What It’s Like to Be a ‘Bearded Lady’ With Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia
Key takeaways:
Allison Landa was 10 years old when she heard her pediatrician use the word “hirsute” to describe the excessive amount of hair on her body.
Allison was later diagnosed with congenital adrenal hyperplasia, a genetic disorder that produces a hormonal imbalance and has symptoms such as facial and body hair and male-pattern baldness.
Living with this condition has sometimes meant dealing with stares, laughs, and misgendering. Allison has managed it with humor and made it the topic of her memoir, “Bearded Lady.”
My Journey is a series of personal essays about what it’s like to cope with a medical condition.
The day I heard the word “werewolf” whispered behind my back, I understood that I stood out — and not in a good way. That was when I realized that I was growing hair in the wrong places — on my lower back, shoulders, face. It was also when I knew I was going to take serious steps to make it in this world.
I was 10 years old, and I understood I was different.
When my mother took me to the pediatrician, he said that I was “hirsute.” I knew that had something to do with the hair. What else could it be? He wrote up a lab slip and handed it to her. She never took me to get the tests the doctor had recommended. Instead, she brought me home and taught me to shave my face like a man.
Trying to look feminine and shaving twice a day
It was 1985, and we lived in Southern California. Bearded ladies were not in fashion.
“Your face will tan evenly,” my mother said.
It didn’t. The hair grew with vigor. I started shaving twice a day, the way she had taught me: run the water to get it good and hot. Press a wet towel to the face to soften the hair. Apply the shaving cream gently, covering all problem areas. All problem areas? Do you know how many there are? Use the blade with a confident hand, working against the direction of the hair growth. Pat dry and cover the shadow with makeup. You’re looking good.
You’re looking good.
I was 22 years old the day I was first called “sir” in a grocery store, I thought I was looking good that day, too. I’d managed to forget about the hair for once. I was 6 weeks away from graduating from the University of California, Santa Barbara. Life was expanding, possibilities beckoning.
Stares, laughs, and misgendering
Sir. That one word deflated everything.
I went home and employed the 1996 version of Google: the Yellow Pages. I ran my finger down the list of endocrinologists. My student health insurance would never cover this. Getting treatment would mean going into major debt. God knew my parents weren’t going to pay. We had never discussed my condition, what it could be, or what it could mean.
When the doctor examined me two weeks later, he asked if I would be willing to appear in a textbook. I said I’d think about it. But I never thought about it. I never wanted to be seen as a freak, a textbook case. When he called a week later, he told me that my testosterone levels were off the charts. I pictured that: sky-high. I was never able to get the grades I wanted or earn enough money to comfortably pay the rent, but in this I was able to excel.
Awesome.
I started taking a trifecta of medications: spironolactone, dexamethasone, and a birth-control pill. Nearly 5 weeks later, on the eve of my college graduation, the doctor called to tell me that my levels had taken a “spectacular fall.” You could have fooled me. I shaved extra close that day so that I didn’t look like a man in my graduation photos.
Sorry, Sir. Excuse me, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am.
Surviving what life throws at you
I was 33 years old when I got engaged. Immediately, I started worrying about my wedding day, the need to shave super-duper close so I definitely wouldn’t look like a man in those photos.
Then came the explosion.
I sobbed in my fiance’s arms. I confessed. I told him about everything: being the werewolf, the rejected lab slip, the fact that “spectacular fall” did not mean the end of the stubble.
A week later, he accompanied me to an appointment with a specialist. The doctor listened, took a few notes, mulled over my old lab results. “I need to confirm this,” he said, “but I suspect you have congenital adrenal hyperplasia.”
Suddenly, I had a name for what I had. Naming something means you can do something about it. Action, my mother once told me, is the key to anxiety.
I went back on medication. It was the same trifecta, but with a suggestion: Get cosmetic help. The combination of medical intervention and cosmetic treatment could work magic.
We were planning our wedding the day we drove together to Walnut Creek, a half-hour east of where we lived in Berkeley, California. A small affair, a Jewish ceremony.
In Walnut Creek, I underwent laser hair removal. It was the first of many sessions. It hurt, but not as badly as the stares, the laughs, the misgendering. Two nights later, I leaned into the mirror and watched as the singed hairs began to fall from my face.
My wedding photos are beautiful. And I look like a woman in them.
Why trust our experts?
