The worst of times

The hair on my chin, when I was a teenager, caused me great misery

Looking back life could not have been more traumatic, than the time of life that I spent as a teenager. Not a day passed when I did not feel miserable. In fact, I never experienced so much embarrassment as when I fared badly on the academic front.

The first signs of thick black strands of hair on my chin were another source of my misery. From my classmates, some teachers especially the physical training instructor, made it a point to comment on the hair growth on my chin to my neighbours. Even though I chose to brush off their sarcastic remarks rather determinedly, the thought that I was the odd ‘man’ out in a class of boys and girls sunk deep into my head.

When alone, I would stare for hours at the mirror to assess the extent of damage to my otherwise beautiful face, contemplating on the best solution for addressing the menacing issue. Once I was reminded of my grandmother advising my sister to use turmeric powder to prevent the growth of unwanted hair. I chose to try it out on myself, but to no avail. It instead invited cryptic comments from all and sundry.

On another occasion, my classmate suggested using the scissors in the dissection box that we carried as part of our armour, being a biology student. So along with frogs and cockroaches, I discretely used it on my chin. The change was perceptible, as many noticed it, it did boost my self-confidence. The ‘affected area’ of the skin remained ‘clean’ only for a few days and again my problem resurfaced with redoubled vigour. Some elders admonished me for my hasty action of using the scissors, for in their view that was not the solution--hair would only grow faster. "These are all age-related metabolic changes and one must learn to live with it," would be their stock advice.

No one seemed to understand my predicament. Desperate at times for a solution, I would scan all ads in the newspapers, try out something that someone even jokingly suggested hoping for relief from this misery of sporting a goatee. Once a month, along with the hair cut, my hairdresser would put the trimmer to effective use on my chin. There were no hair-remover creams like Anne French or Veet at that time, else I would have tried them out too, albeit secretly.

Life took a turn for the better when I turned eighteen. An elderly person in our locality presented me with an imported razor with twin-edged blades. It was a cause for celebration.