No Mr Bond, I Expect You To Die

Every now and then it occurs to me that this blog is sort of documenting my transition. So I should probably do some of that.

As well as being the proud owner of the world’s smallest boobs, there has been significant progress with my hair removal. Something I’ve seen as a chore. Because IPL hurts.

Make no mistake, when the lovely NHS lady zaps my philtrum I would gladly sell you and everyone you know into slavery, just not to endure it again. And I am an entirely rubbish person in that moment. Because the pain is fleeting but beyond what I’m happy to tolerate. I say this as someone who survived a burst ulcer. A pretty decent barometer for pain.

But this week I realised I’m already two thirds of the way through my facial treatment and maybe some gratitude is due. While not perfect, my hair growth is severely diminished and shaving is but a 30 second inconvenience. That’s somewhat awesome, now that I think about it.

My skin is also pretty decent as a result so rather than view it as an ordeal, I’m going to try to start appreciating my sessions. Each one is a little step closer to where I want to be. And I’m getting this free on the NHS. This isn’t the case everywhere.

Next year will be the larger hurdle of “downstairs” IPL. If I can offer you one piece of advice, be wary of answering the door to men travelling in black vans. I’ll give you up in a heartbeat.


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