The first time it happened was when I finally got my ponytail clipped. I had been forced to wear hair past my shoulders for much of my early life and hated every minute of it. It got tangled. It made my head hot. It made my neck itchy. Mom had to grab me and hurry a hurtful comb/brush through it, daily, before dealing with my four siblings--an unpleasant task for both of us. (No luxury time spent with a beaming nurturer who blithely glided a gilded comb through Goldilocks' locks...at my house it was grab, rake, pull and yell.) I allowed the ponytail only because it got the long hair out of my way, AND an older, gorgeous cousin, wore her hair that way. But by age five, I'd had enough.
It was only days into my "Pixie cut" that Dad took me along to the garage, where he worked, part-time.(Often, I'd accompany him on Saturday afternoons--playing in the rusty-water streambed behind the gas-station.) Dad could "sort of" keep an eye on me and still pump gas, make change, check tire pressure and change oil for his customers. I was thrilled with the pseudo-freedom. (Polluted or not, frogs croaked along the streambed, and dragon flies filled the air with rainbows.)
As I entered the garage doors to claim an afternoon grape soda from the machine,one of Dad's "cronies" made a crack about my new haircut: "When did you get the new son, Jim?"
Dad's face colored almost as red as mine.
"I'm a girl!" I stammered, wanting to defend myself before Dad was forced into it.
Dad and his buddy deflected my upset with guffaws. I spun out of the garage, running back to the streambed, furious.
Not only had Dad not defended me, when we got home, he yelled at my mother to make sure my hair was never again cut so short! (Something in me broke at that point.) My sisters had long hair--one, a deep brown and curly; the other, golden blonde and falling to her butt. My brother had a crew cut--his blonde hair so light, he looked bald in the sun. I wanted something of my own: out of my face and in the middle of the extremes. (I didn't want to BE a boy--I just wanted to be able to DO the fun things the boys got to do: wear comfortable clothes; get dirty and not be reprimanded for it; collect frogs or sticks or stones in their pockets; run outside, without having their hair pulled by its roots, everyday; hang out with Dad and not be made fun of for doing it...
A week later, Mom came home with my first "Toni Perm" My sisters and I were doused with the stinky, stinging chemicals for what seemed like an entire day. The results were typical 60's home permanents: brillo pads atop little kids. (At least I looked somewhat "girlish".) Dad was relieved. My heart remained bruised, however,even as my head continued to be battered.
Until I left for college, I let my hair brush my shoulders. Photos from those years capture the attempts at feminine gracefulness that was never mastered. It was while at college when my hair rebellion burst forth, finally full-throttle. The summer before I left for Los Angeles, I had a friend shear my locks down to a punky inch and a half--tinted and ready-- for the Left Coast.(Oddly,once there, I grew it out, again, seeking employment, and living with 70's boys who were all "Stayin' Alive". Beegee shags were being sported, and I wanted to somehow fit.)
When the boys left the condo (and radical women friends moved in), I was punked out, again, shorn to an inch of my life and experimenting with color. If someone approached me from behind, I found that I'd be called "boy", or, "kid"--the implication that I was a young man. As soon as I turned around or they came full-face with me, the apologies would begin.(No mistaking me from the front.)
Still, my face would redden--as much because of their discomfort as from my own.
I came to painfully understand that we don't really look at each other in this society. We make flash judgments based on hair and height and clothing just as readily as we make judgments about skin color or wrinkles or weight.
I began to play with people's minds, then.(Even wore my hair in a crewcut, several times--but always with make-up and lots of jewelry.) Still, the hair was judged, first. It was only as Sinead O'Connor burst on to the scene --and the rise of cancer survivors was paid attention to in the mainstream press-- that people didn't suck in their breath when a woman sported a buzz.
I prided myself on raising the consciousness of hundreds.
One day, in a crowded classroom of loud middle schoolers, I had to keep reprimanding a student for interrupting the class. (No matter who had the floor, this kid wouldn't stop talking out of turn.) It was a new group of kids, so I hadn't memorized every name nor even every face. This student was seated at a round table in the corner, surrounded by friends. Short, pudgy, motor-mouthed, reminding me much of myself at that age--the chatter was hijacking the entire morning's lesson-- interfering with other students' presentations.
"Will the talkative ladies in the back please stop, now? I've asked you, politely, to keep quiet several times--" I shot my darkest look in the direction of the corner table.
The class turned around in their seats and grew silent.
We went on with the oral presentations.
Again, noisy chatter, giggles, the sounds of pushing and moving chairs, erupted from the back table.
"Hey! I'm not kidding! You girls are being very rude to your classmates and disrespectful to all of us! Please stop talking and pay attention!"
Again, silence rose in the classroom.
We went back to the presentations.
Within ten minutes, there were giggles, voices almost at full volume, and the sound of horse-play from the back of the room, including a stack of books falling to the floor with a thud.
"Okay, that's it! You girls at that table will see me after class!"
Not a single word rose up after that.
The energy in the room, however, wasn't one of relief. It was almost morbid. (Gone was the excitement of kids wanting share their research.) The joy of the assignment was banished. I knew I was now the "Ogre Queen" and my hoped for English Adventure in Oral Reports was a negative experience. ARRRRRRGH.
The class filtered out quietly.
Finally, the two girls from the back table, who had found it impossible to be quiet during class, were in front of me.
The most talkative one, with the thick, auburn ringlets to her shoulders, the wide brown eyes and cupid's bow lips scowled. Short, chubby, dressed in baggy sweatshirt and baggier jeans, she spat out the words," I'm NOT a girl!"
(I adjusted my glasses.) I coughed.
"He's not a girl..." the taller student, his friend, whispered, staring at him, and then at me, behind my desk.
"I, uh,...oh...I...guess...you know, I don't know you all, yet...so..." I stuttered, lamely, the instant blush, plastering my cheeks.
"We tried to tell you...I'm a guy..." the boy said, half -believably.
"I guess I need to get my glasses checked...you know how it is when you get older..." I answered, also telling a half-truth.
"Okay." The boy generously forgave me.
(Both students blithely went on their way, justified, and off the hook for detention.)
I finished the day without further incident--forever schooled, from the other side of the fence.
It was only days into my "Pixie cut" that Dad took me along to the garage, where he worked, part-time.(Often, I'd accompany him on Saturday afternoons--playing in the rusty-water streambed behind the gas-station.) Dad could "sort of" keep an eye on me and still pump gas, make change, check tire pressure and change oil for his customers. I was thrilled with the pseudo-freedom. (Polluted or not, frogs croaked along the streambed, and dragon flies filled the air with rainbows.)
As I entered the garage doors to claim an afternoon grape soda from the machine,one of Dad's "cronies" made a crack about my new haircut: "When did you get the new son, Jim?"
Dad's face colored almost as red as mine.
"I'm a girl!" I stammered, wanting to defend myself before Dad was forced into it.
Dad and his buddy deflected my upset with guffaws. I spun out of the garage, running back to the streambed, furious.
Not only had Dad not defended me, when we got home, he yelled at my mother to make sure my hair was never again cut so short! (Something in me broke at that point.) My sisters had long hair--one, a deep brown and curly; the other, golden blonde and falling to her butt. My brother had a crew cut--his blonde hair so light, he looked bald in the sun. I wanted something of my own: out of my face and in the middle of the extremes. (I didn't want to BE a boy--I just wanted to be able to DO the fun things the boys got to do: wear comfortable clothes; get dirty and not be reprimanded for it; collect frogs or sticks or stones in their pockets; run outside, without having their hair pulled by its roots, everyday; hang out with Dad and not be made fun of for doing it...
A week later, Mom came home with my first "Toni Perm" My sisters and I were doused with the stinky, stinging chemicals for what seemed like an entire day. The results were typical 60's home permanents: brillo pads atop little kids. (At least I looked somewhat "girlish".) Dad was relieved. My heart remained bruised, however,even as my head continued to be battered.
Until I left for college, I let my hair brush my shoulders. Photos from those years capture the attempts at feminine gracefulness that was never mastered. It was while at college when my hair rebellion burst forth, finally full-throttle. The summer before I left for Los Angeles, I had a friend shear my locks down to a punky inch and a half--tinted and ready-- for the Left Coast.(Oddly,once there, I grew it out, again, seeking employment, and living with 70's boys who were all "Stayin' Alive". Beegee shags were being sported, and I wanted to somehow fit.)
When the boys left the condo (and radical women friends moved in), I was punked out, again, shorn to an inch of my life and experimenting with color. If someone approached me from behind, I found that I'd be called "boy", or, "kid"--the implication that I was a young man. As soon as I turned around or they came full-face with me, the apologies would begin.(No mistaking me from the front.)
Still, my face would redden--as much because of their discomfort as from my own.
I came to painfully understand that we don't really look at each other in this society. We make flash judgments based on hair and height and clothing just as readily as we make judgments about skin color or wrinkles or weight.
I began to play with people's minds, then.(Even wore my hair in a crewcut, several times--but always with make-up and lots of jewelry.) Still, the hair was judged, first. It was only as Sinead O'Connor burst on to the scene --and the rise of cancer survivors was paid attention to in the mainstream press-- that people didn't suck in their breath when a woman sported a buzz.
I prided myself on raising the consciousness of hundreds.
One day, in a crowded classroom of loud middle schoolers, I had to keep reprimanding a student for interrupting the class. (No matter who had the floor, this kid wouldn't stop talking out of turn.) It was a new group of kids, so I hadn't memorized every name nor even every face. This student was seated at a round table in the corner, surrounded by friends. Short, pudgy, motor-mouthed, reminding me much of myself at that age--the chatter was hijacking the entire morning's lesson-- interfering with other students' presentations.
"Will the talkative ladies in the back please stop, now? I've asked you, politely, to keep quiet several times--" I shot my darkest look in the direction of the corner table.
The class turned around in their seats and grew silent.
We went on with the oral presentations.
Again, noisy chatter, giggles, the sounds of pushing and moving chairs, erupted from the back table.
"Hey! I'm not kidding! You girls are being very rude to your classmates and disrespectful to all of us! Please stop talking and pay attention!"
Again, silence rose in the classroom.
We went back to the presentations.
Within ten minutes, there were giggles, voices almost at full volume, and the sound of horse-play from the back of the room, including a stack of books falling to the floor with a thud.
"Okay, that's it! You girls at that table will see me after class!"
Not a single word rose up after that.
The energy in the room, however, wasn't one of relief. It was almost morbid. (Gone was the excitement of kids wanting share their research.) The joy of the assignment was banished. I knew I was now the "Ogre Queen" and my hoped for English Adventure in Oral Reports was a negative experience. ARRRRRRGH.
The class filtered out quietly.
Finally, the two girls from the back table, who had found it impossible to be quiet during class, were in front of me.
The most talkative one, with the thick, auburn ringlets to her shoulders, the wide brown eyes and cupid's bow lips scowled. Short, chubby, dressed in baggy sweatshirt and baggier jeans, she spat out the words," I'm NOT a girl!"
(I adjusted my glasses.) I coughed.
"He's not a girl..." the taller student, his friend, whispered, staring at him, and then at me, behind my desk.
"I, uh,...oh...I...guess...you know, I don't know you all, yet...so..." I stuttered, lamely, the instant blush, plastering my cheeks.
"We tried to tell you...I'm a guy..." the boy said, half -believably.
"I guess I need to get my glasses checked...you know how it is when you get older..." I answered, also telling a half-truth.
"Okay." The boy generously forgave me.
(Both students blithely went on their way, justified, and off the hook for detention.)
I finished the day without further incident--forever schooled, from the other side of the fence.
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