not so fucking scary
Sometimes you get a haircut, and sometimes the haircut gets you.
Last week I was just itching to shave my head, not because I had head lice but because I was in San Francisco, and being there reminded me of a time when I shaved my head but not my legs—an attitude that horrified most hets and a few homos too. Ah, glorious baby dykedom.
About 10 years ago I ran into a college classmate at the West Hollywood Gauntlet. I didn't recognize her at first. Now a professional piercer covered in tats, she had been an unassuming sports dyke—a shot putter on full scholarship—when we had an autobiography seminar in common. When she recognized me I remembered her immediately. She and her track buddy used to sit across the room from me, and we never spoke even though it was clear that we were all sisters. I told her I had always wanted to break the ice with them but that they seemed unapproachable.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked. "You were fucking scary."
It tickled me to think this mammoth alpha butch was once intimidated by me, though I wasn't actually cultivating "scary" back in the day. While I first buzzed my head in a dark mood, I maintained it more out of utility than anything: I rode a motorcycle to school and I hate helmet hair.
Shaving my head served another important utility: My mother never again complained about the length of my hair, as long as I had some.
My partner reminded me last week that our South Carolina beach week is coming up and that now might not be the best time to revisit my lost youth, what with gay-bashing on the rise and all. So I split the difference and asked my hairdresser for a "soft" crew cut. God love a West Hollywood hairdresser: My boy's not afraid to get out the clippers when I say "summer cut."
I don't spend much time on the motorcycle these days, but I do bicycle—a pursuit for which I gladly shave my legs—and I still hate helmet hair. With this cut, when a shower isn't readily available, the sweat generated on a ride is generally enough to revamp and restyle.
Last week I was just itching to shave my head, not because I had head lice but because I was in San Francisco, and being there reminded me of a time when I shaved my head but not my legs—an attitude that horrified most hets and a few homos too. Ah, glorious baby dykedom.
About 10 years ago I ran into a college classmate at the West Hollywood Gauntlet. I didn't recognize her at first. Now a professional piercer covered in tats, she had been an unassuming sports dyke—a shot putter on full scholarship—when we had an autobiography seminar in common. When she recognized me I remembered her immediately. She and her track buddy used to sit across the room from me, and we never spoke even though it was clear that we were all sisters. I told her I had always wanted to break the ice with them but that they seemed unapproachable.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked. "You were fucking scary."
It tickled me to think this mammoth alpha butch was once intimidated by me, though I wasn't actually cultivating "scary" back in the day. While I first buzzed my head in a dark mood, I maintained it more out of utility than anything: I rode a motorcycle to school and I hate helmet hair.
Shaving my head served another important utility: My mother never again complained about the length of my hair, as long as I had some.
My partner reminded me last week that our South Carolina beach week is coming up and that now might not be the best time to revisit my lost youth, what with gay-bashing on the rise and all. So I split the difference and asked my hairdresser for a "soft" crew cut. God love a West Hollywood hairdresser: My boy's not afraid to get out the clippers when I say "summer cut."
I don't spend much time on the motorcycle these days, but I do bicycle—a pursuit for which I gladly shave my legs—and I still hate helmet hair. With this cut, when a shower isn't readily available, the sweat generated on a ride is generally enough to revamp and restyle.
posted by Teresa | 3:30 PM
21 Comments:
You didn't talk about how I was scared of you at first too. When we first met, I rode in the back seat of Scout's Explorer from L.A. to Davis. When we stopped for gas, I got mini-Pecan Sandies. I accidently dropped one and stepped on it. When Scout discovered it, I thought she might just kill me.
I should note that I'm four or five inches taller and heavier than she is. But I was scared and the haircut contributed to that significantly. That was a long time ago. Now, I'm not scared. Not that I'd grind Pecan Sandies into the carpet to prove it or anything.
The "soft" crew cut I like, becuase it's sort of like an otter.
An un-fucking scary observation: your eyebrows are always perfect.
I'm not going to mention otters, but it's a good cut. :)
Oh my god Wendy, you have NO IDEA how much time she spends plucking her eyebrows. Less than perfect is NOT ok with the scoutster.
Is that a new flush of grey I spy on the sides? I'm *so* jealous!
Damn, I'm envious. And impressed. :)
Oh and - the resemblence to Madame Tossaud is more striking than ever!
I'm rather envious. I never had a baby-dyke phase. Something tells me it's too late now.
Yes Scout, your eyebrows are quite lovely. As is the touch of gray.
So... you live in CA but are coming all the way across the country to SC for a week at the beach? What's the draw, ladies?
FYI, I saw a commercial for Intervention last night. If you're still interested in it, the new season starts this Sunday on A&E.
Ooh, Intervention. Thanks for the tip, Wendy!
As to the eyebrow maintenance: I am my father's daughter, and he's part gorilla. I'd have a simian unibrow were it not for the constant tweezing.
Ma and Pa Sporks rent a beach house in Litchfield, S.C., every year and we all gather at that other shore. I like swimming in the Atlantic, though, because it's as warm and calm as a bowl of soup compared to the Pacific.
S.C. drawback: The only Internet access I've found in Litchfield is at a coffee house where the employees wear T-shirts adorned with Scripture and the computers are docked under a poster of the Ten Commandments. If Jesus is their barista, you'd think he could do something about the goddam humidity.
Thanks for the script, Elizabeth, though I'm pretty sure Bubba would have me pegged as an outsider if I used the word "chi" in conversation.
Such blasphemy. I knew I liked you.
You'll have to excuse eb's "chi." She just doesn't realize how "enlightened" folks like Bluebonnet and her are in Texas.
love the doo.
So glad your mother was appeased by your having any 'do you want, so long as there's a semblance of hair on your head.
There is something about the South that has always spooked me...but I must admit, the Atlantic has it all over the Pacific for swimmers.
My Eastern energy isn't very evolved, but I bought into the concept of chi just enough to take out my nape piercing when an acupuncturist told me it was screwing up my polarities and therefore causing my neurological weirdness. Here's a shocker: It didn't help.
I miss my little neck nubbins.
NAPE piercing? I'm unfamiliar with that. I feel like such a rube. I'm guessing it's a bar?
Yeah, it's shaped kind of like a large staple, with the connecting bar running "underground" and its two terminal points poking up about an inch apart. It looked like a battery charger for my brain, a concept that was psychologically soothing to me. : )
Short hair. Pffft. Although I do love otters. Lots o' fun, yay!
*Nods knowingly*
Well shame on that acupuncturist for further disrupting your psychological self-assuagement.
(It sounds rather cool from over here in Rubeville.)
One of the things I liked about it was that people generally didn't notice it, but their double-take on it was really funny when they did.
I might do a double-take if I saw an otter with a battery charger sticking out of its neck.
But boyohboy, can that otter go!
In ref to a comment you left, you don't look particularly maternal. I like low maintenance hair styles. Nice choice.
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