Welcome to the Hormone Thunderdome — Please Keep Your Hands, Feet and Chin Hairs Inside the Ride

Listen. Nobody warned me that menopause came with bonus features. I thought I was signing up for hot flashes, mood swings, and the occasional urge to throw a small appliance. But no. NO. My hormones said,

“Hey girl, hey… what if we also gave you a mustache?”

A mustache. On my face. Like a full on Snidely Whiplash tying maidens to train tracks. And just when I was processing that, the chin hairs arrived. Singular at first, like a scout. A tiny reconnaissance soldier.

I plucked it. It returned with reinforcements. Now I’m basically growing a full wizard beard, and not even a cool Gandalf one. More like the bearded lady from a traveling circus who absolutely did not sign the consent form for this storyline.

And honestly, I swear she was in menopause too. You cannot convince me otherwise. That woman wasn’t a sideshow — she was a prophecy.

So here I am, standing in my bathroom with a wax strip, whispering, “Not today, Satan. Not today.” Meanwhile, my hormones are in the corner like gremlins rubbing their little hands together and plotting my downfall.

Every time I rip a strip off my face, I lose three years, a childhood memory, and gain one new chin hair. It’s math. Menopause math. The numbers do not lie.

And of course, Wonder Mutt rushes into the bathroom like he’s coming to save me. He takes one look at the situation, decides I’m not actually dying, and immediately uses my distraction to inhale the cats’ food like an opportunistic criminal.

Meanwhile, the cats stand in the doorway with the silent judgment of creatures who have never once questioned their own body hair. They look at me like I’m the one who needs to get it together.

At this point, I’m not grooming — I’m fighting a war. It’s a war I did not enlist in and one I am absolutely losing. The enemy is my own endocrine system, and it has gone feral.

If this keeps up, I might as well lean in. Buy a tiny top hat. Join the circus. Become the Bearded Oracle of Hot Flashes and Chaos. Honestly? It could be iconic.

Final Thoughts From the Thunderdome

Menopause is not a phase. It’s not a transition. It’s not even a chapter. It is a full‑contact sport, and my face is apparently the arena during this round.

And That Concludes Today’s Menopausal Meltdown

If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom with tweezers, aloe, and the last shreds of my sanity. Wonder Mutt will be licking his lips. The cats will be filing formal complaints.

Til next time, thank you for riding the Hormone Thunderdome, please exit the ride safely.

About the Author: Kat writes the Crow Brain Chronicles, survives menopause one chin hair at a time, and is supervised by Wonder Mutt and three cats who think they’re management. She shares her chaos so you don’t feel alone in yours.