I got my haircut today, which is always a good thing. I don’t go to a barber but to a haircuttery type place in town. I go to the same stylist, who knows me by now. I don’t have to tell her that I want my sideburns squared off and not in points. She doesn’t ask me if I want fringe in the back. She’s no longer afraid of cutting my hair too short.
Anyway, I went in for a haircut and left with a side of swagger. A short haircut will do that. It will make you stand a little taller and walk a little jauntier. Ask any butch.
Butch commandment #7
7. Thou shalt not touch my hair. (Except for you, W. You can rub and tousle at the end of the day, baby.)
On the way to my car, I saw her. Another butch in need of a trim. I spotted her right away. Short hair; thick, black glasses; a polo shirt; a half sleeve of tattoos. I didn’t need to see her truck with the HRC sticker to know. I knew in a second.
We both nodded. Because that’s what we do. The butch nod.
It’s a great day to be a butch, I thought.