I am a chin-haired witch

who will never get married.

A girl dies many deaths.

I died for the first time on a hot afternoon when I was fifteen. I was looking in the mirror, inspecting a pimple that had sprouted overnight on my jaw when I saw it. A chin-hair.  

It was thin and dark and young. It had sprouted with a reluctance that matched the uneasiness I felt as I stared at it. This was one of those things that once you see, you cannot unsee. Like that scene in Midsommar where that old couple falls from the mountain. 

I had been expecting its arrival. Hirsutism, alongside a propensity for hysteria and three-day periods, trickled down my matriline like spring water, blessing each girl with a dose of a little more hair than usual. But as I got nearer to adulthood and it was still a no-show, I was beginning to assume (pray) that that particular gene in our DNA had passed over me.  

Slowly, the uneasiness morphed into something thicker; anger, denial, misery.

With a hardened resolve, I yanked out the hair without a sting. 

For years, I had watched my siblings pluck at their chin before going to parties or meeting with friends. They would snip off the offending hair. And then, they’d run their fingers over their jaws to feel for strays, before dashing out the door to live their lives. At this point, I was still not used to my periods, found body contact repulsive, and felt guilty all the time for no particular reason. 

To think that I would now be subjected to that extra weight when I was only just getting used to being a girl felt insurmountable. 

There was no way I would survive. 

My sister, back from NYSC camp, with her body still hot from the Western sun held up my chin with her two forefingers. She leaned in closely, and then said, 

“Don’t pull them out. It makes them grow faster.” 

By then. I had already pulled out four. And six had grown in its place. 

In school, I thought I was getting away with it. Nobody knew yet, not my friends. And most definitely not boys. I had no idea that my second death was twirling towards me like a winged bullet. 

It was after school hours, and my mom was late that day to pick me up.

I sat under a large tree, accompanied by two boys. One of them, I had an active crush on, and the other was just a friend of a friend whom I spoke to on occasion. The one I had a crush on, let’s call him ‘Jameel’, sat quite close to me and we were talking about movies. There was a new horror film out that he thought was crazy and that I had to watch right away. 

I was glad to hold his attention. Well, I was, right until he leaned in closer, and his eyes zeroed on my chin. My heart skipped. I had gotten so comfortable with people not noticing that I had forgotten to yank and snip. 

“You have hair on your chin.” He stated in wonder. 

Resisting the urge to clasp my hand over my jaw and run screaming, I nodded, with a forced, shaking smile.

“That’s not normal.” He said with a small laugh, his eyes were furrowed in confusion and slight disgust. “Who will marry you now?” 

The other boy replied with, “Of course, she’ll get married. Even the blind and the crippled get married.”

Jameel shrugged and continued the conversation. I nodded along as a piece of me bled out and died. 

With six hairs on my chin, I had been reduced to being unmarriable and disabled. 

For years, I have been self-conscious about this. Double checking in the car mirror to see if the hairs were visible, or if they had been beheaded close enough to my skin for anyone to notice. And yes, I did wonder if anyone would ever marry me, even though my mother had married my father. And the two of them are the most brilliant people I know.

I also did think there was something fundamentally wrong with me. And I didn’t think about how stupid boys (especially those who thought disabled people shouldn’t get married) could be. 

Of course, reading Macbeth was the last nail in the coffin for me. 

In Shakespearean Mythology, the ‘Weird Sisters’ who are witches are described as wild, withered, and with thin lips. Banquo even uses female pronouns, but pronounces that they ‘should be women, / and yet your beards forbid me to interpret / that you are so,’ Essentially, the sisters are old bearded ladies. It has been interpreted that facial hair is a way to mark the sexual deviance of the witches and to point to a masculine element in their character. Their magic and independence point to a stereotypically masculine presentation and authority, resulting in the shifting of the witches’ gender expectations. It may follow that the internal shift may manifest externally, in this case, through the presence of beards. – The Claremont Colleges 

You see, I had no interest in being perceived as a ‘sexual deviant’ or masculine. I had always been fiercely protective of my femininity. This was mostly because, until recently, I still struggled to see myself as feminine.

Femininity then seemed like a far-off Island I was constantly trying to reach as I swam against the tide. 

Of course, I turned to google to discover exactly why I cursed with it and how I could make it go away. I learned plenty, but ultimately, I learned that there was nothing I could do about it.

Hirsutism is excess hair most often noticeable around the mouth and chin. With hirsutism, extra hair growth often arises from excess male hormones (androgens), primarily testosterone. - Mayoclinic.org

I also had no interest in understanding my ‘hormones’ which seemed to be the culprit of everything wrong with my body, mind, and spirit. I wanted to live without facial hair, or I wanted to disappear. 

Thank God for the grace of growing past our teenage years. Young adult me is a lot more graceful and tender about the whole business. And now, my facial hair is no different from everything else I don’t like but I’ve learned to live with; stretchmarks, dry skin, and anxiety. 

I no longer look at my friends’ hairless chins in blinding envy. I no longer wonder why I was given the short end of the stick. I do care that I have chin-hair and I also plan on getting Laser Therapy to get rid of it for good. But I see its maintenance as a part of being a girl, or even better, being me. 

Who would I be if I didn’t do a last check in the mirror to see if there were any hairs growing beyond their bounds? And I imagine that when I do finally get rid of them, I’ll look back at all the times I snipped and yanked fondly. 

As for the people who find me off-putting or distasteful because of the cluster of hairs on my chin, I see them as no different from people who don’t like me because I’m black, or because I’m a girl, or because I’m both but with hirsutism.  

In African mythology, chin-hairs in women signify an innate wickedness and advancement in spirituality. In essence, witchcraft. I have never claimed to be a witch, but in the same vein, I have never claimed not to be a witch. 

While I’m not out at night, flying over happy houses as an owl and eating children, I do realize that I feel in sync with the universe more times than not, I have dreams that sometimes come true and I see angel numbers everywhere I look, all the freaking time. 

Also, having similarities with the Weird Sisters isn’t that bad. Yes, they’re creepy and misleading with their words. But you know what, I do identify as a little unhinged and as a poet, which is essentially the same thing.

So, is there really anything to be sad or mad about? I think not. 

And finally, a little treat for you.  

ESSAYS I’VE READ AND LOVED THIS WEEK ON SUBSTACK 

• I Stink – Dronme’s Substack 

• The Virtue of Thinness – Words from Eliza 

• Cooking with Seawater – Consume, the blog 

• In Line for the Women’s Bathroom – Evie en rose 

• No Longer a Cog – Café Hysteria 

And that’s all for today babe, talk to you next week. 

Love, 

Kaothar.