Gay Rodeo Clown
I knew that I was a lesbian very early on. As I reached my twenties, it was clear that I was a butch lesbian, with more “male” energy than “female.” But my long hair and curvy body was not supporting my self-image. That had to change. It’s not that I wanted to be a guy exactly, I just wanted to be able to pass as one—the hair, the look, the attitude. For me, it was not about altering my body so much as it was about altering my hair. The right haircut would put a swagger in my step, a bit of mischief in my eye, and help me attract the femme woman of my dreams. Where does one look for the proper butch-boi haircut? I figured that the Castro District in San Francisco was fertile ground. I found a small two-chair chop-shop right off Castro and Market and sauntered on in. A sweet looking gay hairstylist wearing a tight t-shirt, hip jeans, and slip-on loafers was sweeping up the hair from an older gentleman who’d just received a buzz cut. Perfect, I thought. This is just the type of hairstylist I need. I nodded in his general direction.
“May I help you, sweetie?” He asked without returning my glance. Sweetie? I thought to myself. Hmmm, this isn’t off to a great start.
“Ah, yeah, I’m looking for a haircut,” I replied, careful not to let my voice rise at the end of my sentence. I wanted my words to be a statement, not a question. When girls usually talk, their voices go up at the end of the sentence, as if they are not sure they have permission to speak. Guys’ voices don’t.
He stopped sweeping for a second, looked me over in a clinical sort of way, and without having his voice rise up at the end replied, “Hmmm, honey, have a seat. You had better wait for our girl to come back. She can give you what you want.” Read more …