Hirsutism is the clinical term for excess hair growth in women — specifically male-pattern hair growth

As told to Shoshana Gross

Fear. Confusion. Suffocating behind stuffy blue barriers. Covid stormed onto the stage of 2020, bringing a deluge of rules, regulations… and respite.

Because for the first time in years, I felt like everyone else.

I was able to hold a face-to-face conversation without calculating how far away I could stand without looking rude. Sitting at a work-related meeting was completely worry-free — no need to “casually” place my hands on my chin. A thick scarf was no longer my woolen lifeline in the quest to hide my shame. Behind the shelter of my mask, mirrors weren’t painful. I was safe.

When Covid regulations were finally behind us, everyone breathed a deep (unencumbered) sigh of relief. But for me, the illusion of normalcy evaporated. No one talks about it, and no one says anything, but it’s the humiliating silence of we’re-pretending-not-to-notice that makes my condition so hard.

I suffer from hirsutism.

Hirsutism is the clinical term for excess hair growth in women — specifically male-pattern hair growth. It’s usually a symptom of a deeper issue, which in my case is PCOS. PCOS, polycystic ovarian syndrome, is a relatively common health problem caused by a hormonal imbalance that affects one in ten women. The symptoms of PCOS vary from woman to woman — some women with PCOS will have none of these — but they include several cosmetic issues such as hirsutism, severe acne, obesity, and hair loss on the scalp.

I was in my early teens and blessedly ignorant of PCOS when I noticed the first few hairs on my chin during one of those rare peaceful babysitting jobs where the kids are sleeping. Over the next few weeks, panic set in as I noticed the hairs multiplying, highly visible with my dark hair and pale complexion. When I told my mother, she quickly scheduled a doctor’s appointment, and my concerned pediatrician sent me for testing. The results indicated that I showed early signs of PCOS.

My next stop was the small, local gynecologist’s office, where I was decades younger than the other patients (mostly expectant women). As a teen, I started taking several medications with unpleasant side effects (think nausea so severe I couldn’t eat breakfast), endured regular blood work, and found physically uncomfortable and emotionally draining doctor’s appointments becoming part of my routine.

Even though my symptoms were severe — the difficult tests, the fact that my condition made it almost impossible to lose my extra weight, and anxiety about future PCOS-related health issues — it all paled in comparison to the devastating humiliation of my facial hair.

Imagine a self-conscious teenage girl, desperately trying to fit into the high school social scene, grappling with hair growing on her chin. As if friendship drama, teenage angst, weight problems, homework, and tests aren’t enough. Hirsutism isn’t life-threatening, but only someone who’s experienced it understands the sense of being trapped in your skin, disgusted by a part of yourself.

Equally difficult, PCOS and hirsutism are lonely issues. I never felt comfortable sharing such a private part of my life with friends. Confiding in my mother was my only relief, but I fantasized about sharing with a contemporary. My doctor said PCOS was common, so why did I feel so alone?

Baruch Hashem, I have many friends who are used to the way I look, and being part of a small, warm community where everyone knows each other does make things easier. Yet when I’m thrust into a new social milieu (which is thankfully not an everyday occurrence here!), meeting new people, my anxiety levels rise. I’ve never met an adult tactless enough to mention anything, but pointed glances and expressions speak volumes. I watch eyes drift, repelled yet drawn, to my chin.

That’s when my brain starts screaming: She’s wondering why you can’t figure out that you have an issue and take care of it, so you look like a normal human being! And that lovely introduction is followed by an internal monologue: Is she going to judge me based on what she sees? Is she like the people who know me and love my fun-loving, humorous personality? Can she see past my outside to who I am as a person? I don’t blame her if she’s disgusted, but I deserve a fair chance to make an impression beyond my looks!

If only she knew.

If only you knew.

If only you knew how much research I’ve done, how many articles I’ve consumed, how many doctors I’ve begged for advice. If only you knew how I blindly obey the confident proclamations of the latest naturalist or nutritionist. If only you knew about the drastic regimen I follow to hopefully solve my problem — dairy-free, gluten-free, and sugar-free. Resisting the cup of coffee with a splash of milk, nibbling on almond-flour crackers when I’m craving a bagel, and shunning the tray of rugelach in our school office where I work as a secretary.

If only you knew how many thousands of dollars I’ve spent on painful hair-removal sessions, on laser treatments, with minimal results. If only you knew about the daily medication I take as I struggle with raging hormone levels.

There was a time when hirsutism controlled every waking moment.

My daily schedule revolved around hair removal appointments, and I always planned these visits right before big events. Eventually, it became difficult (and expensive) to squeeze in a slot every time I was going to be on public display. I’d reached my limit. I couldn’t allow hirsutism to dictate my life.

It was a decision that allowed me to take my first small steps away from the relentless, mentally exhausting, critical thoughts. And even with my newfound wisdom, hirsutism is still often (but not always) the first thing that occupies my mind when I wake, and the last thought as I drift off to sleep, begging Hashem to make me look like everyone else.

But I also have a choice. I can hide, or I can pretend to be confident. I choose to pretend I’m confident when I need to attend a kiddush in shul, when I socialize with my coworkers, and when I free my face of scarves. Baruch Hashem, I have close friends, a wonderful family, a satisfying job, and so much to be grateful for.

I’ve been through rough years when I struggled to come to terms with my reality, and I’m reaching beyond those teenage insecurities to find a measure of self-acceptance. Yet even now, I still dream about meeting someone who really understands, someone traveling a similar path, someone to give me the deep validation I lack in day-to-day life.

But until then, I’ve reached a place where I can usually recognize that at the moment, as hard as it is, the way I look is the way Hashem wants me to look.

In His eyes, I know I’m beautiful.

Something you should know:

If you know someone struggling with hirsutism, they may not be able to simply “take care of the problem” and remove their excess hair.

Please don’t:

Stare at the unsightly area when talking to me. Keep eye contact and don’t focus on my chin — it makes me feel really uncomfortable.

Please understand:

I appear carefree. I look confident. I pretend my problem doesn’t exist. This is my way of living life and not hiding because of something I can’t control.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 917)