Sydney’s morning routine didn’t start like her girlfriends’. She stood in front of a bathroom mirror, splashed her face with warm water, squirted a dollop of shaving cream on her palm, lathered up her face and began to shave.
Until recently, Sydney’s face was hairless, like any other teenage girl. The whiskers had begun as a few strands on her chin. She shrugged it off. Her grandma and aunts had some hair on their chins, too. Perhaps this was just part of growing up, she thought.
But now it was impossible to ignore — it had become a beard. When she skipped a morning shave, her classmates noticed. They called her “bearded lady” and “circus freak.”
Her only remaining joy at school was choir, but even that was losing its fun. A promising soprano, Sydney usually was chosen for solos. But recently the choir director had passed her over. “It’s weird,” she says, her voice unusually deep for a 17-year-old girl. “Over the last few months, I had to change sections. Now I sing tenor with the boys.”
