A Journey Through Light: Laser Hair Removal, Masculinity, and Therapie Clinic

It began, like many things worth exploring, not with a grand epiphany, but with a small, persistent irritation. Quite literally, an irritation—on my face. For years, I lived with the quiet frustration of excess hair high on my cheeks, the kind that never quite fit within the geometry of a beard, no matter how artfully sculpted. It sat defiantly above the natural line, coarse and dark, a patch of rogue follicles that refused to cooperate with razors or clippers.

Shaving it daily became a ritual of resignation. Always the same: redness, ingrown hairs, the inevitable nicks, and a burning sensation that lingered long after the mirror was wiped clean. I tried everything. Waxing—once. Never again. Threading was more bearable but oddly brutal, like submitting my face to piano wire. Even tweezing, which felt almost noble in its monastic discipline, left me raw and unsatisfied.

It was never enough. Worse still, it was never permanent. I resigned myself to this battle—until curiosity, that gentle but persistent voice that underpins everything I do at The Curiosity Project, began to whisper: what if there’s another way?

I had spent the better part of the last few years investigating laser technology from a macro perspective—quantum photonics, space-based communication, surgical precision in robotic medicine. Lasers have revolutionised almost every aspect of modern science, but I had never stopped to consider the most intimate frontier: the human body. My body.

The tipping point came quietly. A moment of enough-is-enough, combined with a desire to better understand not just the tech, but the tension around it. Why, in 2025, is there still a lingering hesitation—especially among men—to speak openly about grooming, skincare, or non-invasive aesthetic treatments?

I booked a consultation at Therapie Clinic on Wigmore Street in London. It was, in many ways, an unremarkable decision. But as I sat in the chair, feeling the cool gel on my face before the first pass of the laser, I realised I was stepping into territory that still feels oddly taboo for men. The technician, thankfully, treated it with the same clinical professionalism she would for anyone. No raised eyebrows. No veiled judgment. Just facts, wavelengths, and protocols.

Here’s what I learned.

Laser hair removal works by targeting melanin—the pigment in hair—with concentrated beams of light. These beams are absorbed by the follicle, which then heats up and becomes damaged at the root. The hair falls out over the next week or so, and with repeated sessions, the follicle either becomes dormant or dies entirely. What makes this fascinating—beyond the immediate cosmetic effect—is how tailored the technology has become.

Diode lasers, like the one used in my treatment, are considered the gold standard for darker, thicker facial hair. They operate at wavelengths between 800 and 810 nanometres, which allows deep penetration into the dermis while sparing the surrounding skin. Unlike older IPL (Intense Pulsed Light) systems, which scatter wavelengths, diode lasers are precise, coherent, and safer across a broader range of skin tones. Modern machines are often equipped with advanced cooling systems that prevent thermal damage to the epidermis, reducing discomfort significantly. The laser pulses are incredibly fast, too—often in milliseconds—allowing large areas to be treated quickly without sacrificing accuracy.

This is not just cosmetic fluff. It’s science—measurable, replicable, effective. And it’s changing lives quietly, follicle by follicle.

After just four sessions, the results have been transformative. The hair on my upper cheeks has thinned dramatically. In some areas, it has vanished entirely. The texture of my skin has improved noticeably—not only because the hair is gone, but because the chronic irritation has subsided. My skin, for the first time in years, feels calm. Smooth. Even.

What I hadn’t expected was the psychological shift. There’s a particular relief in no longer dreading the morning mirror. In not performing those last-minute touch-ups with a razor just to make a line look “clean.” In no longer arranging my schedule around when I can or can’t shave, to avoid a breakout before a meeting or recording.

But there’s more at play here than hair and skin. There’s a cultural undertone that deserves addressing. For many men, grooming stops at shaving and perhaps a bit of moisturiser if you’re feeling indulgent. Laser hair removal, on the other hand, is still often framed as a luxury—something feminine, frivolous, or even shameful.

It’s a false dichotomy. The idea that to care for your face in a way that is long-term, clinical, and effective is somehow not masculine is absurd. If anything, the most traditionally masculine thing one can do is solve a recurring problem with the best tool available. And in this case, that tool happens to be a machine that uses the physics of light to restructure your skin’s relationship with hair.

What’s more, the science supports not just aesthetic benefit, but dermatological health. Fewer ingrown hairs mean less inflammation, less post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation, and fewer chances of infection. The very act of removing the hair improves the function of the skin. It becomes a more stable canvas for everything else—shaving, skincare, or just showing up in the world.

I have six sessions left in my course. That’s six more opportunities for refinement, and likely, permanent resolution. But already, I feel like I’ve passed a threshold—not just physically, but personally.

Curiosity led me to the door of a clinic I once might have walked past. It took me beyond the brochures and blog posts, into a deeper understanding of how light can alter not just the surface of skin, but the story we tell about what it means to take care of ourselves. For men who have spent years tolerating, enduring, or hiding behind irritation—know that there is a better way. Know that the science is real. And know that stepping into a beam of light might be one of the most freeing decisions you ever make.

After all, this is what The Curiosity Project has always been about: not answers, but questions. Not perfection, but pursuit. And sometimes, the greatest journey begins not in the stars—but in your own skin.