So, I went to get my hair cut Friday afternoon because I was starting to look like a character from the Flintstones.
I drove down the street to the Superhaircuttery where I get my locks lovingly shorn.
“Is Crystal here?” I asked.
“Crystal doesn’t work here anymore,” the receptionist said with a smirk on her face.
“Okay.” I paused. “Can you tell me where she went?”
“I don’t know,” she said, even though I knew she knew and she knew that I knew she knew.
“Sorry,” she lied as I walked out the door of Superhaircuttery for the very last time, one single tear cascading down my cheek.
This, folks, is an emergency. A butch emergency. Code flannel. Crystal has been cutting my hair for the past five years or so.
W doesn’t get it.
“It’s a Superhaircuttery,” she said. “Why don’t you try one of those unisex places?”
It’s not about the place. It’s about the stylist.
Someone who won’t refuse to cut my hair short.
“Are you sure you want it that short?” I’ve had many hair stylists ask.
“You can’t cut it too short,” I’ve told them, even though they never cut it short enough.
True story: I once got my hair cut twice in one day because the first stylist refused to cut it as short as I wanted.
Someone who won’t refuse to square off my sideburns. “Square sideburns are for men. Angled sideburns are for women,” I once had a 17-year-old hair stylist lecture me.
Someone who won’t chase me out of the shop because I’m a woman. “I don’t cut women’s hair!” a stylist once yelled at me when I entered her barber shop.
Crystal knew my usual. A number four on the sides and back. No fringe. Cleanup the sideburns. Scissor cut the top. Short, spiky.
I find myself stuck in that middle place again.
There’s no haircut place around here catering to butch women.
I picture myself walking into a beauty parlor or barber shop and holding my breath, bracing for the reaction.
Steeling myself for acceptance. Or something else.