Tales of a wandering lesbian


First things first. This is an emotional post for me, so I want to set some things out at the top. To my family and friends: I love you. End of story. To the girls in middle school: I hope you have fulfilling lives and are nice to people who are different from you. To the hiring attorneys: I really want to curse you, but that would only hurt me, so I hope you have gay children and that they teach you compassion. Oh, and thanks for not hiring me. There’s no way I’d be bumming around Italy right now if you had. Okay, on with the show!

Going on holiday has a certain energy about it. There’s excitement, and curiosity. There’s a sense of escape. You can be anyone on vacation, and everything is new.
An extended vacation brings with it a different set of emotions. You get the excitement and curiosity that comes on a vacation, but then you settle into your surroundings. Maybe you pick a favorite coffee shop or restaurant. Maybe the clerks at the grocery store start to recognize you.

And then there’s the experience of moving. There’s excitement, yes. Apprehension, probably. Fear, maybe. There’s a certain finality to a move.
What I’m experiencing right now is a combination of these experiences. It’s more like going away to college, or an all-summer camp. I’m not on vacation, but things are certainly exciting. I’ve chosen a couple of regular coffee shops, where the people start making cappuccini when I walk in. And my Italian family shows itself as family in unexpected ways. Like with my hair.

I keep my hair fairly short. About once every 4 weeks I shave it down to no longer than ½ inch. At about the 4-week mark, I start to go a little insane with all the little curls that appear. (Yes, Mom, I know they’re precious. They’re also distracting and frustrating.) If things get crazy, I might trim the back and sides and go 6 weeks between a cut.

And, I cut my own hair. Maybe 10 years ago I realized that I was paying someone else to cut it and then going home – or even to the car – to re-cut it the way I wanted. So I learned how to give myself a pretty darn good haircut in the shower with scissors. Then I found that I really do enjoy having really short hair, and I started shaving it regularly.

I just feel lighter – less attached – when I cut my hair. There’s no good way that I’ve found to explain it, but it is clear that my hair is a source of control for me. It’s been a source of struggle, and one of pain, and I’ve tried for years to take control of it. And an oddly large number of the people in my life have tried to take control of it as well.

Like in middle school, just for example. I’m not sure what my hair did to the people in my school to earn their ire. Maybe it was the way it poofed out, all frizz, bushy and unmanageable – different from everyone else. Maybe it was the way I slicked it back, pulled hard into a giant ponytail. Maybe it was just that it was MY hair. (It’s true,my intimidating good looks and intelligence can be hard for others to handle.) Who knows? All that really matters is that it was enough for girls I barely knew to kick the crap out of me when we played flag-football in PE, shouting “bushwacker!” as they pulled me down. Yeah, “bushwacker.” They had no idea how funny that would be.

And I remember vividly the night of the high school dance when one of my friends brought over a giant bottle of gel and did my hair. Over the course of an hour, we used probably half the bottle on my crazy hair. The effect was good. The frizz turned into curls. I was unrecognizable. I actually had multiple people come up to me at the dance and ask me if I was new. So I spent the next few years applying insane amounts of gel to my hair daily – eventually just to the top of my head (no, I don’t know why, and yes, I’ll try to post pics). I was never really able to duplicate the style, though.

When I left for college, I had sported short hair for a couple of years, but my hair was still ridiculously bushy. The pictures from that first year of college are hilarious. Me with my mushroom head, knowing that I was the shit. It wasn’t until my second year that I finally cut it all. Without telling my family or friends, I got up my courage, walked the mile or so to the salon and told them to cut it – short. Even the damn stylist – WHO I WAS PAYING – didn’t want to cut it. After the second round of cuts (she wanted to make sure of how short I wanted it, so she cut it about half the way and tried to convince me to leave it there), I walked out feeling exhilarated. Aside from the enormous amount of product the stylist had put in, trying to make it look curly and sweet, my hair was the closest it had ever been to the way I wanted it.

I waited about a week before I had my friend Jason shave my head. And at least two weeks before I told my family. From that point, there was no going back. I’d call Jason every month or so for a cut (we’d call him “Frederico Choo-Choo!” when he was my stylist), and I’d have an internal battle about whether to cut my hair before going home for holidays. If I didn’t cut it, was it because I was letting my fear of disapproval control me? If I did cut it, was it because I was responding to that same fear, equally controlled by it? An unwinnable battle. And one I still struggle with.

I learned two things about my hair in law-school. First, it can be a convenient excuse for a reason not to hire someone with great credentials. A couple of male hiring attorneys had told the director of career services that they would have hired me, but they were concerned about the blonde highlights that I had put in my hair. She told them it would grow out. I told her I didn’t want to work in a place where they wanted to control my hair (read: apparent sexual orientation. It was clear they weren’t really concerned about my hair).

When I worked as a GLBT organizer, I wasn’t so concerned with my hair. In fact, I grew it longer than it’s been in years and years. The day after we lost the election, though, I shaved the four inches of hair, looking for some kind of a fresh start. And I was relieved – and devastated by the loss of the election. Working with school districts, or fundraising for babies, I was always conscious of how I was perceived. Would people be less likely to work with me if my hair was too short for their liking? Ultimately, did it really matter if I had long hair, if I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin – in my own hair.

The girls in middle school were lashing out at someone who was different. The hiring attorneys were acting out of fear and ignorance. Anyone who might choose not to work with me is someone I can afford to lose. But, my family and friends care about me, and I love them. And that complicates things. My grandmother has finally stopped crying when she sees my hair. That’s a definite bonus. Now she just asks me to grow it long for her funeral – every time I see her. My sister tells my mom to leave my hair alone, and that’s nice, but even she asked me to leave it long for her wedding. My girlfriends have all had input as to how they think my hair should be. The smart ones, however, told me how much they liked my hair more often than they expressed their opinions about what I should do with it.

And that brings me to my Italian family. Last week I announced that it was time for a haircut. “No!” was Sandra’s response. “Yes.” This was a familiar battle, but one I hadn’t really expected. I was just looking for a place to get an electric razor. Yes, I feel a kinship with my new friends – one I can’t explain. Yes, I love them dearly. Yes, I feel that they care about me as well. But why my hair? I know we’re in Italy, in little, conservative towns. But, I’ve had a shaved head in Idaho, and in Salem, and Albany, and many other little, conservative towns. And it’s not like I’m going to take a straight razor to it and spit-polish my head. Maybe it represents an overt statement that I am, indeed, an unapologetic lesbian that makes everyone nervous, but I don’t think so. Almost everything about me is a statement to that effect. It could be discomfort with the gender-non-conforming nature of a woman with really short hair. But, I get called “sir” MUCH more often when I have longer hair than when it’s shaved. It could be that other people like my hair longer and I like it shorter, but the attachment to my hair – on all sides – seems more than a style-preference. I really don’t know what it’s about. What’s more, I don’t know why it’s so important to me. Last night I had the opportunity to examine this in a new way.

Tommy, the 14-year old boy I live with, has weighed in with his opinion of my hair – which has been the subject of a couple of dinner conversations. “NOOOO!” He motioned to the sides of his face, indicating the curls that are starting to form in my sideburns. “Yes, Tom. Anyway, I’m almost out of gel, so that will be it. Two days, max.”

Last night, when Tom came back from the salon where he was having a trim, he had a bag for me – a present. “Now, there are no more excuses,” he said, putting the bag proudly in my hands. It was a bottle of gel. Tom stood in front of me, waiting for a reaction. And, I felt completely out of control. Here stood this beautiful boy who, with a sweet and misguided gesture, had tried to help. I turned my back on him. I muttered “thanks, Tom, but I’m still cutting my hair.” I couldn’t find the way to be kind. I couldn’t find the way to be gracious. All I wanted to do was run to the nearest barber shop and shave my head. And I felt controlled. By a 14-year-old boy, and by twenty 14-year-old girls shouting, “bushwacker!”

When we all got home, Tom asked me if the gel was alright. “Yes, Tom, thank you very much. It’s very sweet. But I’m still cutting my hair.” I must have had a look on my face. Sandra asked “what’s happened?” She’s incredibly intuitive. “Everyone has to stop caring about my hair,” was all I could get out before I had to walk away. I was now in the position to have to tell a wonderful child that he had wasted his money and his emotion on something that I can’t even explain. Hiding in the bathroom, I found some space to think about just exactly I could tell Tommy about why I reacted to his gift the way I did. I felt like I owed him that much. But I didn’t have the words. So I thought. And in the context of Tommy’s gift I was able to come up with this: There are times in life when people want you to be a certain way, whether it’s how you act, or what you do for a living, how you raise your kids, or how you look. And it can be very hard sometimes to know the difference between what it is that other people want you to be, and what it is you want to be. It can be very difficult, but very important.

I have no idea if that realization will mean anything in the battle for my hair. I’m hoping maybe I’ll be able to disengage from it; to neutralize it. The only reason I see it as a battle is because I’m fighting in it; invested in it. That might be too big a step. I’m not sure. Maybe for now we could just declare a truce while I work out my exit strategy. At least now I have some gel while I’m working it all out. And people who care enough about me to share their opinions of my hair.

Bookmark and Share


1 Heather Johnston { 11.20.09 at 2:43 pm }

I’m not certain if all women are emotional about their hair, or if it’s just us ladies with the curly variety that take it to heart. I was choked up reading your post. I deflect about 30 comments a week about my hair, mostly from well meaning strangers. It never gets any easier.

However, I’m determined to be the Granny with her long white hair pulled back into a tiny little bun on the back of her head. You can be my crazy old sidekick with the jeweled turban. Sweet……

2 KFlick { 11.20.09 at 4:24 pm }

I want a jeweled turban right now.

3 Mandie { 11.20.09 at 4:37 pm }

Can I just say that this post confirmed that jr high was as terrible as I remember it being!! And I must say that I love the short hairdo on you (even if I have only seen it in pictures)…. I think it is so you!

4 Ant { 11.20.09 at 4:46 pm }

To hair or not to hair….that is the question. And it’s not about the hair. You know, we all know that you are totally beautiful either way. It, totally in my own humble opinion, is your rebellion, your rebellion with our society, with all of us. I’m not saying that as a criticism or to demean you at all. I love you too much for that. Strictly observation. As you said, “And it can be very hard sometimes to know the difference between what it is that other people want you to be, and what it is you want to be. It can be very difficult, but very important.” I’m 58 years old and still struggle with that everyday of my life. Consequently 3 x’s and long hair that irritates many people. If it truly makes you feel free…..truly free and good about yourself, then damn it, shave. If you are saying shove it to those middle schoolers, lawyers and anyone else that judges you, let it go. Just let it go. The sooner, the better. I love you Kristin.

5 KFlick { 11.20.09 at 5:48 pm }

I love you too, Ant! I actually love everyone I posted about, even the lawyers and middle schoolers. I’ve learned a lot form them.

It’s not about the hair. You’re right. It’s just not. It’s a proxy for the other bit – the being yourself bit. Ant that bit can be tricky and messy. At least it has been for me. Even if I act like I have it all figured out.

And you’re right that I need to let it go – let go of what other people think or feel about what I do. (Gosh that sounds easy, doesn’t it.) I think that might just be the only way I’ll know for sure that what I’m doing – with my hair, with my life – is for me and not for anyone else.

6 Julie { 11.20.09 at 7:20 pm }

For the record, I admire your hair. I haven’t known you very long or very well, so I didn’t realize all of your emotion behind it, but the first time we met I thought to myself, “I wish I had the guts to have my hair that short.” Be who you are!

7 Dad { 11.20.09 at 8:35 pm }

Must be the genes Kid…..I got nothing but crap when I was in the 8th grade when the in, cool haircut was the “Flat top with Fenders”. (Will try to locate a picture online). Picture in your mind if you can a very short flat cut on top of the head with the sides being long and swooped back (like fenders on a ’57 Chevy). My hair unfortunately wanted to do its own thing and simply would not comply. No matter how many times I tryed and no matter how many different barbers I visited, mine always turned out more like a fuzzy top with bumpers. All my buddies had no problem with the cut and of course got all the girls. Finally went to a wavey cut all slicked back in many different directions….Thank God Elvis appeared on the scene with something similar and all was well. Got real involved in sports in High School and all of us guys were shaving our heads close so the football helmet fit better or so our hair didn’t interfere with the throw to first base or shooting a hoop on the basketball court. A real God send for me.

Couldn’t care less about your hair Kid, the way you dress or anything else about your appearance. I know what’s inside and couldn’t be more proud of my daughter and what she has to offer society. Just glad you’re MY daughter….and tell people that every time I’m asked about you and how you’re doing. Never stop being my Kristin!!!!!!

8 Dad { 11.20.09 at 9:06 pm }
9 Dad { 11.20.09 at 9:15 pm }

So this is the look everyone wanted in the 8th grade (1959). Couldn’t find what I looked like (Flat Top with FEATHERS):


10 dorothy { 11.20.09 at 11:39 pm }

Hey, I love your hair. In fact, I used to wear my hair that short. And even with the D cups, I still got called ‘sir.’ To that I say, screw ’em. I don’t view it as rebellion, or an answer to the gals in 8th grade (hair aside, middle school females should all be shot). I really think it’s about how you like to wear it, and how it feels right. And how it let’s the beauty that is your FACE, EYES and SPIRIT, show through.

Listen to your father. xo

11 Your bro { 11.21.09 at 2:14 am }

Hair… What hair… I never even noticed. I was always looking at your boobs.

12 Amanda { 11.24.09 at 2:53 am }

Stay strong!! Keep your hair short, Kristen. If not for you, for the rest of us who did do it for a short time but eventually caved in and took the path of least resistance.

Stay strong!!

13 Butch dikes…please explain. I’ve known and worked with a few, and I view them as another man. But, when it comes to the lesbians that love them….what’s the difference between a very masculine woman and a slightly effeminate man? { 06.07.10 at 11:00 am }

[…] example, I have short hair.  Sometimes extremely so.  I also play softball, wear fairly androgynous clothing, love a good […]