Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

… pondering deeply about such things like what position I’d prefer to be in if I ended up in The Human Centipede, when I will go buy more wet food for Evilbunny (my cat) and a bleach pen for the white Hanes© shirts I wear every day, getting mula for school books, and whatnot - eventually the realisation of how seriously lucky I am in the tranny department comes creeping in.

Prior to starting hormone therapy a few years ago, I had literally resolved to stop dating. Zilch, done, ~fin~. It was just, too painful and triggering. Every attempt was an incredibly potent reminder of how I was trapped in a body that felt disconnected and uncomfortable. It wasn’t worth crying every single time and spiralling into weeks of hopelessness. Without intimacy, I could bind and never look at myself in the nude. Easy peasy. Solution foreva!

But, the idea of hormones sounded almost as awful. Losing my androgyny and looking like a boring ol’ greasy cisgender dude? Eff no. Heading down a path that insurance companies and numerous doctors explicitly exclude? Uh, no. Increasing my testosterone levels that are associated with shaving years off one’s life, increasing cancer risk, liver damage, increased cholesterol, acne, etc.? No, no, and no.

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For almost three years now I’ve been self-injecting. The very first time my hand quivered and I literally couldn’t do it - but every injection since then? No problem. It had become such a menial automaton task that when I switched from bi-weekly injection to every week it wasn’t no thang.

But then, something happened. About a month ago.

I don’t know what the hell it was, but when I went to self-inject, I just … couldn’t do it. This was a little over a month ago. I remember feeling extremely frustrated and confused over the whole ordeal and eventually cracked and had a friend help me.

I figured that this was just a one-time anomalous incident. But no! Ever since, every Thursday, I can’t self-inject. I couldn’t even look until last week.

What the hell?

Seriously.

So this morning I wake up, determined to self-inject. I get the needle ready, cleanse the injection site with an alcohol wipe, go for the plunge and… nothing. Couldn’t do it. I felt closer this time, but still froze up. So my dad woked, poked, and it was a done deal.

But I’m so frustrated. Why would I be able to self-inject with absolutely no problem for almost three years and then bang! start freezing up? It’s bizarre to me. By next week, hopefully, this little phase will be over with. Maybe it’s just school stress or not enough strawberries in my diet or who knows the hell what. Somethun.

Uh, something unprecedented and exciting has occurred in the land of my facial hair. I’m not sure when exactly it happened, but it did - last month I had developed what I’d argue passed as fo’ real real facial hair. It got to the point where, as I posted about prior, I could shampoo it, condition it, comb it, and trim it. Life was good. And then Halloween happened - where I had to shave it for my costume. Life was sad. But fun.

This is where the unprecedented and exciting took place:

After shaving, I looked noticeably different. My baby bare face was actually jarring to me. Now, this is unprecedented and exciting because this is the first time I’ve ever a.) grown facial hair and b.) shaved it and actually looked different because what I shaved was actually noticeable.

It’s taken me two days now to adjust to my baby bare faced self and I’m growing it back as.fast.as.I.can. I suspect that I’m going to turn into my dad who went 20+ years without shaving until doing so and horrifying everyone about a month ago. Which was also exciting and unprecedented seeing as that was the first time I’d experienced having more facial hair than my dad. Or brother. Boo-ya.

Even better - when I went back to school Monday with nothing but sparse stubble my peers were also jarred. Which, again, reaffirms how fo’ real real my facial hair had become! I received comments like, “You look so much younger!!!”, or, “Where’d your facial hair go???”, or, “All you preparing for No Shave November or what?”.

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When I started this transition shindig I absolutely couldn’t wait for the day I’d develop stubble and, even better, epic facial hair. But when it finally started to happen, I was disturbed by how brittle and wiry it was in comparison to hair elsewhere. I expected it to be coarse - but it was so… dry and unmanageable and grody-feeling. Especially on my chin.

With my brother and father as facial hair role models, neither of which really do much in the self-maintenance department, I had resolved that my fate rested in either the land of coarse torture brittle or lame-o baby butt bare.

I had no idea that a solution to this predicament existed - but it does. And it goes by the name of beard conditioner.

Beard frickin’ conditioner.

And little beard frickin’ combs.

Once I made said discovery I’ve been letting these face whiskers grow! Every morning and night I rub some of this Bluebeards crap in:

- and then use a li’l Kent beard comb. It’s kinda the most adorable thing ever:

Afterwards, any little stray whiskers are cut with scissors.

This system is so good. Bang! Facial hair obnoxiousness dead!