One Hour A Week

Every Saturday I hazard a trip to a small office building for one hour a week. After exchanging pleasantries, I have a thin needle, thinner than the width of a hair, repeatedly jabbed into my face, followed by a quick electric shock. This causes the hair follicle to overheat via vibration and explode, which can then be removed. Minute after minute I lay there, sometimes in conversation, sometimes zoning out, to avoid thinking about the pain.

Electrolysis is one of those “elective” things that, as a transgender woman, feels insulting to call it such. Where I live and work, there’s little to no pressure to be feminine to a tee. I live in one of the most liberal of states, in one of the most liberal of fields. And yet, if I want to do things outside the state, outside my bubble, I know that I can’t rely on the open-mindedness of others to ignore unintentional gender signifiers.

It’s a very real reality that in some places in this country someone finding out I am trans means I will be murdered and that it is unlikely the culprit will be caught, charged, and sentenced. And to try and avoid this fate, I pay for this hour out of my own pocket, so that one day I can maybe not be killed. I mean, not having to shave is pretty sweet too, I guess.

I don’t think about it every day, but I do tend to think about it for one hour a week.