Love-Drama

I’ve had noticeable facial hair since I was a kid. My body is average (per BMI) — never particularly fat or thin — just like most girls. But I remember the first time I was teased in 5th grade: “Why do you have a mustache? Are you a girl or a boy?” After that I started noticing it myself — I really did have more facial hair than other girls my age. While theirs was barely visible, mine was very thick — totally different from other girls.
I told my mom and she said, “It’ll go away when you’re older,” but it never did. At 16, I secretly started shaving every day, and it grew back even thicker. I’m 21 now and I still have it — the older I get, the more it seems to grow, and it’s very coarse. I decided to get laser hair removal at a clinic in (...XXX..) after doing research and reading reviews. I did about five sessions, but it didn’t improve — new hair grew back even thicker. I stopped because of the cost.
Then I took birth control pills for over a year, hoping the excess body hair, mustache, and beard-like hair would go away, but nothing changed. I didn’t gain weight from the pills — my body stayed the same — but the hair didn’t decrease at all. These days I shave and pluck every day. I’ve been suffering and insecure for ten years. No one else in my family has this.
On August 31st my period came very heavily with clots, so I had an abdominal ultrasound — but nothing abnormal was found. I’m really distressed. What should I do?
Thanks for reading to the end.
🌙 The Girl Who Fought the Mirror
When you were a child, the mirror was innocent. It only reflected the shape of your smile, the light in your eyes, the color of your hair. You didn’t yet know that one day, it would also become a battlefield — a place where you’d stand each morning, not to admire yourself, but to examine, measure, and question.
You didn’t know that something so small — a few strands of hair above your lip — could change the way you saw your entire self.
But the world, cruel in its casual remarks, made you aware. It was fifth grade when someone said it out loud — that cruel, laughing question that burned its shape into your memory:
“Why do you have a mustache? Are you a girl or a boy?”
The laughter that followed wasn’t just noise. It was a sound that attached itself to your reflection. From that day on, every time you looked into a mirror, you didn’t just see your face — you saw the echo of those words.
At first, you believed your mother’s gentle reassurance.
“It’ll go away when you’re older,” she said.
She meant to soothe you — but time betrayed that promise. The hair didn’t fade; it grew darker, thicker, coarser.
When you were sixteen, you made your first silent decision.
If the world wouldn’t stop staring, you would erase the reason for its stares.
So, behind a locked bathroom door, you took a razor to your face. It was supposed to bring relief — but after a few days, it became a cycle of panic and shame. The more you shaved, the faster it grew.
And no one knew.
Every morning, you would wake earlier than your friends, hiding the routine that had become part of your survival. You’d stand in front of the mirror, razor in hand, pretending to be in control.
But the truth is — it controlled you.
Years went by. You became used to quiet avoidance — turning your face slightly when the light hit it wrong, pretending you didn’t notice people’s eyes drift to your upper lip or chin.
Some days, you wanted to scream:
“I’m just like everyone else! I’m not weird! I’m not unclean!”
But instead, you stayed quiet. Because explaining it would make it more real.
At twenty-one, you still wake up with that same quiet dread — the sound of the razor, the sting of tweezers, the small red marks that bloom on your skin. Every action screams “I’m trying” — and yet you feel trapped in a body that won’t listen.
This isn’t vanity. This is grief — a grief for how you wish your body would simply be normal.
You’ve probably spent years wondering, “Why me?”
You’ve searched, experimented, tried every path — shaving, waxing, plucking, creams, pills, lasers — yet it keeps coming back, stronger than before.
But there’s a reason.
And that reason isn’t your fault.
What you’re experiencing has a name: Hirsutism — excessive hair growth in women, following what’s usually considered a “male pattern.” It often appears on the upper lip, chin, chest, stomach, or thighs.
It doesn’t mean you’re “less feminine.”
It doesn’t mean your body is broken.
It means your hormones are sending stronger signals to your hair follicles than they should.
And those signals come from deeper inside the body — from the quiet chemical orchestra that runs everything: your ovaries, your adrenal glands, your pituitary gland.
In most cases, the main culprit is an imbalance in androgens — hormones like testosterone and DHEA-S, which everyone has, but which sometimes appear in higher levels in women with conditions such as PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome) or adrenal-related disorders.
Let’s gently take a step back and look at the science — not as something cold or distant, but as a map that might finally explain why you’ve been fighting this invisible war for so long.
Hirsutism affects up to 10% of women worldwide. That means millions of women across every culture and language understand this same pain. You’re far from alone, even if it sometimes feels like you are.
But here’s something important: an ultrasound might not tell the full story.
Even if your ovaries look “normal,” you could still have hormonal PCOS — meaning the imbalance is chemical, not visible.
That’s why it’s crucial to ask for specific blood tests, including:
These results can uncover what an ultrasound can’t.
If everything looks normal, there’s still another possibility — your hair follicles themselves might be hypersensitive to normal androgen levels. In other words, even small hormonal signals trigger big reactions in your skin.
That’s not your fault either — it’s partly genetic, sometimes inherited quietly from older generations who may never have been diagnosed.
You’ve tried laser hair removal. You’ve tried birth control. You’ve spent money, endured pain, and carried hope into every appointment — only to watch it fade as the hair kept coming back.
It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?
You did everything “right.” You followed the advice. You trusted the science. And still — your reflection didn’t change.
But there’s a reason those treatments didn’t fully work.
Laser hair removal works best when your hormones are stable. If androgens are still elevated, your body keeps creating new hair even as the old ones are destroyed. That’s why some women notice regrowth even after multiple sessions — not because the laser failed, but because the internal trigger is still active.
The same goes for birth control pills. Not all of them target androgens. Some formulations only regulate your cycle but don’t affect the hormones that stimulate hair growth. To reduce androgens, the pill must contain an anti-androgenic component such as cyproterone acetate (in Diane-35) or drospirenone (in Yaz or Yasmin).
Even then, they need time — and medical supervision.
So please don’t think you “failed.” The system failed to explain it to you.
Here’s what can truly help — not a quick fix, but a real path back to balance and peace with your body.
They’re trained to look beyond surface symptoms. They’ll help check your full hormone profile and rule out rare adrenal issues (like non-classic adrenal hyperplasia or Cushing’s).
Even if you’re not overweight, sugar can still raise insulin — and insulin can raise androgen levels. Try shifting toward:
This isn’t about restriction — it’s about communication. You’re teaching your body to listen again.
It doesn’t need to be extreme. Just move. Walk, dance, stretch, breathe. Exercise improves insulin sensitivity and helps your body use hormones more efficiently.
Once hormones are calmer, laser hair removal works far better. It’s like tending a garden — you can’t stop weeds if you don’t first calm the soil.
Medications like spironolactone (under prescription) can help reduce hair growth by blocking androgen effects at the follicle level. But these must be monitored carefully with blood tests.
Healing isn’t just about hormones. It’s about how you see yourself while you’re healing.
For ten years, you’ve lived with something that made you question your femininity every single day. That kind of pain carves deep scars in a person’s identity. You may not even realize how brave you’ve been — how much strength it takes to keep showing up in a world that constantly tells you how you should look.
You deserve to know this truth:
You are not unfeminine.
You are not broken.
You are simply human — carrying a body that communicates differently.
For so long, you’ve looked at your reflection with judgment. Let’s rewrite that story.
Tomorrow morning, when you stand before the mirror, try whispering something different.
Not “I hate this,” not “why me?” — but softly:
“My body is trying. It’s protecting me. It’s speaking a language I’m learning to understand.”
That small shift changes everything.
You begin to move from fighting your body to partnering with it.
From seeing hair as the enemy, to seeing it as a signal — your body’s way of asking for care.
Sometimes what hurts most isn’t the hair itself — it’s the way people look at it.
The way their eyes flicker in confusion or amusement.
The jokes that pretend to be harmless but aren’t.
You’ve likely learned to smile through it, to laugh it off. But every joke leaves a mark — a quiet bruise that doesn’t fade.
And so you start to shrink yourself. Avoid certain clothes. Decline photos. Choose dimmer lighting. Tell yourself, “I’ll feel confident once this is gone.”
But here’s the paradox — you can’t heal from a place of hatred.
Your body hears the way you talk to it. It needs gentleness to respond, not war.
So let the healing begin not with a treatment, but with a sentence:
“I am allowed to exist exactly as I am — even while I’m healing.”
Every medical condition has a psychological shadow — the part that doesn’t show up in tests.
For women with hirsutism, that shadow often takes the shape of shame. A soft, silent shame that grows like vines around your confidence. It tells you you’re “less than.” It whispers that you must hide to be loved.
But you are not your symptoms.
You are the person who still showed up to class, to work, to life — even while hurting.
That resilience deserves recognition.
If you ever feel the weight becoming too heavy, it can help to talk to a therapist who understands body image distress or chronic appearance-related anxiety. They can help you separate your worth from your skin.
Because you are not your reflection — you are your persistence.
Here are small, practical things that may seem simple — but they’re quiet acts of rebellion against shame:
Your mirror has been a witness to your struggle — but it can also become a witness to your recovery.
Imagine one morning, months from now, you wake up and realize you’ve stopped counting the hairs. You just breathe, wash your face, and smile — not because the hair is gone, but because the pain is.
You may still see small imperfections, but they no longer define you. You’ve learned to see beyond the surface — to the quiet strength beneath.
This isn’t a fantasy. It’s what happens when knowledge replaces fear, and compassion replaces criticism.
Since you mentioned heavy bleeding and clots, I want to pause gently here. That symptom — combined with hormonal imbalance — deserves attention. Even if your ultrasound was clear, it’s still wise to follow up with a gynecologist and ask for a hormonal and thyroid panel. Sometimes low thyroid function or estrogen imbalance can worsen both hair growth and menstrual changes.
Don’t let any doctor dismiss your symptoms as “normal.” Heavy bleeding, fatigue, acne, or mood swings — these are signals. Your body is not complaining; it’s communicating.
Keep notes. Write down your symptoms, cycles, what you eat, your moods. Over time, patterns will appear — and those patterns are the roadmap to your healing.
It’s easy to see yourself as “the girl with the mustache.” But let’s change the narrative:
You are the girl who never gave up on herself.
The girl who faced ridicule at eleven and still kept walking into classrooms.
The girl who researched, learned, and tried treatments most people wouldn’t have the courage to face.
The girl who — even in pain — still seeks answers, still hopes.
That’s not weakness. That’s resilience.
And resilience is beautiful.
Some nights you’ll come home, wash your face, and see the same reflection that has haunted you for years — and you’ll feel like all your efforts mean nothing.
When that happens, I want you to remember this truth:
Healing isn’t linear. It’s not a straight road. It’s a long, spiraling journey — two steps forward, one step back. Some days you’ll feel radiant. Other days you’ll feel broken. Both are valid. Both are part of your becoming.
Let those days pass through you without judgment. You’re not losing progress — you’re learning endurance.
Maybe one day, someone will love you — truly love you — not in spite of your facial hair, but while knowing your whole story. Maybe they’ll touch your face and say softly,
“This is you. All of it. Beautiful, complicated, real.”
But before that day comes, I want you to be that person for yourself.
Touch your cheek in the mirror and whisper,
“This is me. And I am still beautiful.”
Because beauty isn’t the absence of flaws — it’s the presence of grace.
Sweetheart, you’ve carried this alone for a long time. You’ve hidden pain behind routine, turned courage into silence, and tried to fix something that was never a moral failing.
It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to want change. But please, never confuse healing with punishment.
Your body isn’t punishing you. It’s asking for balance.
And now, you have the knowledge, the tools, and the self-awareness to begin.
See the endocrinologist. Ask the right questions. Adjust your lifestyle gently. Try treatments again once your hormones are calmer.
But also — keep loving yourself during the process.
You don’t have to wait until you’re “fixed” to deserve kindness, beauty, or confidence.
You are allowed to live fully right now, even while you heal.
You are still feminine.
You are still worthy.
You are still lovable.
And you are doing an amazing job surviving something most people will never understand.
Your strength didn’t come from smooth skin or perfect beauty — it came from years of quietly enduring and still hoping for light.
So, when you wake up tomorrow and see your reflection, remember this:
You are not your facial hair.
You are not your hormones.
You are the courage it takes to keep showing up anyway.
And that — that is beauty. 💛
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