Today I made my monthly pilgrimage to my hairstylist, Z. She works out of a local barber shop. Z is so cool. We discuss all topics imaginable as long as we keep our voices low so other stylists and patrons don’t listen in. I remember the day I outed myself as a lesbian. I mentioned something about having a mother-in-law.
Z laughed and her jaw dropped. “You’re not married, ARE you, Sam,” she said. She said it kind of loud and I chimed in, “Z, you know I’m gay, right?” This was before marriage equality was passed into law in my state. “Even if we wanted to, G and I couldn’t get married.” Loud and proud. There were little snickers among the female stylists; just enough to know they overheard my conversation with Z. All cool.
Today I felt different. My hair is shorter than any of the men’s hair is before I get it cut. You can imagine just how short it is once I get the military-style ‘high and tight.’ On the few sites for FTM’s I frequent on FB, so many young guys question whether they would pass. As men. In public. They want members of the group(s) to help them pick names and, above all, hairstyles.
I wish to show them my hairstyle, my clothes and men’s jewelry. Now, I don’t expect to pass, ever. In my fifties, I’m a bit heavy for my height; my face is fairly femme and I say, even with a beard, I would be a pretty man. So, today I wanted to be sir’d at the barber shop. I wanted to blog I came out as trans. I wanted my community to be proud.
Instead I have to be proud, alone for the most part, and brave. And sincere. Because if I’m not these things to myself when I’m alone, I would be sad and feel lost. Then others might perceive me that way; people might actually be convinced by my actions that I’m not okay with me, when my goal in life is the exact opposite.