Not that I ever was really, I just had the haircut. Up until a few days ago I had the very trendy, very queer asymmetrical haircut. Not as drastic as Skrillex, maybe too soft to be considered an undercut, but enough to give my mostly femme ensemble an edge.
rather than this:
As I think I’ve mentioned I recently graduated from a small liberal arts college. Despite its size, my school had a fairly large queer community that I was a part of from my sophomore year on. When I was first coming out and getting to know people in the community, I remember there being a lot of different queer women to whom I could look for guidance. Being queer didn’t necessarily mean I had to wear plaid flannel and birkenstocks every single day of my life. There were distinguished butch women and there were hippie eco-feminists and there were spritely tomboys and there were giggly femme women. There was a whole variety of presentation among my queer female peers and it gave me hope that I could find my own way to express my individual queerness. (Although I did initially try to butch up my appearance in some misguided attempt to prove I was “one of the guys,” so to speak. My advice ladies, when coming out, explore your gender expression, but don’t recreate it. I make a really lame butch.)
By the time I was a senior though, times had changed and the variety had disappeared. Many of the women I looked up to had graduated and been replaced by an army of hipster queers. The kind that have money but dress like they don’t. It’s basically like high school, except these girls don’t shave their armpits and wear body paint instead of makeup. The face of queerness had changed; all of a sudden the ultimate way to display your queerness was to run around in mismatched outfits and shave half your head.
Now I will admit, I profited a bit from the visibility that came with my hipster haircut. It was nice to wear my queerness like a badge, never having to answer awkward questions while simultaneously being recognized by my peers. But I am a queer, not a hipster, and it was finally time to grow up and get an adult haircut. To all those hipster queer girls I left behind, I urge you to confront what your hair or your war paint really stand for. What lies underneath the feathers in your hair or the glitter on your face? Let’s present as who we truly are, and stop trussing ourselves up to prove what free spirits we are. Because if you feel the need to prove it, you’re doing it wrong.