Who Really Needs Skin Anyway?

Raising a teenage daughter is difficult, but I'd take three of them if it meant I didn't have to deal with body hair ever again. Shaving is the bane of my existence and I do everything in my power to avoid it. It's winter? Cool, those 14 layers of pants will hide the hairy stumps that could likely kill a man. Avoidance is the key. Well no, the key would be winning the lottery and investing in permanent hair removal. Avoidance is the key for poor people. I'm good at avoiding. I do it constantly. Avoiding housework. Avoiding my job. Avoiding the fact that I can't afford what I'm about to purchase. So it makes sense to avoid any unnecessary hair removal. For years it has been a system that I perfected and it has worked perfectly.

Then I got older. Suddenly hair was visible on more than my legs. Short of wearing a ski mask, my hair growth either had to be taken care of or I had to succumb to the idea that people would mistake me for the man of the house. Unless that title also comes with the ability to play video games, nap on demand and eat without gaining a damn pound I don't want it. So that leaves me with hair removal. The one thing I do not love. In fact, likely the one thing I hate worse than teenage lingo.

Now most good girly girls would visit the local salon, pay a few bucks and have the problem taken care of. I might too if I didn't wait until I resembled a furry creature to tend to the mess. But this time around I was so busy that I let the problem grow. It wasn't until Drama Queen pointed that I had the picture perfect girlstache that I thought it might be important to take care of it.

Fortunately, I was in possession of some amazing lotion that I bought a while back. It removes the hair perfectly and it doesn't irritate my sensitive skin. If I even mention lotions my skin will break out. So this works for me. Except that a while back translates into about 8 years. And apparently those lotions expire. Which means that I could rub it all over my face and not once will it do a damn thing. So that meant a trip to Walmart. Don't judge, if you looked like a hairy man-woman you would choose Walmart over the alternative as well. I figured I was wearing pants AND a top so I was automatically in a class above the other patrons.

I purchased a brand name hair remover for the face that I shall not name. CoughNairCough. After visiting the self-checkout so that no one commented on how I grew a better stache than Grumpy, I headed home ready to be a girl for a few minutes. I threw some hair dye on my hair to cover the (bigfoot sized) handful of grey hairs that I had and I slapped on some of this unnamed lotion. Might as well make a full night of this girl stuff right? This was going to be easy peasy. Wait 5 to 10 minutes and the face looked like a female again.

I ended up, after testing that shit, realizing I had to wait the full ten minutes. So I did. I removed it and was pleased to see that you could see the skin again. Went on to handle the hair dye and grab a quick shower. It was during this shower that I first realized something was wrong. The water hurt. As in I felt like a radioactive chemical was coming directly out of my shower head with a distinct mission of  attacking my face. With a head full of hair dye I had no choice but to continue, but I prayed to the Gods that I would make it out alive. I just knew that someone was trying to do me in. It didn't dawn on me at the time that perhaps something was wrong.

It wasn't until Grumpy asked what I'd been drinking that I realized there might be an issue. I assumed the consistent burning was normal for this product and that it'd ease off by morning. His question made me wonder what might be going on. I ran to the nearest mirror and realized that he was right. Since that never happens, I had to acknowledge it. It actually did look as though I'd stuck half of my face into a vat of cherry kool-aid.

Now on a normal weekend I would have a couple of days to let it revert to normal. This particular weekend I had a couple of functions to attend. Functions that I didn't particularly want to attend looking like a man, but I didn't want to attend them looking like a messy 3 year old either. So I did the only thing I could do. I  panicked. I worried. I swore that I was going to be humiliated the next day at our event. Grumpy told me to sleep and it would clear up.

Of course, he can't be right twice in a row. It violates the woman's handbook of man's conduct. So I woke up and went straight for the mirror. I will say that the red ring around my face was gone. It was, however, replaced by a burn and several sores. It appears that in an effort to eliminate the stache, and what might have been the start of a beard, from my face the lotion had also taken skin with it. Apparently the directions should more accurately read: Leave on for five minutes and you will still have hair. Leave on for ten minutes and the hair will be gone, but it will take three layers of skin with it.

So here I sit at the end of the weekend and I have a ring of sores around my mouth. I've spent the weekend socializing with people and I know that they notice. How do you not? My face looks like something that makes you want to wear plastic gloves and  throw out any cups I drink from. I didn't mention it though. I figured starting off with 'Hi, I burned the shit out of myself trying to get rid of that freaky mustache' could make things a bit awkward. I'm sure they felt the same when they opted not to ask if I'd had all my vaccinations.

This is why my lottery winnings would first go to ensure that I had permanent hair removal. It is also why I will brave the salon and let the beautician yank that shit off with wax next time. At least if she removes skin along the way I will be able to sue. Then I can have the permanent removal I want. In the meantime, who really needs the skin on their face? Obviously I don't.