Bearded Lady by Mara Altman

It was the turn of the century. I was 19 years old and a student at UCLA, a school bathed in milky young complexions and spicy Mexican food. I joined friends for dinner at a taco joint on Sepulveda Boulevard, where a dark and deeply handsome young waiter named Gustavo took considerable notice of my face. I will never forget that name, Gustavo. We flirted over the horchata and made googly eyes over the guacamole. My friends evaporated into the atmosphere until there were only two of us left in the room. Every time he passed our table, he glanced furtively in my direction, and I returned his interest with the dividend of a smile and the promise of much, much more. It even seemed possible that at some point in the evening’s marathon mating dance, we would speak about more than the Thursday night specials.
    Finally, the check — and our moment — arrived. Gustavo placed the bill in front of my friends, and leaned down to my expectant ear. I tingled with excitement about what he might whisper. A phone number... an address... a marriage proposal...
    And then they came tumbling from his luscious lips like poop from a piñata, five simple words that have seared themselves forever into my memory.
    “I like your blonde mustache,” he said.
     
    ***
     
    It is now eleven years later. I’m on the cusp of marriage to a wonderful man who is covered in hair. He not only makes me feel happy; he also makes me feel smooth. I am writing this story for him, because I have something to tell him.
    Dave, I have something to tell you.
    I am a bearded lady.
    No, not like those women you see at the circus. More like those women you see on the street, in magazines, at the corner coffee shop. Yes, Dave, they’re bearded, too. You don’t realize it, though, because we are all (except for a few Cambodians; I’ll get to that later) engaged in an endless process of removing the additional and unwanted hair we inexplicably, annoyingly came with. You see, evolution played a cruel trick on the supposedly fairer sex. It involves chin hair, nipple hair, mustache hair, thigh hair, and — yes — even toe hair. Dave, by God, it’s true — we have fucking toe hair! Just like you! But the difference is that we spend millions, no, make that billions, of dollars to have it waxed, lasered, shaved, and otherwise removed from our bodies, so that when you see us naked, you won’t run screaming into the night.
    I’m telling you this now, before we get married, because I am, unfortunately, plagued with two parallel conditions: an inordinate amount of body hair, and a genetic predisposition toward brutal honesty. These would seem to be contradictory forces, particularly since I’ve spent thousands of my own precious dollars in a futile attempt to look as though I’m not a hairy beast. I strapped myself to a wall in Spain and endured the pain of hot wax; I went for monthly laser treatments from a doctor in Bangkok who almost turned my face into a failed lab experiment; I own enough pink disposable razors to impact the quarterly income of Gillette. I’ve scraped, shaved, yanked, tweezed and plucked nearly every visible surface of my body, not to mention certain sections I discuss only with my therapist.
    I guess I’m also telling you this because I’m trying to figure out why I care. I know you love me no matter what. I realize no one — even you — will ever see the silky brunette strands that occasionally emerge from my nipple. I acknowledge that I’m not the victim of some cruel hormonal joke; I know that plenty of women have it worse than me. That raven-haired beauty in front of me at Vinyasa Yoga on 19th Street, Thursdays at 4 p.m. sports actual mutton chops. But why, when I look in the mirror, do I see Roddy McDowall in Planet of the Apes? How can I rid myself of an obsession borne by women since the dawn of time? What weapon do I have to combat the societal standard that all women must be smooth, supple, hairless creatures? When will I be permitted