hair
My mom pulled my hair back and loosely wrapped it into a bun. “This is what your hair will look like after it’s cut.” Although she acted like she didn’t care, we both knew she was bothered. I nodded my head and remained insistent on cutting it. She furrowed her eyebrows and tried to convince me once again.
“You will look like a boy.”
She had always hated the idea of looking like the other gender; a girl simply cannot look like a boy. A girl had to grow out her hair, wear dresses, apply makeup, and everything else I’d grown to loathe. I continued to stare into her eyes with the intent to remain fierce. With her eyes glaring back and her hand slowly scrunching my hair, my disregard for her comment made her snap. I could almost see veins popping out of her forehead and steam fuming out of her ears. “Do whatever you want, the hair grows on your head anyways.” She threw down my hair and pulled her phone out. I stared into the mirror for the entire haircut, not at my hair but at my
mom. Even though her facial expression was neutral, I sensed hostility. I searched for any signs of aggression or anger to confirm my instinct. My breath shallowed. Am I being too impulsive? Is this something I will regret? My mind went in circles, a never-ending train of thought. I began to hesitate. Even though I was almost an adult, I felt like a child deciding whether or not she should spend her hard-earned money on a toy. As much as I wanted to feel mature and independent, I feared that I was merely throwing a tantrum in a 16-year old body. I prayed to God for the first time as an atheist and hoped that I made the right decision. I shut my eyes.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
As my reflection gazed back at me, I combed my fingers through my hair. How did I feel about this? Regretful? Satisfied? I turned to my side and peered at my side profile. It looked so... different. Rather than seeing black hair flow down to my hips, I only found rough edges of hair that poked my neck. It was freeing. The barber's scissors cut a burden off my shoulders figuratively and literally. Still, it confused me as a paradox. Even though my hair was shortened into a relatively masculine hairstyle, somehow I felt more feminine. Although I might look like a boy, I felt more like myself, a girl.
A few months later, my mom seemed to somewhat be able to talk to me without looking at my hair sorrowfully as if she was mourning its death. After chatting with me for a few minutes, she finally popped the question. “Do you intend to act as the male role in a relationship?” aka: You’re gay, right? I sighed.
It pained me that even my own mother categorized me according to the standard formulas. I am an error in the grand system of society. Perhaps not a mistake, but an outlier. Because of my childhood environment, I have desperately wanted to blend in with the gender stereotypes my entire life. And somehow, I still stand out. My sexuality is not supposed to be as straight as a line. According to the standards of sexual preference, I am too masculine to be attracted to men. I relate to the iconic comedian, John Mulaney, who said of himself, “I think heaven built 3⁄4 of a gay person, and then they forgot to flip the final switch.” I bare all the typical stereotypes of a lesbian, and yet, I miss the core of it all: attraction to a female. Stereotypes are so restricting. It’s a set of chains binding one to the fundamental equations of identity. A woman does not need to be feminine. A man does not need to be masculine. The liberal public has somewhat accepted this ideology. I propose to further this philosophy. A masculine woman does not have to be homosexual. A feminine man does not have to be gay. There should be no association between whether one follows gender norms and whether one is queer. My “boy-ish” hairstyle might not help my case in defending my heterosexuality, nor will it assist my measly attempt to fit in with others.
However, it is one step closer to finding my true self and being comfortable in my own skin. Maybe, it will lead me to uncharted areas in the society graph and mark new points that morph future
“You will look like a boy.”
She had always hated the idea of looking like the other gender; a girl simply cannot look like a boy. A girl had to grow out her hair, wear dresses, apply makeup, and everything else I’d grown to loathe. I continued to stare into her eyes with the intent to remain fierce. With her eyes glaring back and her hand slowly scrunching my hair, my disregard for her comment made her snap. I could almost see veins popping out of her forehead and steam fuming out of her ears. “Do whatever you want, the hair grows on your head anyways.” She threw down my hair and pulled her phone out. I stared into the mirror for the entire haircut, not at my hair but at my
mom. Even though her facial expression was neutral, I sensed hostility. I searched for any signs of aggression or anger to confirm my instinct. My breath shallowed. Am I being too impulsive? Is this something I will regret? My mind went in circles, a never-ending train of thought. I began to hesitate. Even though I was almost an adult, I felt like a child deciding whether or not she should spend her hard-earned money on a toy. As much as I wanted to feel mature and independent, I feared that I was merely throwing a tantrum in a 16-year old body. I prayed to God for the first time as an atheist and hoped that I made the right decision. I shut my eyes.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
As my reflection gazed back at me, I combed my fingers through my hair. How did I feel about this? Regretful? Satisfied? I turned to my side and peered at my side profile. It looked so... different. Rather than seeing black hair flow down to my hips, I only found rough edges of hair that poked my neck. It was freeing. The barber's scissors cut a burden off my shoulders figuratively and literally. Still, it confused me as a paradox. Even though my hair was shortened into a relatively masculine hairstyle, somehow I felt more feminine. Although I might look like a boy, I felt more like myself, a girl.
A few months later, my mom seemed to somewhat be able to talk to me without looking at my hair sorrowfully as if she was mourning its death. After chatting with me for a few minutes, she finally popped the question. “Do you intend to act as the male role in a relationship?” aka: You’re gay, right? I sighed.
It pained me that even my own mother categorized me according to the standard formulas. I am an error in the grand system of society. Perhaps not a mistake, but an outlier. Because of my childhood environment, I have desperately wanted to blend in with the gender stereotypes my entire life. And somehow, I still stand out. My sexuality is not supposed to be as straight as a line. According to the standards of sexual preference, I am too masculine to be attracted to men. I relate to the iconic comedian, John Mulaney, who said of himself, “I think heaven built 3⁄4 of a gay person, and then they forgot to flip the final switch.” I bare all the typical stereotypes of a lesbian, and yet, I miss the core of it all: attraction to a female. Stereotypes are so restricting. It’s a set of chains binding one to the fundamental equations of identity. A woman does not need to be feminine. A man does not need to be masculine. The liberal public has somewhat accepted this ideology. I propose to further this philosophy. A masculine woman does not have to be homosexual. A feminine man does not have to be gay. There should be no association between whether one follows gender norms and whether one is queer. My “boy-ish” hairstyle might not help my case in defending my heterosexuality, nor will it assist my measly attempt to fit in with others.
However, it is one step closer to finding my true self and being comfortable in my own skin. Maybe, it will lead me to uncharted areas in the society graph and mark new points that morph future