I finally got my hair cut last week.
It 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.
And 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.
When 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.