Last week I got a haircut. I’ve had a lot of them in my life, but somehow this one was magic.
I dyed my hair platinum blonde sometime around Thanksgiving as some kind of ‘screw the status quo’ rebellion, and loved it. I loved it when I first dyed it. I loved it when it grew out & my roots started showing. I got a haircut at that point and the barber gave me the perfect fade. It was the kind of ombre pretentious fashionistas dream of, only manlier. But lately, my hair was getting too long and I was concerned that cutting my hair to the length I wanted would leave me with horrendous early-2000s-boy-band-esque frosted tips.
So, I told the barber to cut it off. All of it. Please, don’t leave any blonde on my head, I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to have to dye it back. I don’t want Lance Bass hair. I don’t want it anymore. When I finally convinced the barber to just do it and cut off almost six inches of hair, I ended up just shy of a buzzcut, erring more towards a high and tight. It is amazing. Not that the haircut is revolutionary in any way, but all of a sudden strangers have started addressing me as ‘he’. My voice has started dropping over the last month, but I have still been consistently mis-gendered by the general populace. If I had known all it took to pass was to lose my hipster haircut I would have done so a long time ago. Oh past me, it is crazy to think of the things you would have done with the knowledge you have now! I know it seems like such a small thing, but every time someone addresses me as ‘he’ it feels like this: While still in the midst of pubescent voice-cracking and awkward hormones, every correct pronoun from a stranger feels like a fucking victory. Maybe one day it will feel commonplace and ordinary, but today is not that day. Today is the day when customers say “This nice man was helping me pick out a chair” and my heart soars to the goddamn moon.