It’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m dancing in the kitchen with the shades drawn – getting down to funk music only I can hear.
I have a new haircut. It’s beautiful. It’s just what I asked for.
‘It should move.’
My stylist is a genius.
It’s girl hair. It’s bad. I wear it back most of the time when I leave the house.
Because people have a way of making you aware of gender boundaries, their boundaries. It’s bad when people you’ve worked with for five years make a conscious effort not to stare.
I remember when I used to get compliments on a new haircut.
I remember when people knew who I was.
An old friend called out of the blue. We were catching up. I told him that I’m transgender and that I don’t have any good options, but that’s okay. I told him as if I moved into a new apartment or something. Awkward silences. No one had ever shared anything like that with him before. Why did I tell him? Do I need a reason? Didn’t I know this before? No.
I thought I knew who I was.
I don’t think I could’ve handled any of this like five years ago. If I met myself back then, I don’t know what I’d say.
I always wanted to write.
Be careful what you wish for.