To truly love my black, queer, non-binary, hairy self

A couple of weeks ago I made the decision to stop plucking my facial hair. I had been doing that practice for at least twenty years at the time of this decision and thought that I would do it well into old age. Years back I had given up on the idea of laser blasting my face so that the hair would not return and I could have the chin of a newborn baby and I would no longer be burdened with the chore of carrying tweezers with me everywhere I went. My chin hair grows quick. So much so that I kept a pack of razors in the trunk of my car with a single razor tucked in my bag. Tweezers were an essential purchase and had to be of good quality to make sure that they could pluck the smallest and tiniest hairs with little to no effort. I had become obsessed with the removal of my facial hair.

My face is the current spot on my body that I am actively loving. Years ago I had an idea to let certain parts of my physical body just be what they were without trying to alter them in any way. It started with my stomach. Letting my belly soften and no longer holding it in day-in and day-out, breathing shallowly so as to not let my midsection look rounded. This took time because I was letting go of years of internalized body shaming. Thank you to all of my ballet teachers for that beautiful gift. Once I could let my stomach go for a number of days - in public - without panicking and succumbing to the pressures of not being seen as “appealing”, “attractive”, (insert word for approval of body/identity here), etc. I realized what I had been sacrificing all of those years. My breath.

What else could be possible for me if I allowed myself to relax and love my body?

Sucking in my stomach to appear more slim was a daily practice. I did it even when I didn’t realize I was doing it. When I was a dancer I could never get my weight down to a slim size. My dance teachers called me “thick”, “muscular”, “stocky”, nothing that a dancer should be. I put my body through torture in the hopes of molding it into the shape that would be deemed more acceptable. And even if my body were to become the ideal type there was no guarantee that I would be more visible to my teachers or to the audience because to be thin was the standard. I stood out in a line-up at the ballet barre because of my brown skin, large chest, toned legs and thick thighs. In order to simply fit in I needed to have a drastically different body. I struggled for years literally hurting myself to be what I believed was the archetypal body type.

And that body standard type didn’t just come from my dance teachers. Being a teenager in the early 90’s as a disciple of MTV culture meant that I was constantly being inundated with images of folks like model Kate Moss who were the epitome of ‘heroin chic’, a particular style that accentuated rail thin bodies, pale skin and sunken eyes which - oddly enough - were also some of the signs of a person who was using the drug heroin. Some folks assert that it was Gia Carangi, a model from the early 80’s, who made the look popular as a result of her personal struggles with heroin addiction which she ultimately died from in 1986. Whether or not Gia started the trend is debatable but what is without question is how entrenched this body standard and way of being had so quickly spread and was adopted.

This was nothing new in the dancer world of course. Body standards had long been a source of anxiety for many dancers, particularly dancers of color, who did not fit the mold. The idea of the thin, long, lean ballet body gained popularity by way of George Balanchine who has been considered the father of American ballet. Balanchine co-founded the New York City Ballet back in 1948 and with the rise in his popularity as the ultimate ballet master also came the rise of what Balanchine believed to be the ultimate dancer body. It’s not too long after the birth of the NYC Ballet that we begin to see more principle dancers with ridiculously thin bodies and overly flexible limbs. Prior to Balanchine we see ballet dancers with a little more shape and curves. A.B. - after Balanchine - it becomes clear that a body with protruding bones and overly flexible legs is deemed more appealing and more worthy.

Even if you weren’t a dancer or someone who watched a lot of MTV, you couldn’t help but notice how these body standards were becoming more visible and common.

So this practice of body shaming went way back in my theirstory. Though I left dance the scars of body dysmorphia remained tender years afterward, spilling into my thirties when I became a long-distance runner and lost weight as I ran myself into the ground both literally and figuratively. After I hung up my running shoes I wanted to slow down. While physical activity did bring me joy, I began to wonder if I was maintaining certain practices under the guise of being healthy when in actuality I was doing it to achieve a certain body type. Slowing down and asking myself these questions took time and allowed my body to settle and birth new shapes. I would be lying if I said that I openly and graciously accepted these new shapes. Suddenly I was beginning to see what my body would look like if I was simply existing. Not excelling to some insanely ridiculous ideal of what a beautiful body is. Not enacting physical harm under the guise of self-improvement or health and wellness. Not robbing my body of the essentials it needs for daily maintenance and care.

As is.

Over time this new practice became easier to embrace as the ideas of what an ideal body should look like started to change. Skinny was replaced with curves and while I am not a particularly curvy person I felt myself relaxing and becoming more accepting of my overall shape. My self-acceptance started to waiver once I stopped shaving my body hair. I live in Florida and have regular access to a beach. Not shaving my legs appeared to be less jarring for other people. No one seemed to care. More attention was given when I stopped shaving my arm pits but even then there was some form of social acceptance under the presumption that I’m a hippie. Yes I am a crystal lover and I (try) to eat healthy and organic foods and maybe I do like to walk barefoot in the grass anywhere I go. All of these identifiers pointed to hippie and as long as I was under that category everything was alright.

Letting go of the habitual practice of plucking my facial hair - which was becoming a task as more hair started to appear with each passing year - would prove to be a harder chore to let go. Many years ago I was at brunch with my family on South Beach in Miami. While I love South Beach and have spent many years perusing its streets as a young person - I grew up thirty minutes away - South Beach is not the place you want to go if you are even remotely struggling with body issues and/or your gender or sexual identity. A tiny stroll down one block, whether day or night, could have you in over your head in a heartbeat. But Sunday brunch on Miami Beach is an institution to me so I still go back on occasion. On this particular day I must have forgotten to pluck at home or use the razors in my car because two tables down from me a couple was eating. The boyfriend was pointing directly towards me and rubbing his chin while nudging his girlfriend who was staring so hard that I barely saw her blink.

I felt mortified. I desperately wanted to touch my chin to see how much hair was there but didn’t want to bring any more attention to myself. Realizing that I needed a pillar of support, I casually mentioned to my wife what was happening. By the time she looked up from her plate to pass either a deadly glare or a sharp what the fuck - she’s a pro at cursing effectively - the couple had returned to their food. It took me a while to shake that that day from my memory and every time my hair started to grow I became obsessed with removing any traces of its existence.

I believe that the Universe is always talking to me and showing me signs everywhere I go. Which is why I pay special attention to certain things around me. Things that pop up seemingly out of nowhere and repeat is a sign for me to pay attention. The new signs that Spirit seemed to be sending me were of female presenting people with full facial hair. A dear friend of mine, who I met in 2019, has a partner with fully grown in facial hair. In 2020 I was on a Zoom call for a BIPOC healing space and a woman was on with a full beard. In 2021 I was on another Zoom call birthday celebration and saw another woman with full facial hair. All of these women are beautiful, powerful, deeply spiritual and don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of them. And that’s what I wanted to be and feel within myself. How could I access that power, that unabashed confidence and assuredness within me? I knew I had to let my insecurities go.

I told my wife first that I was letting my facial hair grow. She had informed me a year or so earlier that if I wanted to let my hair grow that she would be supportive and would stand by me. I was tender around this issue with my daughters. While they both have always been supportive of me as I continue to grow and blossom as a human being (they didn’t bat an eye when I told them that I’m non-binary at 40) I didn’t know if there would be an underlying issue with how I was showing up and presenting myself to the world. Then one day my youngest - who is now eight - simply said “oh you’ve got a beard mama” and then proceeded to play Roblox. For my oldest - who is now 21 - what mattered most was whether or not I was happy. More than mother and daughter she’s also my best friend and our bond could never be broken by a couple of whiskers.

I had my foundation, all I needed was to let it go and let it grow. So I did. It’s been a couple of months now and my hair hair is very visible. I have a bit of a buffer with the general public because I still wear a mask when I go outside. I’m certain that I will get stares and people pointing at me once COVID is less of a threat and I don’t have to wear a mask every time I go outside. But I’m using this buffer as a time to get more secure within myself and actively love who I am. I also thought it would be important to intentionally love the parts that I once criticized by using verbal, positive affirmations and tender touch to let myself know that who I am is beautiful. Every so often I touch my chin and tell myself that I Am Love. When I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror I’m often surprised at what I see. It’s less about the hair on my chin and more about the person I see staring back at me. I smile more. I see light emanating from within where I once saw a mistake and a broken human being.

There is a James Baldwin quote that I have found and it resonates with me deeply. “Love takes off the masks we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” - James Baldwin The love that I am building for myself is a love that I never thought I would have in this life. I had resigned myself to being unloveable and unworthy. Out of 100% of self love I would say that I am at 48% which is forty percent more than I had ten years ago. Each day I choose myself. I choose to love myself more and more and live in ways that honor who I am, not who I think other people want me to be. This journey is not easy and it is one that I will be on for the rest of my life. There are some days when I feel good all day and nothing seems to bring my spirits down. There are other days when my self love is a struggle and I cannot get a handle on the negative voice that whispers in my ear. I no longer criticize myself for those rough days. I love that negative voice and remind it that it was born out of fear at times when I didn’t know how to show up for myself. Now we have a new story that we are crafting together. A story of joy, laughter, good company and above all else…

Love.