Carnivorous Cranium 2009 - Vol. 1, Pt. 2

Recently I was asked to remove my moustache. Yep I have a moustache, it's not very apparent apparently, but in a world of fascist beauty standards and lack of appreciation for diversity some people see it, and some give a fuck when they do. Personally I'm quite partial to it. When and if I remove it, I feel like there is something missing from my face, that it looks bare somehow... of character and distinguishing features maybe.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my moustache. It does not really fit into generic mainstream ideals of overly manicured beauty, but when it's gone there will always be another thing that does not adhere. It was only recently that I was asked to get rid of it by someone who wasn't my mum, (the only person who can say things like that to me and get away with it).

I wasn't always empowered about my appearance however. I grew up wanting to be blonde haired, blue eyed, and thin, I am not any of these things and never will be. I realised that I was made to feel this dislike for my appearance since there is no real diversity in what we understand to be beautiful.

When I was asked to remove it by a dude I was seeing at the time (read: straight, white, monogamous, male... not that there is anything wrong with any of these things, but if you know the type of generic male I mean, that is so not compatible with me), he asked me a leading question, after he asked me to remove it on our second date.

"...do you like it?" He said, expecting me to say 'no'.

"Yes I do actually... why shouldn't I?" I said rather defiantly and offended that he would have the gall to even ask me to remove it in the first place.

There are times in which I get rid of it, not because I don't like it or suddenly felt anti-feminist, but just because I felt like it or by instigation of my mother, and my whiny reluctance toward it means that it's not too often, thankfully. However, I would never get rid of it for someone, just on the odd occasion for myself.

What I mean by fascist beauty standards is that our current standards of beauty are so rigid and do not allow for diversity within these ideals. Women in Edo period Japan blackened their teeth because within that time and space it was thought that white teeth was ghostly and unappealing, this was one of the standards of beauty in that time and space. For us to look back on this and think oddly of them is to forget or ignore our own bizarre beauty practices.

When I learnt this I realised that beauty standards in any period of time and space are so transient and not worth getting hung up about. It was very freeing to realise I do not have to adhere to these fascist beauty standards... or any for that matter because they are of no consequence since one's self worth does not have to be based on external validation. By the same token I recognise the importance of self-expression through personal appearance. This should not negate the fact that there should be more diversity in our standards of beauty. I actually like the androgyny that my mou implies, and love being able to be playful with that and create my own aesthetic.

Is there something about your body you have been made to feel ashamed of or forced to change? Maybe it's time to reassess and see if you can be proud of it instead. Decide on your own appearance, instead of being dictated to by fleeting fascist fashion.

“Don’t let them make your personality spam.”

It’s strange re-reading what I wrote back in 2009. Back when the moustache was something playful, defiant — a small rebellion against a world that demanded smooth skin and silence. I used to think of it as just a feature. Now it feels like it was always a signal, to myself more than others.

Now, in 2025, the facial hair is back — thicker, darker, this time thanks to HRT. And this time it means something different. Or maybe more. I’ve waited 25 years to get this far, to get what should have been mine from the beginning. The way testosterone lets me inhabit myself more fully, the way strangers default to “sir” — these things feel right. Or at least, they feel closer to what’s real.

But here’s what no one tells you about being visibly trans this late: the danger doesn’t disappear with affirmation. I’m passing more often, but not always. And the way I was raised — not just as a girl, but as a wife in training — still shadows me. That early socialisation taught me to make myself small, pleasing, self-sacrificing. I catch myself slipping into it sometimes, even now, in situations that feel unsafe. Being seen as a man doesn’t protect me from the internalised instincts of someone taught to keep others comfortable at their own expense.

I’ve been thinking more and more about control — and not just the internalised kind.
That’s exactly what this video nails:

It breaks down what so many of us feel but don’t always articulate — that the right's obsession with trans bodies isn’t about “concern” or “protection,” it’s about ownership. About punishing anyone who refuses to follow the script. Trans people expose the fragility of the binaries they cling to. Our very existence messes with their categories. So they lash out — in laws, in headlines, in bathroom bills, in silence.
Not because we are dangerous — but because we refuse to be controlled.

And I realised — when someone tells me to shave, to erase, to blend in — that isn’t about beauty. It’s about them needing the world to stay legible on their terms.
That little moustache I clung to in 2009? It was never just a quirk. It was a threat. A disruption. A glitch in the matrix of femininity they expected me to inhabit.

Back then, I resisted fascist beauty standards by keeping my moustache.
Today, I resist by surviving. By insisting on being visible, on my own terms, in a world that still thinks some bodies are up for debate.

Because the system doesn’t just want your conformity — it wants your soul to match your packaging.
Neat. Neutral. Non-threatening.
It wants your personality to be spam: bland, processed, mass-approved.
Don’t let them.

If there’s a part of yourself they told you to hide, flatten, shave off — maybe that’s the very part worth holding onto.
Maybe that’s where your real story starts.