The clocks are spinning. My home floats in the void, untouched by the outside world except for brief respites through the screen on my phone. There is too much time; the once-radiant luxury of leisure is now all-consuming. I am out of touch, roosting under the roof, outside of space. My boredom issues a very polite ransom note, engendering some activity, any activity, lest I get swallowed up by the void. With intent as sharp as a blanket, each step resounding like distant thunder, I make my way into my restroom, seeing my image. Once again met with palpitating confusion, I grab my most favorite tool: the one that shaves away time, shaves away the parts of my form that had always been so dissonant.
This was a year of strife. This was a year of suffering and much needed rude awakenings. As the allure of retreating into the void has increased, as my bed beckons me into its stygian embrace now more than ever, I still find insomnia darkening my doorstep. I cannot sleep; my mind is running an open circuit. A silver lining runs parallel, whispering when there are no other sounds to be heard. It speaks of introspection; of time – not to change my Self – but rather to find more of my Self. Reflection brought structure to this shapeless year.
I looked into my reflection; I saw what lay behind his eyes: their eyes. This wistful longing for self-expression is met with void; the cultural zeitgeist that I breathe is marred by this relative emptiness. This gap is hermeneutical, and the lampshade it leaves behind conceals my ease of radiance. So, I am left to my own devices.
Since regular sustained action is necessary, I use my devices. They glide across the contours of my face, lacerating the unwanted hairs in the process. My eyebrows are sleek, my lashes are all right, but my face is a mess, and so I must practice self care in the face of adversity.
“Do you have a girlfriend”? The boys would often ask me this; little did they know how much personal detail that question would ask of me. “No, I do not currently have a romantic partner” I would tell them. I have been out as asexual for years, and I feel no gendered limitations on my desire for romance. Alas, it seems, one closet opens into another when I seek to shine light inward. The waters of my identity have been taken for granted, despite their fluidity, they have only ever been bestowed into one container. Slowly but surely, I am noticing this container of mine to be half-empty.
You see, my facial hair has a psychic power, one that is both felt by and perpetuated through the dominant discourses. As the burgeoning beard begins its expansion, it invites projections of masculinity onto my aesthetic form. These projections, though seemingly natural, are alien to my Self. I identify like no “man”; the label to me feels increasingly arbitrary with each passing day, justified only by my passivity. Moreover, the presuppositions that run alongside “man” make me further dissociate from it. I never felt like I fit in with the boys.
Thus, shaving for me is transformed into something of phenomenological significance. No longer is this a banal morning ablution; it is a radical rejection of this dubious “masculinity” that seems to cast a shadow on otherwise sunny shores. It is the first step in a new becoming.
BeNjamyn Upshaw-Ruffner (they/he) is a philosophy student currently residing in Montreal. They like to explore gender and race in both their academic and creative work. Being someone of mixed race with a genderqueer identity, BeN recognizes and champions the importance of authentic representation in all media. BeN's submission, entitled "Frustration, A Hair's Width", explores their embodied experience on the margin as they recon with their socialized gender not aligning with how they self-identify. BeN is pan-romantic, asexual, and genderqueer; so, they identify with and support the LGBTQA+ community. BeN thanks you for reading, and wishes you all good health!