The Dysphoric Nature of Hair: Butch Lesbian Edition
Fiction by Maja Domagała
A common phrase you heard growing up: Oh my God, who did you get such gorgeous hair from? Long, dark brown ringlets fall to your chest. Your answer, at first: Thank you. I’m not sure. Nobody else in your family has hair like yours. Hard to wash, hard to take care of — hours spent in a bathtub, tugging a hairbrush through it so hard it rips your scalp. Clumps of hair lie on the bathtub’s lip. You look in the mirror, holding your small, naked body close. Pretty girl, pretty girl.
The person in your photos has your eyes but is not you. Do you know how lucky you are? Hands in your hair, fingers weaving it into different styles: ponytails, double braids, buns. When you wear dark, thick glasses in middle school, you are compared to Mia Thermopolis from The Princess Diaries, the one with frizzy hair before her unwarranted beautification. Like her, you are forced into long dresses and to smile for the camera like you enjoy it. When someone coos at your hair now, asking you about it, all you can make yourself say is: I’m not sure, I’m really not sure.
The scissors sitting on the edge of the sink become your greatest temptation. They taunt you more than your mirror at how close yet far you are to a righted image of yourself. You cannot broaden your shoulders, you cannot make yourself taller, you cannot deepen your voice — but you can cut your hair. You learned the word butch recently and you fell in love with it harder than the first girl you kissed. Still, you are not brave enough yet. Your hair stays clustered around your neck like the most beautiful noose anyone has ever seen.
It’s surprising how impassioned people can be about hair that’s not their own: Are you sure you want to cut it? What if you regret it? Think about it some more, you might look like a lesbian. You have been thinking about it your whole life, have felt it in the deepest depths of yourself like a desperate child sobbing for recognition, for something, something, anything at all that would help them reach self-understanding. You speak on behalf of the child: You say that like it’s such a bad thing. Why’s that? You find that silence looks funny on some people, even a bit satisfying.
A queer woman cuts your hair at a hair salon that plays Queen. Any pile of hair you have ever pulled out doesn’t compare to the one forming on the floor. The mirror has never filled you with more dread. You’re afraid you’ll hate what comes more than what was before. But there is no time for regret. When your hairdresser is done, without asking if you’re ready, she tilts your head towards that mirror. Oh, honey, you look lovely. This hair length suits your face so well. Short curls stick out at the top of your head, the sides of it smooth, and — you can’t stop staring. You smile the way you might at an old friend. Your throat is tight but you manage to say, Thank you. It’s perfect. The back of your head is lighter; so are you, so are you, so are you.
Maja Domagała is an undergraduate Creative Writing student at Hamilton College. She was born in Nysa, Poland, and raised in Philadelphia, PA. Her writing centers on mental health, immigration, and queerness. This is her first publication. Soon, she hopes to write novels. You can find her on Twitter @mhdoma_.
