What is my crime? That I have facial hair? A moustache? Would anyone care if I were a guy? Would you, dear Mom, worry this much if I were a boy? And you, my beautician, making me feel self-conscious with your taunts—why should I? It's just hair! If it's a source of pride for men, why must it be shameful for women?

I refuse to believe it's my fault. I didn't choose this, and I can't just shave it off.

There was a time when every other month, I had to faithfully visit the beautician and endure the painstaking process of having each strand of facial hair plucked to conform to 'conventional beauty' standards. After all, a black moustache on 'fair-skinned' faces is deemed unthinkable, even jarring! Oh, and it's not a complimentary service—it comes at a cost. Every month, a significant amount of money flew out of my pocket for this torture. As my eyes watered from the pain and my nose rebelled with random sneezes induced by the plucking, the beautician would smile dutifully. Did she ever consider how much it hurt? Why did she choose this profession? Was it to enhance beauty or to make young girls cry by plucking their facial hair? Of course, I could opt not to go, couldn't I?

I would have done so, but I prefer enduring the monthly round of torture to facing the inevitable comparisons I would receive if I didn't go regularly.

Once during lunch, my best friend was talking about her cousin and casually remarked, 'You remind me of him.' I froze mid-bite, nearly choking on my food. I knew she didn't mean to hurt me; her past descriptions of him had always been positive. However, her next words pierced my heart: 'He has a moustache just like you.' At that moment, it felt like all my self-esteem washed away with the water I gulped down. In an all-girls school, they sometimes forget you're a girl, especially if you have a moustache! But I can't help but wonder if the comparisons would have been even more hurtful and traumatic in a co-ed school.

No judgments at home, right? Wrong! Once, I was arguing with my grandmother about whether my brother, a clean-shaven guy, should ever grow a moustache. I said, 'He'll never grow one; his moustache isn't thick enough to be impressive.' Trust me, it isn't, and it never will be. My offended grandmother, who is prouder of her first grandchild than her second, cheekily retorted, 'Why? Because God gave you all the moustache, so he can't have any?'

I froze. ‘Excuse me! With all due respect, Grandmother, I am a woman; did you forget that?’ But I couldn’t let her have the pleasure of winning that argument. So, I laughed it off with a poker face and said, ‘Yes, Grandma, God was much kinder to me in the facial hair department!’

Now, let me trace back my long history with the moustache.

When I was still in school, I spent excessive time there in the evening, courtesy of having an employed mom. She could only come to collect me by 5 pm, but classes were over by 3:30 pm. As a socially awkward soul, I would sit and stare at the people who came and went. Occasionally, I would stroll around the nearly deserted school campus.

One such day, I saw a girl much older than me standing near the stairs. She had a serious look on her face. She was fair, good-looking, slightly plump, and in uniform, with a heavy school bag. But what captivated my attention that day was her fantastic black moustache. It wasn't exactly like a man's but surprisingly not that subtle either, unlike the usual facial hair I was used to. Without intending to, I stared at her for a while before I caught myself and strolled past her. Maybe she shaved her face? This was before facial hair hit me in full force.

Was it that girl’s curse, perhaps, or just a random coincidence? After hitting puberty, or rather after puberty hit me, I started living that nightmare. Out of the blue, among all the inconveniences of growing up, I suddenly had a reasonable moustache on my face! Who would have thought? To make matters worse, my very protective mother did not like this turn of events, where her only girl’s gender identity was challenged. She did want me to stand out, but not this way. So, like the doting mother she was, she did everything possible to get rid of this ‘inconvenience.’ Everything from home remedies to not-so-home remedies was tried and tested. All this made me painfully more conscious about my face and the “abnormality” that rested on my upper lip.

I still remember my first-ever trip to the beauty parlour.

I had visited with my mom before, but this time, it was for me, not her. I had thick eyebrows and fairly noticeable facial hair, and they plucked my eyebrows and bleached my face, giving me that classy look to my mom’s satisfaction. She proudly took me to my cousin’s wedding, and I even got a few looks from the other species and my own, which boosted my ego quite a bit. But after the wedding, my stubborn moustache outdid itself and regained full force. I was no longer the icon of beauty and perfection. As a stubborn teenager who had tasted beauty once, this was, of course, utterly unacceptable. I didn’t want to let go of my ‘beauty.’ But I was stopped from shaving my face. Apparently, this could make the hair grow back thicker and the skin look harder—both of which YouTube now claims are mere myths!

This was unacceptable. I never really attempted shaving my upper lip. By coincidence, I came across a beauty program that talked about waxing. My juvenile understanding demonstrated how sticky paper is applied to a woman’s legs, and when it is pulled off, there is no sign of hair left. The ‘wax’ involved in the ‘waxing’ never caught my attention. This idea struck me. This was before the era of Google and online shopping. I procured the nearest thing in the house resembling the sticky paper on television—cello tape.

I judiciously stuck a piece of cello tape on my unsuspecting upper lip and then yanked it off. Voila, a clean face! Nope, not really.

Frankly, a few hair strands gave up on me, sticking ungraciously to the tape. But I felt a burning sensation on my upper lip. When it hurts, stop! But no. I felt like I was winning this war and kept returning to my upper lip, tape after tape. I stopped only when I thought I had done all I could. But then, my face didn’t take it as lightly as I did. When I woke up the next day and looked in the mirror, it really looked like I had grown a moustache overnight! The war I thought I had won turned into humiliation, for my upper lip was promptly scarred. I hid my face and avoided human contact as much as possible.

But Mom, being Mom, caught me the minute I appeared for breakfast. She was appalled and wrung out of me how I had managed to scar my face! Thankfully, she didn’t criticize much. She was just too surprised that I could bear that much pain to pluck a few hairs off my face. ‘There are other ways; this is your face. Don’t play with it!’ In short, she told me never to repeat this idiocy. I tried not to go in front of her until the scar disappeared. But that was not the primary concern; there was school once the weekend was over!

Being creative, I came up with another story. I told everyone a totally believable account of how I slipped on the stairs, lost my balance, hit my upper lip on the edge, and got the scar. Thankfully, the scratch disappeared after being a source of constant shame for about two weeks. The scratch was now long gone, and my face was back to normal, but unfortunately, so was the hair. Even though I promised Mom I would never abuse my face again, I couldn’t stop my hand from constantly rubbing my upper lip and plucking out a hair or two in the process.

Then, I saw an advertisement in a random women’s magazine for a hair remover cream.

Somehow, I didn’t dare ask Mom directly. Not that she would have denied it to me, but I couldn’t bring it up in front of her; too much pride. So, I left that page open on her desk; she always caught the cue and brought it up, saying there was something called bleach because hair remover cream had too many chemicals and was not considered safe for the face. So, would I like to try bleach? I acted casual and said, ‘Yeah, okay,’ though I wanted to scream, ‘Of course, Mom! You’re the best!’ She dutifully bought it from the medical shop as if it were for her. Even though I stood next to her when she got it, I pretended I had no clue what facial bleach was, though it must have been much too obvious why my mom needed bleach when her “moustached” daughter was standing right next to her!

After carefully reading the instructions and testing the bleach behind my ear, I applied it to my face.

I kept it on for no more than 7 minutes, as directed, and then washed it off. The stench was a bit strong for my taste, but lo and behold! My black moustache was now blond! So, it was very much there but magically not there. What a brilliant optical illusion! However, the illusion couldn't last, as my sensitive skin didn't take kindly to the bleach. It gave me a burn spot. Although the bleach was good for my self-esteem, it was not so good for my skin. Hence, my bleach story ended as soon as it started. No one at school really noticed my moustache, and I wasn't that beauty-conscious when people didn’t remind me, so I was settling in—well, settling in with my moustache.

But then came a marriage function, and Mom was too busy to take me to a beauty parlour. Frankly, I didn’t like going to one! It made me feel like an outcast, so I thought, why not bleach my face myself? Out came my box of old bleach cream. It did have a rather odd smell, but I promptly ignored this, as looking pretty was the priority. Risking my face with old facial bleach didn’t sound too risky at the moment. I put the bleach on and dozed off. This time, instead of my facial hair acquiring the colour of my face, my upper lip acquired the colour of my facial hair. Mom was shocked, and so was I. Again, my belief in a higher power was endorsed because the black upper lip that threatened never to disappear vanished the next day, and we went to the function as though nothing had happened.

With no social function looming on the horizon and glad to have my face back to normal, I left the moustache alone for a while. But those women's magazines wouldn't let up on the subject, attacking it with increasing fervour. Especially in the letters section, there was always some woman fretting over facial hair, which hit too close to home. The solutions listed various alternatives like applying bleach, though they cautioned against it for those allergic, or "threading," the painful plucking of hair one by one. Ouch!

There was also mention of laser treatment—effective but unnecessarily expensive, requiring multiple sessions to see results.

I buried myself in fiction, hoping the triumph of good over evil would distract me from my facial hair woes. I couldn't muster the courage to ask Mom to splurge on treatments for something as trivial as facial hair. Yet, as if by magic, she found out anyway. ‘Let's give this a try; it'll work for you this time,’ she said, brushing off my concerns about the cost with, ‘What else is my money for?’ The benefits of having a working mother! Grateful but too proud to show it, I kissed her cheek with a flimsy excuse. She eagerly arranged appointments with a dermatologist and thus began my sessions with the relentless lady of skin care.

Mom accompanied me to these sessions. The dermatologist assured us that many people face this "issue" nowadays and that laser treatment is effective for most. No more facial hair? Was this a dream? I think both Mom and I wanted to believe it. Then came the cost discussion—a significant sum for our middle-class family back then. I hesitated; was it worth spending so much on a few hairs? I wouldn't blame Mom if she decided against it, especially since one session might not suffice. Worse yet, there was no guarantee the hair wouldn't grow back after four or five sessions. I nearly lost hope and was about to stand up at Mom's signal when she asked, ‘How many sessions will she need?’ What? Mom, are you serious? I didn't voice my disbelief aloud but couldn't help feeling incredulous.

The dermatologist responded, ‘Let's see how she responds after one session.’ ‘When can we start?’ I asked eagerly. ‘Today, if you'd like,’ she replied. I was led into a room filled with intimidating equipment. The dermatologist and her assistant placed protective eye shields on me and instructed me to lie down and relax. I felt a cool gel applied to my face, followed by a sensation akin to multiple ant bites. After enduring about half an hour of discomfort, they handed me a mirror, and to my relief, my long-standing facial hair issue was significantly reduced. Mom looked delighted, perhaps more at my happiness than the reduction in hair. The dermatologist prescribed some creams and scheduled follow-up appointments every month. Despite these efforts, my facial hair stubbornly returned each time. After four unsuccessful sessions, I decided enough was enough. I discussed it with Mom, and she agreed to halt the treatments.

My facial hair became a topic of urgency again before the next family wedding.

Mom declared, ‘Let's go to the beauty parlour!’ ‘For what, mom?’ I questioned. ‘I don't want you looking like that for your cousin's wedding,’ she insisted. ‘Whatever,’ I muttered in resignation.

‘Why aren't you more beauty-conscious? Don't you know where your friends go?’ she pressed.

‘No,’ I replied flatly.

That ended our discussion for the day, but I noticed her spending the entire afternoon at her desktop. By 4 pm, I overheard her making a phone call to book an appointment. It was a beautician she found online, and she promptly scheduled a visit for me.

At the parlour, my eyebrows were meticulously shaped, my slight moustache was plucked, and I even received a soothing fruit facial. Tears welled up as my eyebrows were plucked, and I couldn't help but sneeze during the moustache plucking. However, seeing how much effort mom put into this, I endured the discomfort.

She sat there with such interest, despite being a busy employed woman; by the end, I looked... "beautiful," according to both mom and the beautician.

Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was still missing from my face. I appeared clean-shaven, conforming to social standards of beauty. Despite this effort, the moustache reappeared weekly, prompting my monthly visits to the parlour lady. I procrastinated these appointments as much as possible due to the pain involved. Nevertheless, it was a less costly, more conventional approach expected of me compared to laser treatment—all in the name of beauty!

Then the world found YouTube, or rather, YouTube found the world. I discovered something called 'self-threading.'

All you needed was a piece of thread, and voila, your moustache could disappear as soon as it grew back. Even now, I'm not sure what my face would look like without it! Sometimes, I might even sport a beard if I let it grow. Occasionally, I forget to check the mirror and thread. But when I notice the surprise and shock in people's eyes as they glance at my upper lip and chin, I quickly thread my face back into 'convention.'

It's heartening to see women embracing their facial hair, though some still face societal rejection. Maybe one day, it will be fully accepted, considering how common it is among women. It still surprises me. I like to think of myself as an 'unconventional' radical, but truthfully, I'm just a regular person, threading a little bit every day to 'fit in.'