A set of twins was born, a boy and a girl. I, being the girl, was placed in pink. Those early days of childhood were rich as I was flowered with attention for being, well, a flower. Boys chased me. It was annoying but I felt high - the power was a rush, even for a kid.
As I grew older, my body didn’t continue to reflect “my” vision of what I thought it should be for my set of demographics. Why were my hands big? Why did that kid in my 7th grade class call-out my shoulders for resembling that of a linebacker’s? Why wasn’t I always getting the roles I wanted in Drama despite my projected charisma (admitted delusion,) and why wasn’t I always chosen to be featured on marketing materials? Why didn’t my dad let me sign up for the beauty pageant with my friend? Why weren’t people being as easily kind to me?
“The higher you climb the harder you fall”?
So it’s a rough sort of introduction to the world; despite sweet messaging from our elders: apparently, appearances do matter. Our minds are powerful, but we are, so much, a circumstance of the world around us. A girl who doesn’t resemble our ideals of Girl can be seen as just wrong. As I’m sure you know, too; before we’ve been exposed to something or learn to understand it, our introduction is spooked - “what is that?!” As empathetic people, we feel that. A consistent self-reflection asking “what the heck is wrong with me?”
There is a cherished inner power that emerges from such turmoil: attitude; and ultimately, work ethic.
Okay.
Before the family divorced when I was 14-going-on-15, my mom had always appeared lovely to me. She was slender with elegant features, had a classic sense of style that inspired me like muses in the movies, and made herself up. You felt her power. She was also a hair-stylist before becoming a teacher, and she named me after a beautiful girl she babysat with the same name many years before I was born. So, hair.
We never fully understood each other, until moreso recently. Her experience growing older was night-and-day compared to mine - I’ll save that story for another day. But my hair held a bit of pride and joy for her. She loved it long. Sometimes she cut bangs, she tried highlights a few times - it was always *pretty*. For the first thirty years of my life, I made sure to wake up early to clean and style it. Good hair days made the day better. As I got older (like in my 20’s and moved away,) I started going to salons. Would still honor the general aesthetic of “pretty girl.” Simple cuts; resembled the masses around me with a subtle flair, just to fit in but to know that I was different. This is fine, but the folks I admired for their boldness tried on many styles…
I colored it a few times; chopped at the shoulder a time or two when I needed a change…
Okay. So. At 33 years old, I have shaved my head.
And I grieved!
I had no idea.
Never in a million years did I think the exposure from doing something like this would strike me to the core. Nothing to hide behind. Nothing to twirl. Yes, I run my hands atop my scalp 100x/day, but I wasn’t expecting the shedding of a past self - is how it feels.
I don’t think it will be the last time I do this, honestly. It’s not that I love the look or think it’s particularly flattering, but I feel so free. People who see it and understand are instant family. Family who see it and ask questions are trusted. It suddenly only takes me a quick 30-minutes to get ready, tops…
Gender is a fascinating construct. I am a woman. I feel like a woman. I was sort of raised like a man alongside my twin brother, taught to uphold certain values, and how to lead… but I neglected my femininity. I still contorted to a male-gazed identity of what a woman should be, but femininity runs deeper than the projections we see on tv and in magazines. I love my femininity. I am a woman with broad shoulders, big boobs, a hormone belly, calves to write home about, and big ol’ hands and feet. I love those hands and feet. I love those calves, I love that belly, I love my titties, and I love my broad-ass shoulders. I am grateful that my systems function properly and rejoice in that freedom to live how I choose to right now — not everyone gets this. While I get this freedom, can I nurture myself in ways that will set me up better for tomorrow? Maybe I could understand this hormone belly. Maybe I can focus on the rest of my body, instead of my hair, and craft it as a tool for my own fulfillment. It has already given me such a full life. I wanna build on that — invest in this. And if you need help carrying something? I’m strong.
Shake it off. Exercise them demons. Keep going. Listen.
Who are you?