the length of one's self
The length of my hair is an obsession.
I don't have that many. I have plenty of things I can talk about endlessly, but they don't consume me the way this does. The length of my hair is something I choose to dally over, to measure with the stroke of my own hand. I think about it all the time, make decisions, change my mind, map out a five-year-plan.
It is a larger question than brown or black, light brown or chesnut, bob or razor bob. My hair represents -- in it's micro fashion -- the entirety of my gender expression. There are certain outfits that when my hair is short, I cannot pull off. A dress, one with layers or movement, doesn't look right. Looks like drag or camp -- a performance of a good-golly girl self. Likewise, now that my hair is stretching out toward my shoulders (touching them daily) the tie I used to wear quite freely feels like some attempt, some joke at another person. A laughable tomboy.
Those polars are wrapped up in so much more -- there is a sense that my adult clothes, the things that allow me to manuever through "professional" or "mature" settings are inherently more feminized. Meanwhile, my sneakers, jeans, even button downs have an adolescent flavor. It's hard for me to wear something fancy, wear something for a job interview say, and have it maintian the level of masculinity, or adrogyny, that I would prefer. Which I don't think is inherent in any way, but more a symptom of the way in which both ideas of myself have developed.
This is more complex then "when I was twelve I realized to grow up I would have to become a "woman" and learn to dress more like a girl". Which is, of course, true. But it is tied also to the realization that my more androg impulses are tied to a certain politic. One that might have me off making radical rather than typing on the high floors of a downtown building. That version of myself might not suffer through, nor place themselves in such a way to get invited to, a fancy dinner. There is a way in which I tied the version of myself at my most comfortable -- definitely boyish, although with a dyked out flair, tailored, sneakered -- is my most irreverent. But I also find this disturbing. I don't like that decked out in dress I feel more obligated to be demure, to shy my eyes, to flirt rather than pursue. I hate how easily tied those personas are to some kind of gender expression.
I wish that I felt the cocky ownership of the world in heels that I feel when I'm tailored down. I resent that I've internalized all of that so easily -- or more accurately, I resent that knowing it hasn't abated anything.
And so I am here. With almost shoulder length locks feeling detached from my body
I don't have that many. I have plenty of things I can talk about endlessly, but they don't consume me the way this does. The length of my hair is something I choose to dally over, to measure with the stroke of my own hand. I think about it all the time, make decisions, change my mind, map out a five-year-plan.
It is a larger question than brown or black, light brown or chesnut, bob or razor bob. My hair represents -- in it's micro fashion -- the entirety of my gender expression. There are certain outfits that when my hair is short, I cannot pull off. A dress, one with layers or movement, doesn't look right. Looks like drag or camp -- a performance of a good-golly girl self. Likewise, now that my hair is stretching out toward my shoulders (touching them daily) the tie I used to wear quite freely feels like some attempt, some joke at another person. A laughable tomboy.
Those polars are wrapped up in so much more -- there is a sense that my adult clothes, the things that allow me to manuever through "professional" or "mature" settings are inherently more feminized. Meanwhile, my sneakers, jeans, even button downs have an adolescent flavor. It's hard for me to wear something fancy, wear something for a job interview say, and have it maintian the level of masculinity, or adrogyny, that I would prefer. Which I don't think is inherent in any way, but more a symptom of the way in which both ideas of myself have developed.
This is more complex then "when I was twelve I realized to grow up I would have to become a "woman" and learn to dress more like a girl". Which is, of course, true. But it is tied also to the realization that my more androg impulses are tied to a certain politic. One that might have me off making radical rather than typing on the high floors of a downtown building. That version of myself might not suffer through, nor place themselves in such a way to get invited to, a fancy dinner. There is a way in which I tied the version of myself at my most comfortable -- definitely boyish, although with a dyked out flair, tailored, sneakered -- is my most irreverent. But I also find this disturbing. I don't like that decked out in dress I feel more obligated to be demure, to shy my eyes, to flirt rather than pursue. I hate how easily tied those personas are to some kind of gender expression.
I wish that I felt the cocky ownership of the world in heels that I feel when I'm tailored down. I resent that I've internalized all of that so easily -- or more accurately, I resent that knowing it hasn't abated anything.
And so I am here. With almost shoulder length locks feeling detached from my body
posted by good golly at 9:49 AM
2 Comments:
except today i wore the ladyfriend's harley boots and some amount of psychic order has been restored.
With you on the hair thing. Didn't u say that someone offered to cut yr hair a while ago? did you take her up on it?
Now. i think of my hair as a funny accessory. I continue to cut it myself...and this continues to be a gamble of sorts...which is the fun of it, i suppose. it's much shorter than it has been for years...which might be an indication that I'm about to make a large change in my life-- I tend to let hair length dictate this sort of thing ...it also affects my wardrobe selection.
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