hairless in the aforementioned areas. But I'm not just complaining about hair there. Oh no. Thanks to a lovely little bitch of a condition I have called PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome), I have hair everywhere, especially in the least ladylike of places. I have hair on my back that would rival even the manliest of men. And, to put it nicely, I'd give any circus's bearded lady a run for her money. I also used to have the darkest of armhair you'd ever seen; check out my arms sometime now, however, and you'll find them smooth as a baby's bottom.

Given that I'm pretty much the female equivalent of Sasquatch, I'm pretty self-conscious about all of this hair. So much so that I have gone to great lengths to hide the fact that I'm a furry little beast. As I mentioned before, I used to have oodles of dark armhair. Not anymore, however. Before I headed off to my senior year of college, my mom accosted me with depilatory cream, and just like that, the hair was gone. I've never wanted to suffer through the awkward phase of growing my armhair back or explaining to people why my arms are now furry when they used to be smooth, so I've continued to do the weekly treatment with Nair (on my arms!) to avoid all awkwardness.

Luckily, the backhair only usually causes a problem one out of the four seasons of the year - summer. The most awkward part about the backhair, however, is that I can't quite reach it all. In college, I would have my friend Megan help me out before our sorority formals. We once tried waxing it off, but to no avail. While the hair was gone, my back broke out in a bunch of sores - my back seriously looked like it had been attacked by a swarm of bees. After that, it was onto depilatory creams. I had only my trusted friends help me out with this - usually Megan - when I was in college. When I moved out to CA, however, I didn't really have anyone close enough that I trusted to help me remove my back hair. I tried to avoid most activities requiring me to show off my back, but I ended up missing swimming too much and had to try other tactics. The tactic that eventually worked the best was simple - buy a spatula. With the spatula, I could reach otherwise uncharted territory on my back to make sure I was hair-free before any pool party.

Many, many more tactics have been employed to remove the oh-so-lovely facial hair - bleaching, Nads, electrolysis, laser hair removal, and shaving. Let's break these tactics down, shall we?

1) Bleaching: The most conventional way for women to deal with facial hair. When I just had the mustache, and not the oh-so-attractive mini-beard, this is what I would use. The weirdest thing about bleaching? It also bleached the skin underneath the hair, leaving you with multi-colored skin. I also tried bleaching my armhair, until it was forcibly removed by my mother. The smell is enough to knock you out though, so be careful while bleaching.

2) Nads: This little product is the reason for all of my disdain towards Australia. My mom bought some of this product from an infomercial once, and as soon as the package arrived, she attacked me with this goopy green substance. First con? It hurt like the dickens when my mom ripped the first strip of the product off. Second con? It didn't get all of my hair all at once, so she went at it again ... and again ... and again. I hate Australia.

3) Electrolysis: My mom has this friend - Shannon - whom she has me see to get electrolysis done. She swears that I'll love Shannon; I swear I can love no one who inflicts that much pain on me. Seriously, how can one be smiley while they're plucking out your hairs ONE by ONE with a jolt of electricity behind each bolt? I know I'm sounding kind of adverse to pain, but I'm promise I'm no wimp. I had the top of my lip done - one of the most sensitive areas to have hair removed - and it brought me to tears. The sad thing is, it takes MULTIPLE TREATMENTS to get rid of the hair SEMI-PERMAMENTLY.

4) Laser Hair Removal: For a Christmas present one year, my mom bought me laser hair removal treatments. With the exception of a little bit of embarrassment, the first time was totally fine. Other than a little discomfort, the treatment wasn't so bad. The worst part of it was having to grow out my mini-beard so that the doctor could see the hairs he had to remove. The second time I went to the treatment was a different story. I had no desire to go. I was feeling horrible about myself as it was, and having to grow out the mini-beard was not helping. I reverted back to being a 5-year-old and threw a little hissy fit - full of whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself - to get my mom to cancel the appointment. She was having none enough; I think in the world of hissy fits, I am the girl who cried wolf. When we arrived at the doctors office, I was so upset by the fact that I was there, that I couldn't stop crying. This inevitably made removing my hair with a laser more difficult. Whereas last time, it was only a mild discomfort, this time each shot of the laser felt like I was being stabbed with a dull knife. I felt so bad for the doctor. I can't imagine what it's like trying to calm down a crying woman who knows that you're the one responsible for causing her pain. Needless to say, I nixed the idea of laser hair removal right then and there.

5) Shaving: I held off as long as humanly possible before I gave into shaving. When I was a young girl, I got very excited about shaving my legs. I can still remember the first time I did it. I snuck into my parents bathroom and stole my mom's razor. It was one of the pink, disposable kind, with a single blade. I hid away in my bathroom and, stroke by stroke, the furry blondness of my legs gave way to . I felt more adult, like I was finally a woman. When my mom realized what I had done, she flipped out. "You're going to regret doing that so soon, because now you can never stop." I soon realized how right she was. My smooth legs lasted only a few days before dark stubble started speckling my thighs and calves. Ever since that moment, my legs have been married to the razor. So when the option of shaving my face came into the question, I was hesitant. I knew the consequences of such actions, but it served as a temporary solution.

However, since I apparently have the world's lowest pain tolerance, shaving soon became my only alternative. My mom bought me a man's electric razor for Christmas one year. "What am I going to tell my friends this is for?" I asked. "Shaving your legs, of course" she replied. I knew my friends were not that dumb, but I took the electric razor to college, where it remained hidden in my underwear drawer. Every morning I wake up, I have to check the status of my face. I'll shave if there's any chance that stubble will appear on my face during the day. On the occasional days when I forget, I make sure to avoid most social situations, and to keep both my hair and my head towards the floor. I honestly can say that I would wish this condition on no girl, not even my worst enemy.

This morning, while I was driving to work, I realized that I had forgotten the daily shave. It was really bad. I know objects in the side mirror look larger than they appear, but my mini beard was looking in full bloom from the side mirror. I debated for a while about whether or not to head back home before heading into work, to head home after work, or to suck it up and buy a razor to keep in my car. I chose the third option and drove up to the secret Safeway to purchase a pack of three disposable razors. One now lives in my car, for emergency situations. Another lives in my desk drawer at work - I'll only bust that one out when no one is looking and then run to the bathroom to shave in private. I'll have to figure out where to keep the third one. This I know for sure, I will never be in a situation again where I might have to face the shame of someone seeing the mini beard.

The saddest thing is that no matter how much weight I lose or how in shape I become, I'll still be plagued with this lovely problem. Maybe one day I'll suck it up and get the laser hair removal done, which is supposed to be permanent. I'm really not looking forward to sharing this fact with any future significant other. But I guess it's just another little quirk about me that someone will have to learn to love.