Three years ago, the conflict behind being part-male yet basically female … reached a psychological crisis point for me. I was ready to abandon the “try to look like a male” premise. The merits of the basic alternative had become clear. As part of the process, I fantasized about having long, blonde hair. A supportive friend bought me a wig, and I loved its look: This is how I looked in 2011.
After a while, it no longer felt as if I were wearing an add-on. The fake hair became part of my basic image for myself, like a cowboy might feel about his hat. It belonged there.
And yet, when I was in a grocery store, I’d make a point of walking past the aisle where the hair-coloring products were. I would look at the lovely girls shown on the packages, and I would fantasize about perhaps one day being able to have hair like that. It seemed so ridiculously far-fetched. Where would I have the coloring done? Would I fly to Brazil and have it done thousands of miles away? I couldn’t possibly have it done in Nevada, and be seen by people who had thought of me for years as being male … or could I?
Fast-forward to 2014. I still own the wig. It’s in my closet and it’s been there for a very long time. My own hair is now long, and blonde.
Today, I got my hair done (again) by Jen at L’Essence in Reno. Jen is wonderful anyway, plus she’s been super-supportive of my strange transgender journey. While I was at L’Essence, a lady lost her footing while going up the stairs, and ended up in a precarious position to where she was about to fall down the stairs some more, She also couldn’t reach the cane that she’d used to help her balance herself. I rushed towards her, stood behind her and slowly lifted her to her feet, then helped her regain her balance. I also picked up her cane.
It occurred to me that perhaps the arm muscles that I wish were smaller …. have some compensations sometimes. It was nice to basically look like a girl but to have some attributes from the other side of the gender fence.
After Jen did my hair, I bought myself a nice lunch at the Sparks Nugget. I like to look in the mirrors as I practice how to walk better. And, people were SO nice to me. It was almost as if they’d been set up to be extra-positive towards me.
Yes, there’s still a lot of room for improvement, but it feels good to have the hair aspect be good enough, even by my own picky standards.
When I was a baby, my hair was very blonde — almost white. And, over time it’s become darker — too dark. That’s where Jen comes in.
My hair is also naturally curly — too curly for my taste, though I get a lot of compliments on it. It certainly has a lot of body. But, I love it the way Jen does it.
Last night, just before bedtime, I looked at the reflection in the mirror again and again. It felt good that there was one aspect that I could cross off my to-do list as “mission accomplished.” And, the difficult times to get here suddenly seemed so insignificant.
Meanwhile, in other news, there are world events much more important than my hair. I try to understand the issues, and I also try to make the world a better place. But somewhere in the grand scheme of things, how I look also matters — to me, anyway.
