“You’re so brave, to always be doing crazy stuff with your hair. I’d be too afraid to.”

I know her pretty well, the woman who levied this ambiguously backhanded compliment at me, and despite the way it came out, I do fully believe she meant it positively. We’re sitting outside, a gorgeous early spring day, watching our students eat lunch, and picking at our own sub-par cafeteria meals. We’ve worked together for about five years at that point, and she’s a pretty genuine, easy-to-read kind of person, so I don’t doubt her sincerity.

I just shrug.

“I get bored easily,” I tell her. “I need the novelty.”

Neither of us pursue it further.

Still, something doesn’t sit quite right with me.

I’m never content with my hair for very long. I’ve had every length you could possibly conceive of — I’ve had hair that flowed down to my ass, I’ve had shoulder length bobs, bob carres, pixie cuts, pixies with undercuts, fully shaved sides, faux hawks, literal buzzcuts, and whatever-the-fuck anime-esque nonsense this is:

I’m not ashamed of this cut; I actually kind of miss it. Face redacted for… other reasons.

I’m no stranger to unusual or unnatural colors either; since my teenage years, off the top of my head, I think I’ve sported black, blonde, orange, fire engine red, bright pink, rose, lavender, royal purple, navy blue, turquoise, teal, neon green, maroon, plum, emerald green, and fuchsia. I know for a fact that there are people currently in my life who have never seen me fully sporting my natural hair color. I’m pretty sure there are quite a few of them, actually.

My hair has been one of my primary means of self-expression for most of my life, and the right to that self-expression has been, weirdly, one of the most contentious battles regarding my personal appearance that I’ve ever fought.

Most of my cuts as a kid and young adult were done at my mom’s salon — not a salon my mom worked at, but the one she went to. I sort of inherited her stylist, who was a very pleasant woman named Regina, who, unfortunately, seemed to have no idea what to do with femme-presenting folks who wanted non-gender-normative haircuts. I spent a very long time spending a significant amount of money (like $90 a pop) on haircuts that never actually looked anything like the cuts I wanted.

Oh, they were objectively nice cuts; Regina was nothing if not talented with a pair of scissors. But they weren’t what I wanted; shit, they weren’t even close to what I asked for. I don’t know if it was that she didn’t trust herself to execute the look I wanted effectively, but the way she framed it certainly didn’t highlight any trepidation on her part regarding lack of skill.

It reflected an innate distrust of what I actually wanted.

I’d come in and ask for an undercut with #0 shaved sides, and I’d leave with a pixie cut with wispy bangs.

“I held back a little so that it would still look feminine.”

So a twenty-something walks into your salon with a very specific set of criteria for their hair, down to the razor number, and you just ignore them? Even after having gone over with you what they want, asking questions, receiving answers, and seeing a photo of the haircut?

That’s not misunderstanding — that’s policing their gender presentation.

(Psst: Blobby N Friends has a great short comic about this exact issue):

blobbynfriends.tumblr.com

I thought, maybe, the situation would change if I changed venues; a high end salon favoring mostly upper-class, middle-aged women may not be the prime place for getting, let’s say, a fauxhawk. After years of paying out my ass for haircuts that I didn’t even want, I sought out a barber.

There was a barbershop not far from where I worked that looked promising; my wife took me one Saturday morning when we knew we could get in the door early. The barbers — mostly old, white men — didn’t seem to know quite what to make of me, but one of them eventually waved me up and had me take a seat. He pulled the barber cape around me, tucked a cloth around the nape of my neck, and asked me what I wanted.

So I launched into my spiel. I had failed to bring a picture this time, so I did the best I could to explain with very limited technical language — an undercut, short top with slightly more length towards the forehead, shaved sides, a little fuller towards the crown, but fading to a #0 closer to the temples.

He stared at me.

“I don’t think you want a #0 cut,” he said. “That’s practically bare skin.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what I want.”

He shook his head; I could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea, but wasn’t going to argue it. He leaned back, looking past the other working barbers, and caught my wife’s eye. He gestured to me.

“You ok with this?” He asked.

My wife, to her credit, was absolutely nonplussed.

“I mean, it’s not my hair,” she said, confused. “She’s allowed to do what she wants with her body.”

“It’s gonna be short.”

“Well, yeah,” my wife said, blinking slowly. “We came for a haircut. That’s the goal.”

In the end, admittedly, it was a far, far better cut than I’d ever gotten at my salon, and it was literally a third of the price, so I don’t wholly regret going. But when he leaned over to look past me and ask permission from someone else about a choice I was making about my body?

I just about blacked out. No one would have been able to hold me accountable for what I might have done.

And I know why he did it — the presumption being that my wife, as someone attracted to (presumably) women, would be put off by her wife getting a “masculine” haircut.

I was, once again, having my gender presentation policed.

I hate to say that I went back, but I did. Several times. That first barber — Fred — never questioned what I wanted again, but over time I had other barbers — including Kim, the one woman who worked there — who felt the need to confirm with my wife that it was okay to keep going “so short.” Occasionally, usually when I had Kim, she would put a little gel in my hair, style the ends, flip the front a bit, and say, “There, see, still feminine.”

Like it was a reassurance.

I don’t know who she thought she was reassuring.

Eventually, I bought a razor — a Wahl razor for about $40 on Amazon — and using my last barber cut as a guide, started doing my hair at home. Over time, I lost a lot of the nuance of the original cut, but honestly, I’m fine with that.

My hair style has simplified to an undercut with a small strip of long (right now about shoulder length) hair, with the entire rest of the head shaved. I mostly wear it tied back in a top knot or loose, all swept to one side, with two braids framing my face. It’s versatile, to be able to have found one style that can present either more masculinely or more femininely. It suits me.

Oh, and by the way: I have never, not even once, used any of the guides that came with the razor — I use just the razor itself.

Do you know what that’s called?

It’s called a fucking #0 cut. Jesus Christ. Finally.

I try to give people whom I know have good intentions the benefit of the doubt. I don’t wholly absolve them of the impact of their actions, but when those actions are directed towards me, I do try to at least consider the intent.

So when people I know well, who I know respect me, say, “You’re so brave, I could never…” I try to think charitably.

Hair, unlike the even more permanent choice of a tattoo, is a hell of a lot harder to cover, and even the same style looks different on every person. Trying a new hairstyle opens yourself up to the possibility that it may not suit you at all, and then you have to live with the damn thing for a year, or however long it takes to grow to a point where you can get it “fixed.” There is an inherent risk involved with trying something new, so to an extent, I do understand the trepidation purely on the level that “change can be scary.”

But there is also, often, an undercurrent of fear that has nothing to do with the cut looking objectively “good” or “bad.”

There’s often a fear that such a haircut would “mark” them. That people would make assumptions — about their gender identity, or their sexuality — that people would see them as “butch” or “unfeminine.” Which, if femininity is an important inherent part of your identity, makes sense — your haircut should help you present your true self to the world, so you shouldn’t get one that you feel doesn’t reflect who you are.

But by the same token, “you’re so brave, I could never…” often — not always, but, in my experience, often– comes with an undercurrent of longing.

How much easier it would be, they tell me, if they could just shave it all off. How cool it would be to just plop down $20 at the barber and get their hair done, so they could run their fingers through it in the morning, and be ready for the day. How they spend time at the mirror, twisting their hair up behind their head, admiring the angle of their jaws and cheekbones, thinking how much better a short cut would frame their face.

But then, women aren’t really afforded any modes of presentation that don’t mark them in some way.

I’m not brave. I’m just in a position where whatever people assume my haircut says about me is likely accurate, and I just don’t give a shit what people think about those presumed labels.

But I don’t feel like those labels should be presumed based on my hair.

It’s getting better; there are movements now, proclaiming clothes are just clothes/colors are just colors/makeup is just makeup. I might feel a sense of gender euphoria when I get my hair cut a certain way, and that’s wonderful, but other people might just want to spend less time in the shower, and that should be just as valid of a reason for someone to shave their head.

I’m not brave, you totally could do that, and there’s no reason to be afraid. Don’t let other people’s assumption stop you from trying something you so clearly long to. Don’t gatekeep yourself over what other people might think.

You deserve to look the way that makes you happy, in whatever form that happiness takes, and for whatever reason — gender-affirming, aesthetically pleasing, low-maintenance, new and novel, fashionable.

It’s not about bravery. It’s about autonomy, and feeling good as who you are.

“You’re so brave, to always be doing crazy stuff with your hair. I’d be too afraid to.”

I know her pretty well, the woman who levied this ambiguously backhanded compliment at me, and despite the way it came out, I do fully believe she meant it positively. We’re sitting outside, a gorgeous early spring day, watching our students eat lunch, and picking at our own sub-par cafeteria meals. We’ve worked together for about five years at that point, and she’s a pretty genuine, easy-to-read kind of person, so I don’t doubt her sincerity.

I just shrug.

“I get bored easily,” I tell her. “I need the novelty.”

Neither of us pursue it further.

Still, something doesn’t sit quite right with me.

I’m never content with my hair for very long. I’ve had every length you could possibly conceive of — I’ve had hair that flowed down to my ass, I’ve had shoulder length bobs, bob carres, pixie cuts, pixies with undercuts, fully shaved sides, faux hawks, literal buzzcuts, and whatever-the-fuck anime-esque nonsense this is:

I’m not ashamed of this cut; I actually kind of miss it. Face redacted for… other reasons.

I’m no stranger to unusual or unnatural colors either; since my teenage years, off the top of my head, I think I’ve sported black, blonde, orange, fire engine red, bright pink, rose, lavender, royal purple, navy blue, turquoise, teal, neon green, maroon, plum, emerald green, and fuchsia. I know for a fact that there are people currently in my life who have never seen me fully sporting my natural hair color. I’m pretty sure there are quite a few of them, actually.

My hair has been one of my primary means of self-expression for most of my life, and the right to that self-expression has been, weirdly, one of the most contentious battles regarding my personal appearance that I’ve ever fought.

Most of my cuts as a kid and young adult were done at my mom’s salon — not a salon my mom worked at, but the one she went to. I sort of inherited her stylist, who was a very pleasant woman named Regina, who, unfortunately, seemed to have no idea what to do with femme-presenting folks who wanted non-gender-normative haircuts. I spent a very long time spending a significant amount of money (like $90 a pop) on haircuts that never actually looked anything like the cuts I wanted.

Oh, they were objectively nice cuts; Regina was nothing if not talented with a pair of scissors. But they weren’t what I wanted; shit, they weren’t even close to what I asked for. I don’t know if it was that she didn’t trust herself to execute the look I wanted effectively, but the way she framed it certainly didn’t highlight any trepidation on her part regarding lack of skill.

It reflected an innate distrust of what I actually wanted.

I’d come in and ask for an undercut with #0 shaved sides, and I’d leave with a pixie cut with wispy bangs.

“I held back a little so that it would still look feminine.”

So a twenty-something walks into your salon with a very specific set of criteria for their hair, down to the razor number, and you just ignore them? Even after having gone over with you what they want, asking questions, receiving answers, and seeing a photo of the haircut?

That’s not misunderstanding — that’s policing their gender presentation.

(Psst: Blobby N Friends has a great short comic about this exact issue):

blobbynfriends.tumblr.com

I thought, maybe, the situation would change if I changed venues; a high end salon favoring mostly upper-class, middle-aged women may not be the prime place for getting, let’s say, a fauxhawk. After years of paying out my ass for haircuts that I didn’t even want, I sought out a barber.

There was a barbershop not far from where I worked that looked promising; my wife took me one Saturday morning when we knew we could get in the door early. The barbers — mostly old, white men — didn’t seem to know quite what to make of me, but one of them eventually waved me up and had me take a seat. He pulled the barber cape around me, tucked a cloth around the nape of my neck, and asked me what I wanted.

So I launched into my spiel. I had failed to bring a picture this time, so I did the best I could to explain with very limited technical language — an undercut, short top with slightly more length towards the forehead, shaved sides, a little fuller towards the crown, but fading to a #0 closer to the temples.

He stared at me.

“I don’t think you want a #0 cut,” he said. “That’s practically bare skin.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what I want.”

He shook his head; I could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea, but wasn’t going to argue it. He leaned back, looking past the other working barbers, and caught my wife’s eye. He gestured to me.

“You ok with this?” He asked.

My wife, to her credit, was absolutely nonplussed.

“I mean, it’s not my hair,” she said, confused. “She’s allowed to do what she wants with her body.”

“It’s gonna be short.”

“Well, yeah,” my wife said, blinking slowly. “We came for a haircut. That’s the goal.”

In the end, admittedly, it was a far, far better cut than I’d ever gotten at my salon, and it was literally a third of the price, so I don’t wholly regret going. But when he leaned over to look past me and ask permission from someone else about a choice I was making about my body?

I just about blacked out. No one would have been able to hold me accountable for what I might have done.

And I know why he did it — the presumption being that my wife, as someone attracted to (presumably) women, would be put off by her wife getting a “masculine” haircut.

I was, once again, having my gender presentation policed.

I hate to say that I went back, but I did. Several times. That first barber — Fred — never questioned what I wanted again, but over time I had other barbers — including Kim, the one woman who worked there — who felt the need to confirm with my wife that it was okay to keep going “so short.” Occasionally, usually when I had Kim, she would put a little gel in my hair, style the ends, flip the front a bit, and say, “There, see, still feminine.”

Like it was a reassurance.

I don’t know who she thought she was reassuring.

Eventually, I bought a razor — a Wahl razor for about $40 on Amazon — and using my last barber cut as a guide, started doing my hair at home. Over time, I lost a lot of the nuance of the original cut, but honestly, I’m fine with that.

My hair style has simplified to an undercut with a small strip of long (right now about shoulder length) hair, with the entire rest of the head shaved. I mostly wear it tied back in a top knot or loose, all swept to one side, with two braids framing my face. It’s versatile, to be able to have found one style that can present either more masculinely or more femininely. It suits me.

Oh, and by the way: I have never, not even once, used any of the guides that came with the razor — I use just the razor itself.

Do you know what that’s called?

It’s called a fucking #0 cut. Jesus Christ. Finally.

I try to give people whom I know have good intentions the benefit of the doubt. I don’t wholly absolve them of the impact of their actions, but when those actions are directed towards me, I do try to at least consider the intent.

So when people I know well, who I know respect me, say, “You’re so brave, I could never…” I try to think charitably.

Hair, unlike the even more permanent choice of a tattoo, is a hell of a lot harder to cover, and even the same style looks different on every person. Trying a new hairstyle opens yourself up to the possibility that it may not suit you at all, and then you have to live with the damn thing for a year, or however long it takes to grow to a point where you can get it “fixed.” There is an inherent risk involved with trying something new, so to an extent, I do understand the trepidation purely on the level that “change can be scary.”

But there is also, often, an undercurrent of fear that has nothing to do with the cut looking objectively “good” or “bad.”

There’s often a fear that such a haircut would “mark” them. That people would make assumptions — about their gender identity, or their sexuality — that people would see them as “butch” or “unfeminine.” Which, if femininity is an important inherent part of your identity, makes sense — your haircut should help you present your true self to the world, so you shouldn’t get one that you feel doesn’t reflect who you are.

But by the same token, “you’re so brave, I could never…” often — not always, but, in my experience, often– comes with an undercurrent of longing.

How much easier it would be, they tell me, if they could just shave it all off. How cool it would be to just plop down $20 at the barber and get their hair done, so they could run their fingers through it in the morning, and be ready for the day. How they spend time at the mirror, twisting their hair up behind their head, admiring the angle of their jaws and cheekbones, thinking how much better a short cut would frame their face.

But then, women aren’t really afforded any modes of presentation that don’t mark them in some way.

I’m not brave. I’m just in a position where whatever people assume my haircut says about me is likely accurate, and I just don’t give a shit what people think about those presumed labels.

But I don’t feel like those labels should be presumed based on my hair.

It’s getting better; there are movements now, proclaiming clothes are just clothes/colors are just colors/makeup is just makeup. I might feel a sense of gender euphoria when I get my hair cut a certain way, and that’s wonderful, but other people might just want to spend less time in the shower, and that should be just as valid of a reason for someone to shave their head.

I’m not brave, you totally could do that, and there’s no reason to be afraid. Don’t let other people’s assumption stop you from trying something you so clearly long to. Don’t gatekeep yourself over what other people might think.

You deserve to look the way that makes you happy, in whatever form that happiness takes, and for whatever reason — gender-affirming, aesthetically pleasing, low-maintenance, new and novel, fashionable.

It’s not about bravery. It’s about autonomy, and feeling good as who you are.