Tag Archives: genderqueer

Pretty boy

I finally got my hair cut last week.

imagesIt was so long that I was starting to look like Barney Rubble. You know, with that canary yellow carport extending over his face.

My hairstylist cut my hair a little differently this time around. I asked for a high and tight, number one-and-a-half on the sides, scissor cut on top.

downloadAnd she gave me such a nice cut on top. It was as if she had lassoed the wings from an angel or went back in time and clipped some feathery waves from Farrah Fawcett herself.

“Your hair looks nice!” W said.

“I got you a pretty boy haircut,” I replied.

She ran her fingers through my hair for a while, and I was reminded of how good it is to be a butch.

Last Friday, we went to the Trans Wellness Conference in Philadelphia. W tabled for work. I walked around looking at the various vendors.

IMG_2525When I saw this pretty boy T-shirt, I had to have it.

“I got my wife this pretty boy haircut,” I told the women at the booth as I pointed to my fresh cut. “So now I need this pretty boy tee.”

They smiled big smiles.

“That’s so sweet,” one of the women said as she put her hand over her heart.

And I thought about how nice it was to be in a space where it wasn’t just safe to be a pretty boy but endearing.

 

 

 

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Weekend recap

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Imagine Miss Daisy in flannel and Doc Marten’s.

W and I ran some errands this weekend. As is our routine, we completed them Driving Miss Daisy fashion with W driving and me riding along in the passenger seat. This is what happens when you are an old married couple with way too much to do on a Saturday afternoon.

W prefers to drive, and I prefer to be driven. I’ll wait until all the giggling stops before I continue …

Anyway, I’ll jump out of the car to run into the drycleaner or return something at the hardware store. And there’s W waiting for me curbside.

This weekend while we were running our errands, I stopped inside a Starbuck’s to grab a late afternoon pick-me-up and use the restroom. It was one of those deluxe Starbuck’s, and I found myself walking, walking, walking to get to the back of the store. In back, a gaggle of college-age girls gathered around a large table studying and chatting and sipping giant plastic cups of coffee through long green straws. They had painted fingernails and long hair pulled back in various fashions or stacked on top of their heads.

In the midst of all of that femininity, I braced myself as I approached the bathroom. Without thinking, I put on the invisible armor I wear whenever I need to use a public restroom. I steeled myself and prepared for anything.

And then I turned the corner and saw two unisex bathrooms. I felt my heart lift and my shoulders relax. I think I heard Sarah McLachlan singing “Angel” somewhere.

imagesI3D4BPMY

In no time, I returned to W and our great errand excursion, a hot cup of joe in hand.

 

Middle-age Butch looks like a celebrity

I’ve been getting sir’d a lot these days.

At Best Buy.  At the pharmacy.  

Pretty much everywhere.

I had been on a ma’am streak for awhile.

What changed?  I haven’t lost or gained weight.  I’ve been wearing the same clothes that I always wear.

I hadn’t been able to figure it out.

Until I was looking in the mirror.  And noticed that my hair is at that in between stage.  Not short and spiky like with a fresh cut.  Not so long that it needs cut.

Here’s what I decided.  I look like this guy: 

 
Yep, I’ve got Barney Rubble hair.  I guess there are worse looks.  So, I’ll rock what I’ve got.  At least until it’s time for a haircut.

Son of a gun

“Is that your son?” a woman asks W at the family reunion.

She’s talking about me. I am sitting next to W at a long table. I am wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts and a navy blue T-shirt.

“No, that’s my partner,” W says.

I brush it off like a crumb.

Later that night, I ask W how it made her feel.

“Old,” she says.

“Old that you have a 47-year-old son?”

We both laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement.  A 43-year-old woman with a 47-year-old son.

W doesn’t look old.

She has a few streaks of gray that look silver in the light.

I think her grays make her look sexy.

Sometimes when she tilts her head just the right way in the sunlight, I remember that she is the most beautiful woman in the world.

*  * *

Has this ever happened to you?  What is your partner’s typical response?