When God was handing out hair, I was at the very front of the queue. I'm not talking thick, luscious, glossy hair on my head. Although that would be nice. But hair everywhere else: sideburns, a snail trail, a furry upper lip, the odd chin hair, downy fluff all over my arms, back and even my neck.
Growing up in a big Greek Cypriot family, I had always put my hairiness down to my heritage – we all looked the same and I was proud of that. But as soon as I started primary school, I realised my hair would be an issue.
“We don't want you in our group. You have a moustache and girls aren't supposed to have those.” At 8 years old, I didn't even know what a moustache was. When I got home, I asked my mum, who gave an understanding nod and bundled me off to the bathroom with a tub of Jolen bleach.
In five minutes, the jet black hairs on my upper lip were transformed into the fair, wispy, virtually undetectable hairs every other 8-year-old girl in my tiny village school in Essex had. It was a routine I'd have to keep up every fortnight for the rest of my life.
Then, a week before starting as a fresher at university, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) – a hormonal condition that affects 1 in 5 women in the UK. As well as weight gain, acne and irregular periods, one of the main symptoms is excess body hair, or hirsutism, as it's otherwise known. My hair suddenly got thicker, darker and started sprouting up in places I never even knew hair could grow, including the tops of my cheeks and my forehead.
The diagnosis meant I began to understand my body a little better, but it didn't make dealing with the hair any easier. Soon, I'd be expected to party in barely-there outfits, and sharing a minuscule bathroom with seven other people meant I couldn't spend hours removing my excess hair. But it was meeting men that instilled the worst anxiety in me.
While living at home with my parents, I had always worried about what dating guys would entail (besides endless questions from my dad); bringing them back was an even bigger no-no. University meant I had the freedom to get out there, I just didn't have the confidence. What man would want to date a woman that's hairier than him?
Instead of Jägerbombs, most of my student loan went on stockpiling Veet, razors and regular visits to Wales' one and only threading lady. When I finally met someone at the end of second year, I realised that keeping my excess hair from him would be no mean feat. Impromptu dates led to speedy shaves and inevitable sore rashes, ingrown hairs and pus-filled boils. I used to mix my body lotion with heavy-duty concealer and full-coverage foundation just to mask the bumpy redness, and only ever felt comfortable enough to have sex with the lights off.
He'd sometimes rock up at my house with a bunch of flowers, a DVD and pizza (the dream, right?) but I'd pretend I wasn't in after a wax earlier in the day had left me red and sore. I think my absolute hatred of baring my body contributed to the failure of our relationship – he didn't get it, and I was perpetually embarrassed. When it ended, I did what every other girl on the rebound does: accepted every party invite and downloaded every dating app.
When I'm on a date, it's all I can think about. What if I've missed a hair and it tickles him when we kiss? I hope I shaved my fingers in case he goes to hold my hand...
I desperately wanted things to be different this time around, but my hair – especially the hair on my face – was at the forefront of my mind at all times and I just couldn't let myself go like the rest of my single friends.
Yet again, I found myself sabotaging dates and even hookups because I was so utterly terrified and embarrassed of giving men a glimpse of my hair. Once, before sleeping with someone new, I snuck into the bathroom to shave my face so it wouldn't look horribly hairy in the morning – that's how fast my hair sprouts, thanks to PCOS – but accidentally cut myself. Half-covering the gash, I had to make an excuse and leave abruptly so that he didn't cotton on. I never heard from him again.
To cover the slight five-o’clock shadow on my upper lip and chin, I once applied four layers of foundation, only for it to transfer all over my date's pristine white shirt. And I threw away every single pair of ripped jeans I owned after one date made a comment about my stubbly knees. Even I couldn't believe I'd missed those!
Come to think of it, I’ve never agreed to go on a date in the daytime. It’s my worst nightmare to catch a guy I’m into analysing my face in the cold, natural light of day and worse still to have him comment on a few stray chin hairs I may have missed. Underground cocktail bars with dark and moody lighting are where I feel most comfortable – even then I’ll always wear my long hair down, like a comfort blanket.
Although I have learned to manage my facial and body hair a little better (more on that later), spontaneous dates are still out of the question. I need at least 24 hours to obliterate every single hair properly (in which time, some have already grown back) and if I'm going in for a wax, at least two days to let the redness subside. Don't even get me started on the painful stubble and shaving spots that spring up a few days later.
And when I'm actually on a date, it's all I can think about, no matter how many glasses of rosé I've downed. What if I've missed a hair and it tickles him when we kiss? I hope I shaved my fingers in case he goes to hold my hand...
I know, it’s absolutely absurd, but the idea of getting intimate with someone new instils a certain fear in me, and I'm convinced men have thought I'm just not interested and given up entirely. Instead of resorting to the “It's not you, it's me” line, it's so much easier to drop off the radar without an explanation. If my hair turns me off, I dread to think what it would do to them. In fact, I learned the hard way that honesty is most definitely not the best policy on my sixth date with a gorgeous, 6ft2, bearded police officer I'm pretty sure I may have fallen for – until he never returned my messages. When he asked why my arms were red and blotchy, I explained I'd had an IPL session to reduce the hair that morning and he recoiled in horror. "Your arms are that hairy? That's actually gross."
Yes, I'm completely and utterly obsessive about my hair but I know I'm not alone in hating and wanting rid of every single patch of it. No matter how much we talk about normalising facial and body hair on women, it's still something that many see as undesirable – taboo, even.
Sure, we've all seen pictures of celebrities and models making a statement and owning their armpit fuzz, or flashing their leg hair in ad campaigns, but a woman proudly showing off her hairy stomach or the ingrown hairs on her bikini line is unheard of.
Even in her 80s, my grandmother hoards those little magnifying mirrors so she can eliminate her facial hairs as soon as they spring up, and a friend recently admitted to sneaking off to the work toilets to pluck her chin hairs before important meetings with male bosses.
A beauty therapist friend of mine also recently revealed that clients apologise to her about their hair before whipping off their clothes for a wax. If they're saying sorry to someone who sees all types of hair day in, day out, how do they feel in front of new partners?
Skin specialists have also seen a huge rise in clients getting laser hair removal and IPL in a bid to be hair-free from top to bottom (quite literally). I'm in that boat. Instead of spending my money on holidays, clothes or making amazing memories on nights out with friends, I've been saving up for years to zap one body part at a time of every single pesky hair, starting with my face.
How I'm finally learning to manage my facial and body hair
IPL
After a course of laser hair removal didn't go well for me, I booked in for IPL – Intense Pulsed Light. The difference? Laser works on a very targeted wavelength but that of IPL is broader and harnesses a bright light that is attracted to the melanin in the hair follicle, subsequently damaging it.
After 12 sessions, I still have to deal with downy, vellus hairs along my upper lip, chin and cheeks, and while they are so much finer and lighter than before, it's still something I'm conscious of, especially when I'm makeup-free. But I've found that dry shaving (no, the hairs won't grow back thicker, that's a myth) now means I can date freely without having to worry about sneaking off to reapply my foundation or even cancelling beforehand.
At-home IPL devices
Letting my IPL specialist loose on my face was one thing, but having her zap my bits was another. To swerve the embarrassment (although I'm pretty certain beauty therapists have seen everything), I bought the Philips Lumea Prestige IPL Hair Removal Device For Body, Face, Bikini. At £399.99, the price will probably make your eyes water more than the actual ping of the device itself, but after one month of use, I noticed that the thick, jet black hairs on my bikini line and stomach were thinning out. I still have to shave, just not daily, and that makes it well worth the investment. Although having to contort yourself into weird positions to catch each hair is another story...
Getting my hormones in check
Polycystic ovaries can make hair growth feel like a never-ending battle, so it's worth booking an appointment with your GP. He or she may prescribe an oral contraceptive pill to block the male hormones that lead to excess hair growth, but I'd also suggest visiting a dermatologist.
Nasty hormonal breakouts recently led me to spironolactone, an oral pill that has made my skin clearer and significantly reduced my unwanted hair. “Spironolactone is a potassium-sparing diuretic that is licensed in the UK for treatment of blood pressure often in older patients with heart problems,” says Dr. Anjali Mahto, consultant dermatologist at Skin55. “Women with PCOS tend to have two distinct types of hair problems. They often suffer with excess facial or body hair (often in a similar pattern to men – known as hirsutism) but at the same time may notice shedding of scalp hair (often manifesting as thinning over the crown and temples).”
She adds: “Off-label, spironolactone can help with both types of hair problem. It can potentially improve both scalp hair growth and hirsutism. However, in this context it should only be prescribed by a consultant dermatologist with experience in its use as it is an off-label or unlicensed treatment.”
Trying to give less of a damn
This one is easier said than done, especially after everything I’ve just said, but as time goes on, I am starting to realise that I am so much more than my body hair, and that letting it rule my life is only holding me back. Not just from dating, but from jobs, holidays, crazy nights out with my friends and just generally living my life.
Half the time, no one is even close enough to see my stubbly bits, and it's important to bear in mind that most people's perceptions of your appearance are different from your own, anyway. Those who care enough about my body to comment? They aren’t worth it. Which makes me feel a little better when I'm sharing a Tube carriage with around 100 other people or initiating a conversation on Bumble.
More From The Hot Fuzz Series:
Confessions Of A Bikini Waxer: The Dirty Truth
The Secret History Of Hair Removal
This Is How Much Time & Money We Spend On Hair Removal A Year
Laser Hair Removal Made Me Hairier
Let's Get Real About Body Hair
We Are All Hairy Beings – Male, Female, Cis Or Trans
Conversations People Have With Me About My Body Hair
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