An ingrown hair ruined my week: AMA

This entry is a total TMI sitch. I think it’s funny, but it’s also pretty nauseating. If you don’t like thinking about mutant ingrown hairs and their demises, maybe scroll to the Current Fixations. Don’t worry; I won’t be showing a picture of it.

I am two things: 1. Hairy 2. A hater of hypochondriacs.

Hairy genetics always win. My Nonna, a North African Jew, has hairiness on both sides that effortlessly passed onto her kids and grandkids. I am so excited that my kids (if I have them) will be hairy, too. There’s major upsides to being hairy: flipping it on your head as a teenager, having envy-worthy eyebrows, and knowing that you’ll be hotter than your hairless counterparts when you’re old. Unfortunately, hairiness has its downsides: it’s in all the places you don’t want; it’s constantly coming back, and it has you questioning your femininity at inopportune times.

For the most part, I love being being hairy, but I hate maintaining whatever hairiness goes on below my scalp. Thankfully, living in Bushwick and being around other feminists and/or lazy people makes it way easier to rationalize not removing a lot of it. I used to do laser on my face (need to get back into it) and still shave my armpits. Occassionally, I shave my legs…but not as much lately. It’s been great. I like when pants and socks cover my legs but if I bend a certain way, you can see a flirt of hair around my ankles. She’s beautiful and she’s bigfoot…she’s beautiful because she’s bigfoot!

I hadn’t shaved in maybe 6 months but decided to shave when I was in Florida for the  holidays. Parts of my body cheered while others raged, and ingrown hairs protested my abilities all over my legs. Whatever. They’re usually annoying and go away quickly. Every now and again, I’ll get a crazy one on my thighs that looks like Jupiter’s Great Red Spot for a week or two that goes away on its own.

On Monday, I thought I was getting the same thing just in a more inconvenient spot. This ingrown, over a month since I last shaved, appeared high enough on my thigh that it rubs against its thigh neighbor whenever I move. I continued on with my day after putting a band-aid on it; gym, yoga, frolicking. The sweat must’ve not been a great choice, and I made it again on Tuesday, gyming after work with my band-aid providing minimal protection from the sweat. It was a crazy arms day since my legs didn’t want to interact very much, and I clocked in enough crappy time on a rowing machine to startle my back and worsen my hand callouses.

I look at the hair on Wednesday, and it’s moved into scary territory. I thought I knew a Great Red Spot — this looked like a whole planet. This new nipple on my thigh was inflamed, veiny, and had an even higher purple nucleus. It was disgusting, and now walking or sitting unconventionally became even more painful. Attentive showers and cold compresses did nothing. Whatever hair could have existed here is a dictator deep in its bunker. I ended up bailing on a birthday party because I knew my mobility was compromised. I gave a full explanation. Do you think it’s believable or so far out that it sounds farfetched?

I spent that night feeling physically broken the way I imagine a hypochondriac feels. 1. The aforementioned ingrown hair 2. one specific callous mid-formation stinging each time I moved my hand 3. sore (in a bad way) back from poor form when I tired from the rowing machine 4. The weirdest one — too much saliva in my mouth. While Meera cooked, I read an NY Mag story on protein proliferation at the grocery store aloud and had to keep stopping to swallow the increasing saliva tide. It was obscene and so strange. Am I just a freak?

Thursday arrives, and I wonder if its now time to call the dermatologist. I hate interacting with doctors. My mom painstakingly curated a talented array of specialists I saw as a kid, which I haven’t afforded myself as an adult with changing insurances and residences. I don’t trust my current doctors very well and am in transition with new insurance. I also like to power through my ailments without them.

Remember: I hate hypochondriacs. I’ve dated them; I’ve befriended them, and I can’t stand them. What a limiting way to live your life. This is one of my biggest turn-offs. I’m happy to care for people in real trouble, but the personality type that makes mountains out of illness molehills gets you swirling a drain of B.S. It’s an odd mix of people who’ve gone through serious trauma and nabbed this attribute through struggle and others whose thirst for attention finds some quenching here. In protest, I try not to be one myself. There are so many better imaginary things to worry about. I also think talking about minor poor health interludes are one of the most boring conversation topics and unnecessarily ages us.

At first, I thought this ingrown hair would be a temporary annoyance, but it was time to abandon my nonchalance. I hastily schedule a dermatologist appointment, which happens to be in Downtown Brooklyn close to my preexisting Thursday plans of Leah coworking before Spanish class.

I am walking like Scrooge McDuck to the L train. My feet angle outward as my legs push completely separately from one another. I already miss the train I wanted to make because I took so long walking around the house to get ready. The one I get on requires me to run for my G transfer. I manspread ‘til Lorimer and launch down to the right platform. I make the train, but I’m certainly in pain. Once I arrive at my station, I still have a 7-minute walk, which ends up taking double the time. This form of walking is a workout in itself, and all I can think about this whole trip is how I don’t know how disabled New Yorkers persevere.

This is my second time at this derm, and the girl I saw last time was not available but I was relieved that a different young woman would be my doctor. The receptionist/hygenist/assistant/nurse/[proper title] was the same as last time, though, and she looked to be another Jewish girl maybe a bit younger than me. She was easy to talk to and reacted casually to I just have this really gnarly ingrown hair as she asked pre-appointment questions. We chatted and vibed. My doctor joins us, and I immediately feel her coldness. She was very serious and did not chuckle upon my use of gnarly. It’s time to strip and say a customary I haven’t shaved in a while even though there’s no way that Bushwick’d body hair alarms medical professionals (right?).

I’m not sure what I was expecting from this appointment. A cream? A pill? Something chill for sure, and I didn’t think seriously about what ended up being the procedure: an incision.

Doctors are pros at making us mere mortals feel crazy, and I feel it every time they have to stab me. They’re always shocked, confused, or frustrated by me expressing Oop, that makes me really nervous. Do they think I’m going to scream, cry, and run out of the office onto the street? Please, I haven’t done that since I was 4 at Bower Hill Pediatrics.

I’m still shit with shots. The pain isn’t really too bad, but I hate the anticipation and  seeing a needle meant for me. I don’t hate them enough to go MAHA obviously, but I can’t sit silently while I get jabbed. Instead of screaming or crying, I just start gabbing. I’ll say, I’m going to talk because that makes me feel less nervous, sorry then usually have something to say about my day. In school, I used to go through my class class schedule as long as I had to until it was over.

I laid onto the bed and my assumably Jewish friend handed me a stress ball. The doctor, however, had no sympathy for my surprise or fear; her only question was if I was going to faint or something. Does she not know that a middle ground does exist between robotically accepting a tool in your leg and perishing at the thought of one? Whatever, I’m obviously not a doctor.

Shot first to numb, then she’ll tinker around to get some pus out. I don’t look at any of it, obviously. The stress ball does absolutely nothing to someone who occasionally flicks a fidget spinner to help her focus on The Power Broker. I can’t help but go into my spiel on speaking and speak. I went into my college TV news stage manager question we all used for mic checks: what did you eat today? I only had lunch, which was pasta leftovers Meera made last night with some spicy TJ’s red sauce and coconut milk. Since there were a few chickpeas unclaimed from an earlier meal, she sprinkled the few remaining balls into the dish. Each time I’d eaten the pasta, I’d find one or two chickpeas as Easter eggs. Yes, I just started saying all of this unprompted! Yet another explanation for why I need a newsletter to continue spewing thoughts.

My new friend knew to keep asking me questions. The numbing shot could have been a bit better, so I was happy to keep talking. We talked mostly about TV shows and probably other things that I forget. The doctor joined in a bit. Finally, it was over. She taped some gauze to my open wound. She didn’t stitch it back up or anything, and she said that some pus came out but whatever’s going on seems to still be below the surface. That’s SO helpful! She prescribed me doxycycline to take for the next week. I felt embarrassed and a bit ashamed to be so hairy and talkative (maybe internalized anti-semitism, OF COURSE!), and I felt, again, no warmth from the doctor when I thanked her or anything. I get that a doctor’s job is to perform these procedures, something that many of us don’t know how to do, but I think a little kindness goes a long way, something that lots of humans at least try to do.

I walk out of the office into a gray day and do what any smart person would do: call Meera to tell her of my troubles. Why do I feel like I could cry on the phone? Man up! She asks me a ton of questions that I should have had the foresight to ask the medical professionals then wonders if I should maybe come home. As much as I wanted the sweet respite of my couch, I thought it better to wait out the pain here. My Spanish class is hours later, and by then maybe I’ll feel better. I’d hate to take the train home just to take it back again. Being with Leah at the cafe we love will probably make me feel better, too. Above all, I paid $350 for this set of Spanish classes. Let’s figure it out.

The cafe is a fifteen minute walk from the derm, which is unfortunately far too long for my wounded leg that I have to walk without touching. There isn’t a bus going where I want. Screw it, I’m paying $9 for an Uber. I’m already staying, so I might as well make it better. Leah’s in a meeting, but I text her that I’m on my way but got cut up and feel very raw. I walk into the shop and can’t resist the fun option: an Andes Mint mocha. I hobble with my big coat and big backpack and big wound through the narrow passage next to the bar to the cozy back room, only to find every seat occupied.

Defeated, I still can’t commit to picking a chair at the bar, so I stand behind two empty ones as I await my elixir. A middle-aged woman keeps going back and forth, seemingly confused as to why it’s taking me so long to pivot and clear her path. At one point, she asks if I’ve taken whatever seat, and I replied, Nope, I’m just an obstruction! That should have been time to go home. My mocha arrives in a wide mug and looks like a liquefied marble cake. Needed.

I finally sit. Leah won’t come for another hour. Oh, I haven’t done my Spanish homework yet. Oh, I’m still on the clock for my actual real job that I get paid to do. Pre-incision, my ingrown hair would hurt when I moved or touched it. At the cafe, the wound burns no matter its contact. I’m sitting there in these yoga pants (2008 definition) that are the right material and airiness but pants that are ugly and I hate nonetheless and feeling like a baby unable to make a decision. Raw remains the word. Should I leave? But I paid for an Uber! Should I leave? I look down at my wound and realize that I’ve already bled through the gauze and have three visible blood stains on a part of my thigh that someone could rationalize could be from my period. Okay, I’m leaving.

I texted Leah apologizing and bailing and decided Screw it! once more, calling a $36 Lyft to take me straight home. Actively bleeding and feeling like a baby, I stared out from the BQE, which unfortunately feels like a luxury to be on since my time with it is usually spent below. This whole day felt like one I wished I experienced living in a car-centric place, an appointment I could drive to and from (although I’d hate to get blood on the seat).

Once I got home, I stripped to see what allegedly was once gauze but now looks like a red flag. Touching the area was so painful so I just surrendered to my girlfriend getting a band-aid and doing menial tasks that felt too herculean at the moment. While she maneuvered the gauze and remembered that we own a first-aid kit, a random Boiler Room set was playing in the background. At one point, it was a man with an Australian accent just speaking over a building beat, and I got so frustrated hearing him that I said Could you just turn that shit off? and started crying. The straw that broke the camel’s back…or maybe the dingo’s.

I did not leave the house for the rest of the day. My meds arrived on Friday, and I didn’t remember what I was getting. All I knew was that I was supposed to avoid direct sunlight and wear sunscreen if I had no choice. Once the doxycycline arrived, obviously my first Google was can you drink alcohol on doxycycline — a question I didn’t think to ask while I took it for my acne in early high school — which basically gave me nos other than Redditors saying I actually was fine! I asked variations of this question and got a lot of unsure answers except for adderall, of course a yes.

I’m getting doxxed (new way to say taking doxycycline) for a week, which means no substances. As my gash heals, I do not feel comfortable going to the gym and getting sweat on my wound. As of this writing, I’m still bleeding ever so slightly. An unwilling detox, and I can’t even turn to my healthier addiction? What is a girl to do?

I’m finishing this entry in a bar with friends as I sip my Coke, and I’m ashamed to admit that not having alcohol has been a frustrating endeavor. It’s something I didn’t volunteer to abstain from, and I find myself thinking about it much more than usual since it’s now verboten. My wound is almost closed and looks like a galaxy of purples, reds, and blues. Thankfully, I felt pretty good walking around the day after my stabbing. I just wish I could get back to my routines, and I hate this second hiatus of my crazy gym schedule. I’m trying to use this as an opportunity to help Meera around in the kitchen more, but I am embarrassingly incompetent.

I started the dox Saturday and will go until Friday, so we’ll see if I learn anything about addiction, healing, or prioritization. Hopefully I’ll finish The Power Broker. I hope everything heals normally and my ingrown didn’t destroy my leg for good. I’m so lucky that this happened during the winter, but I hate feeling that winter aimlessness I’ve tried so hard to avoid. Even someone as wannabe-regimented as me is no match for the randomness of life, and I should have listened to my Nonna and waxed instead of shaved.