the sexual orientation of hair

first published by great weather for MEDIA



“my haircut came out before I did”    –Anonymous 



You cut your hair on a Tuesday when the newspaper revealed

fourteen different murders spread out in over five different territories.

On page eleven, there was an interview with a survivor of sex trafficking

who had just written a book, which seemed to receive high praise. The weather

outside could have been described as drab or B-movie-horror bone chilling.

But none of that mattered because you cut your hair from twelve inches or nine

to two or four and now you are no longer what you were.



When you were seventeen, you grabbed the slightly rusted scissors found in

mother’s coupon drawer, stormed up to your purple-drenched bedroom and

began severing all the compliments out of your hair. You watched a puddle of

the only thing anyone ever noticed about you cover the floor. You refused to

watch as you amputated each strand, tufts at a time. And then, you turned around

to face your massacre and you smiled. Because now, the only thing distracting away

from your face is what really matters: your brain.



Your parent sees you post-shear and asks why you always feel the need

to make yourself unattractive. You wonder why hair means so much to

others, when it contains no tongue and chords to speak and impress.



Can be used as camouflage to hide and protect. You use this method to conceal

the parts of you which do not match the way you feel inside. See: vagina



Before, when it fell past your shoulders, the whistlers called you beautiful and sexy.

Compared you to princesses and paper dolls. After, everyone forgot to look.



You learn that hair has a sexual orientation because when you no longer have it, suddenly

everyone sees you asgay or queer or a dyke or butch. All the words that were always inside

you and had nothing to do with your hair.



There seems to be a binary in the non-binary of queer measured by haircut,

so you give in. You spend two monthsdoing research. Going to LGBTQ events

to study the queer coifs that seem to be in rotation. You catalogue about five

different kinds, but none would work with the frizz genetically burned into your

scalp, so you leave your hair alone. Hope you are still seen by just your presence

in the room. You give it fifteen minutes. Then forty. You leave having uttered

only the exhales of your oxygen.



When you move to New York City, you worry about your leg hair. And all the

curls and stench beneath your arms.It is summertime and all the other female

presenters are smooth like sanded-down wood. You sit on subway, hoping no one

will notice. Then across, you see a gender-experimenting human with hair to match

yours. When they smile, it reaches your face and you feel seen for the first time in this

siren-soaked city. You stop worrying about others. You throw away your razors, which

at this point had just grown oxidized. You stop putting so much pressure on your hair to

define who you are. You buy a dictionary and start learning new words to call yourself.

You came out of the closet almost twenty years ago, so you stop allowing its contents to

define you as well. When you enter spaces, you stop waiting for others to speak to you.

Because you are tired of waiting. Because you know you are a beautiful anomaly.

But so are they. With or without hair.


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