From the Desk of a Born Again Transsexual

theyre crafted from the cradle to shove it down everyone’s throat and have that be the societal norm. and i get it.

i am feeling the absolute euphoria of a haircut i gave myself a week ago in the middle of the night. i was trying to impress a girl and i kinda ended up really impressing myself too. its a common tip for baby trans to cut bangs. they hide ur hairline, frame ur face, and acceptedly feminine: a op stat boost for a lot of girls just starting out. “gender is stored in the bangs” and goddammit i can’t stop lookin at em, messing with em in the mirror. because of course the Amazing-Miracle-Would-Work-GREAT4U Advice was amazing and a miracle and worked great 4 me, the obtuse-ditzy-doomer girl. with smudged eyeliner, a hot topic choker, and rhea ripley hoodie; i look like the fuckd lil gender guy i feel like rn. like, yes, this is exactly “if velma was shaggy. a film school burnout, curator of body horror and lesbo trashterpiece cinema” like i got some photos and im like YOOO thats like a girl, thats like a girl almost THATS LIKE A GIRL were getting there, oh my god and a lot of photos not so much but dude we’re hanging off these highs like we can fly, i dont care if i fall, i dont care if i dont start flying, ill have spent one day up here, thats all i could ask for

i thought haircuts were hell on earth. the bane of my existence as soon as the horsey seat and tv/vhs combo sets went away. i sat down in every barber’s chair of my childhood, the daggers of my mother’s eye jabbing the small of my back. i remember that’s where i learned tipping culture; she would give me $2 to hand to the dresser and “tell her thanks and how much u like it.” And then, I was flipping through the style books, “yeah, maybe like a 3 on the sides and…yeah, can you keep it just a little longer on the top…yeah, that’s ok” my brother took me to sportsclips once, forced brotherly bonding at the behest of our mom. middle school me did not appreciate the macho decor or the pretty hairdresser in a ref shirt offering a hot towel massage. I always dreaded these cuts but they were a fact of life, a necessity. It wasn’t optional for my parents; the dress and grooming of their children reflected on their abilities and worthiness and boys had short hair. Even thru the recession, no jobs, no insurance, i got my hair cut. genuinely, i think it was a sizable chunk that broke me down from the jump.

and it got worse as you get older and the choice is supposed to become yours but you dont want to make that choice so now the people who always said “we want u to grow up and make ur own choices” dont like wut theyre hearing. jealous of my blonde friends’ koolade dye jobs and girls walking into class with a jaw-dropping chop. they gave me special permission one time to do this “mini mission” where i stayed with a set of elders for a week in delaware when i was 17 or 18. but missionaries follow strict grooming standards and i wore my hair shaggy – above the ears and collar. i said i wouldnt cut it in time, it was a whole thing and people in the stake were UPSET because why did they have to follow the rules but i didnt – i didnt hear this directly at the time bc I WAS NOT ASKING for the exception, it was the organizers (and mom and dad). but i was afraid to branch out anyway, i was still living in the dogma, under my parents roof. i freaked, thinking where in the timeline between graduation, a year at byu provo, going on my mission, finishing byu, and getting a professional accounting job and starting a family, would i be able to grow out and dye my hair? once i become a dad and accountant, its over. longer on top, shorter on the sides. nah, that looks great, thanks.

i hated the byu honor code when i heard about it as a kid and choked on it while i was there, got sent away from so many fuckin exams. had a manager hound me daily when it was “unkempt.” when i left provo, it got easier to skirt the grooming code and covid hit. but transferring over to the U meant my hair didn’t see scissors for two years – and my face rarely saw a razor. i rocked jesus for a while, going back and forth on beards but having my hair long felt so fucking FREEING, honest to god, it was huge for me, like a GIANT weight. and an even bigger weight that gets lifted when my egg cracks and that beard is cleaned off my face for good. the light comes back into those eyes, its so fuckin easy to spot. when that door was opened, i finally started making good on smaller me’s visions and it’s been the best. trying to cut, bleach, and color my own hair is so fuckin fun and makes me so fuckin happy, everytime its just joy. and this time, goddammit, i feel the fucking need to scream from the fuckin’ rooftops: GENDER IS STORED IN THE BANGS