JoJo Siwa Got an Alternative Lifestyle Haircut: Goodbye Pony, Watch Out World!

A time comes in the life of many gay women, non-binary people and other LGBTQ+ humans when they decide to cut all of their hair off, often in a style known as “an undercut.” It happened to me, it happened to Kristen Stewart, it happened to Sara Ramirez, perhaps it happened to you. (But if it did not happen to you, you are still valid!) That time has come for our favorite dancer, gay icon and noted candy enthusiast JoJo Siwa!

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A post shared by JoJo Siwa (@itsjojosiwa)

Two days ago, JoJo Siwa posted a video on instagram that featured her getting a haircut, and yesterday she posted the results of her haircut, as well as additional videos in which she tried it straight after trying it curly. This is a startling departure for the starlet once so closely associated to a line of truly wild hair bows. Maybe this means the bows are over? I for one would welcome the change! And so does the community!

https://www.instagram.com/p/CcFswudOd2W/

Already her choice has been affirmed by others who currently or formerly had a similar haircut, such as Demi Lovato, and corporations, such as Peacock and Nickelodeon.

JoJo has stated in her own instagram caption that she is HAPPPYYYYY and we are happy for her! Feel the breeze on your neck!! It’s SPRINGTIME!!!!

Shonda Rhimes Gives Butch Barber Kylee Howell the Dove Real Beauty Treatment

The mainstream may be starting to notice how difficult it can be for masculine women to get haircuts, and to that I say huzzah! Progress! And I say that completely earnestly. This Dove Real Beauty Productions ad, for example, is a step in the right direction. It features butch barber Kylee Howell and her gender-inclusive barber shop, Friar Tuck’s, in Salt Lake City.

“Growing up, I remember looking in the mirror and being like, ‘Who am I?'” Kylee says in the opening lines of the commercial. “It wasn’t until I cut my hair short that I really felt like I had come into myself.”

As a masculine lady, here’s how I solved the problem of good haircuts: I found a barber near the university where I teach and I have remained loyal to him for years, even though he thinks my name is Alice, because he can straight-razor my part in and his heart is in the right place. But I live in NYC. It’d be so much harder if you’d been tortured by folks for your female masculinity for forever, or so much harder if you felt like you were going to get assaulted in masculine spaces, or so much harder if you didn’t live in a city with an excellent reputation for inclusion.

Kylee wants to help make life easier for butch women.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y42U9YocVR0

For her effort, Kylee was directed and interviewed by SHONDA RHIMES, which probably made her mom doubly proud!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdnybX_qWxY

Here’s a snippet from their Friar Tuck’s Facebook page:

Working my way through barber school I responded to an ad for a street team member at Even Stevens Sandwiches. My job was to go around SLC and tell everyone I could about ES and their mission to donate a sandwich for every sandwich they sold. I started thinking, why didn’t every business operate this way? They are profitable, good to their employees, and have the potential to make a huge impact on the community. So the idea for a “Robin Hood” type barber shop started forming and I settled on making donations for every haircut or straight razor shave given. I read about Friar Tuck being a skilled swordsman who enjoyed good food and good wine, and who used his influence in the church to help poor people get educated, and that definitely felt similar to what I wanted to accomplish. And I’ve never said no to a good meal or glass of wine so it definitely resonated.

After graduating barber school I had the opportunity to work in a couple of amazing shops here in SLC. I continued to learn from the people around me and start to solidify who I wanted to be as a barber. By chance, my wife came across an ad for a shop space available for rent and asked if I wanted to check it out. As soon as we pulled up to the address inside Sherwood Forest, it became pretty clear this is where I was meant to be. At that point, things moved pretty quickly. Inspections began, supplies and equipment was acquired, and about a month and half later with lots of support from those around me, Friar Tuck’s welcomed its first client and made its first donation to Volunteers of America, Utah Homeless Youth resources. They are doing incredibly important outreach work in our city and recently opened a brand new youth center with many resources for one of the most overlooked population in our community. I am proud to work with them and support their efforts and I am so grateful to my clients for making it possible. Every time you come in to the shop for a haircut or shave, you are making a difference. If you haven’t, come down to the shop to see how traditional barbering is making a change in our community one haircut at a time.

At Friar Tuck’s, Kylee wants to help everyone who walks in the door — and all genders are welcome — become the most authentic version of themselves. It’s rad as heck to see a major beauty company with a huge advertising budget like Dove honoring that.

Cara Delevingne Is Cool About Her Sexual Fluidity, Also The Haircut Is Unrelated

Cara Delevingne has long been known not just for her modeling, acting and activism, but for her give-no-fucks attitude. In the August 2017 issue of Glamour, she pulls no punches; her conversation with fellow model/activist Adwoa Aboah is irreverant and refreshing. She’s happy to talk about her recent acting – “I always say, modeling is something I do, whereas acting feels more like what I [am],” particularly regarding her imminent release, the sci-fi thriller Valerian. She tells Adwoa that she chose the role because she appreciated how her character Laureline isn’t a typical action film damsel in distress; she and her partner Valerian are equals. “Laureline did the job as [well] as Valerian,” she explains. “He’s not saving her. They save each other, which is beautiful.”

Delevingne has run into a lot of the problems many models who cross over into acting face, particularly an inability to be taken seriously. During a press tour for her film Paper Towns, she was notoriously asked by a couple of condescending interviewers on Good Morning Sacramento if she’d bothered to read the book the film was based on. Since then, she’s actually written a novel. Delevingne seems to thrive on being underestimated, yet never finds herself quite able to accept compliments on her work. “I think each of us has to look at the root of the issue as to why we cannot feel good about ourselves often enough to celebrate ourselves. It’s larger than what’s happening in the moment of receiving a compliment. Everyone has to figure out why they don’t agree with what’s being said. It’s a self-confidence thing,” she tells Adwoa.

The conversation turns to Delevingne’s openness about her fluid sexuality; she has openly dated problematic actress Michelle Rodriguez and musical angel St. Vincent (aka Annie Clark). Adwoa offers that during Fashion Week, she noticed that many young women were dating other women, and expressed frustration that although these women were hesitant to label their sexuality, others would do it for them – “Oh, she’s a lesbian now.” This attitude is irritatingly all too familiar for many bisexual, pansexual and otherwise affiliated human beings on this planet.

While Cara says she’s glad to see sexuality becoming a topic younger people are more comfortable considering and discussing openly, she also struggles to have her personal orientation accurately represented or understood – even by her friends.

“Once I spoke about my sexual fluidity, people were like, ‘So you’re gay,'” she explains. “And I’m like, ‘No, I’m not gay…’ A lot of the friends I have who are straight have such an old way of thinking. It’s, ‘so you’re just gay, right?’ [They] don’t understand it. [If] I’m like, ‘Oh, I really like this guy,’ [they’re like], ‘But you’re gay.’ I’m like, ‘No, you’re so annoying!’ …Someone is in a relationship with a girl one minute, or a boy is in a relationship with a boy, I don’t want them to be pigeonholed. Imagine if I got married to a man. Would people be like — ‘she lied to us!’ It’s like, no.”

We here at Autostraddle’s Vapid Fluff HQ would suggest that Cara make some new friends.

Later, Adwoa asks Delevingne if her newly shaved head is related to her upcoming film project, tearjerker Life In A Year. “Yes,” she replies. “No, I did it because I’m gay. [Laughs] I didn’t. I’m not gay. I am. I’m not. I’m fluid! I like fluid.”

In conclusion, rumor has it that fluids are healthy.

Hey New Yorkers, Want A Free Haircut?

donikz /Shutterstock

Oh, hello there! You like free things, right? How about cool haircuts? What if I told you we were working with queer-owned NYC hair salons to makeover local members of the Autostraddle community, so you could get a sweet new ‘do at no cost to you?

Well, NYC area pals, it’s your lucky day! If you’ve been sweating a classic alternative lifestyle haircut, dapper fade, or some other cute queer coiffure, we want you to be a hair model for a future Autostraddle post.

Apply for a spot before June 30 by sending a current headshot, a photo of your dream hair, a brief introduction, and a note on your expected availability for July to nora@autostraddle.com, and let’s talk getting scissored.

No, not that kind.

Did I Ever Look Straight Once In My Life?

If you follow me on Twitter dot com, you have probably seen photos of me as a child. Specifically, you have seen my school yearbook photos. Here’s a refresher:

mom: why'd it take u so long to tell me ur gay?
me: what r u talkin bout I tried to tell u every year on picture day pic.twitter.com/IobsFKFtSa

— kayla kumari upadhyaya (@KaylaKumari) August 14, 2016

Look how cute I was! And how gay I was! And yet, I didn’t come out to myself or others until I was 20ish. I was, admittedly, very bad at pretending to be straight, as evidenced by my fashion choices ages 0-20.

So I ask you, my friends: Did I ever look straight once in my life? You decide!

Check out my sensible collection of overalls.

My first girlfriend

Is this how you heterosexual?

Gotta love a classic denim-on-denim outfit!

Just a straight cowgirl, nothing to see here

Why yes, I am indeed wearing a Ricky Martin tour shirt whilst crafting

I was the pitcher, baby!

I hear fannypacks and park ranger hats are all the rage in straight fashion.

Do not question my head-to-toe rainbow pattern.

Let us all take a moment to reflect on the fact that my mother was surprised when I came out.

The girl in this photo became my rival when she beat me out for the role of the mouse king in The Nutcracker. Is that gay?

Taken at Vacation Bible School!

More school pics!

In the photo on the right, I am wearing my softball jersey UNDER my basketball jersey.

I started wearing vests because Jennifer Morrison on House M.D. wore vests.

I used power tools shortly after this photo was taken.

WAS I TRYING TO BE BETTE PORTER?

Is this straight?

Are these camo Keds straight?

I Never Meant for My Hair to Be the Way Back to the Lighthouse

just a heads up: this essay includes some discussion of self-harm and attempting suicide

i.

In the beginning, there was my mother’s strong thighs, a wide tooth comb, a paddle brush, and a large tub of Johnson’s UltraSheen. As a little girl, every Sunday night, my sister and I would take turns sitting on my mother’s bed or floor, as she combed through our hair, greased our scalps, and plaited our hair. My sister took pigtails and Mom would swoop my hair up into a ponytail up top and one in the back. It never occurred to me to ask for something different, something more me. I didn’t even know who I was yet, and with everything happening, it didn’t seem to matter anyways.

When I think of my plaits I think of this:

First grade. During mid-morning break, we were walking down the hall to the girls’ bathroom. The stalls were painted a soft green that was illuminated by the wide window on one side of the room high above the stalls. My best friend was standing by the sink. I remembered, suddenly, what you do when you love someone. So, I kissed her on the cheek. Another girl ran to the teacher and told on me. I didn’t know I’d done anything wrong, but I knew when Ms. Mourning called me to talk, that I wasn’t right. I cried so hard at the thought of her telling my grandparents, my parents, anybody, that that’s all I have left of that day. Me, standing in my uniform, with one ponytail, crying my eyes out because the first thing I tried to do with my body (that was already under the control of someone else (maybe more)), I didn’t know what to do with this body and the only thing I understood, that I tried to do, just wasn’t right.

You don’t shake that off easily, if ever.

Whenever friends and family ask me, “Remember when…?” my answer is usually, “No.” Like a broken VHS tape that’s been rewound too many times, I can remember in waves and flashes. I can’t access most of my memories because my brain is trying to protect me. When most of the body is composed of trauma, your memories get locked deep in a closet you never want to open and whenever any of those bastards sneak out, my mind plays whack-a-mole to shove them back in. I try to remember one thing but memories don’t come lonely, they’ve got all kinds of friends attached to them. So while I’m looking for the memory of my first spelling bee, the sting of my worst spanking comes along with it, clutching its ankles. When I don’t know what I’m going to get when I work through that closet, I tend to keep the damn door locked. A few memories that’ve been safe enough through the years are enough to keep a semblance of identity for me.

But when trying to be a whole person, semblance isn’t enough. Ariel Gore writes in The End of Eve, “Trauma[…] by its very definition, can’t be fully experienced in the moment. Due to the suddenness or the enormity of the traumatic event, we just can’t take it in. So we have to go back to it at some point — either literally or symbolically — to integrate whatever happened. We can do that consciously, in some safe way, or we’re destined to revisit the trauma over and over again as the violence of life.” I’ve got to go deeper into the closet and brave what comes out. The important thing is that I need an anchor to do so. That’s what they always tell me in therapy; I’ve got to ground myself.

As I’ve been working through my shit, my greatest anchor has been my hair. Going through each hairstyle has shown me how I’ve gone from basically the black girl version of Cole from The Sixth Sense:

to Alike in the last five minutes of Pariah.

ii.

In third grade, I was in the girls’ bathroom when one of the girls in my class told me my hair was sticking up. I tried to push it back down, but it wouldn’t stay. She cupped water from the sink and poured it over my plaits. The coolness seeped into my scalp as my hair turned sponge. She frowned, “Oh, that’s weird. That usually works for me.” I got braids shortly after.

I played saxophone and drums, but I could barely read the notes on my music stand. I missed cues from the band director because I was too busy focusing on the floor. School wasn’t a problem because all I had to do was look at the paper on my desk. Sure, the teachers talked sometimes, but I didn’t have to look up to listen.

I only pulled my hair back because my mom was tired of not being able to see my face. But when I did, in sixth grade, someone made fun of the cyst on my eye and I came home crying. My mom scheduled a surgery I’d been avoiding since I knew what a scalpel looked like and I cried even more.

The boy apologized and I went into the procedure without anesthesia and cried so hard my sister heard me screaming from the waiting room. But when it was over, there wasn’t really any reason to keep my hair in my face anymore.

iii.

I watched Love and Basketball for the first time and decided this was what I needed. My cousin had left this sports encyclopedia at my grandparents’ house and for years, I went through all the pages trying to imagine myself as those athletes. But no matter how many times I tried to envision myself somewhere different, I always turned back to the beginning: Basketball. I tried out for the team in middle school with no idea how to do a lay-up, what a pick was, or why practices had to be that damn long. But I stayed because, between you and me, I knew that’s where all the lesbians were. No one said it to me, but I knew. Just like I couldn’t envision myself playing anything other than basketball, I couldn’t see any of those women basketball players (Go Mystics!) with men. I tried to get my hair like Monica Wright because in the beginning she looked like I did when I was little:

So, the logical thing middle school me believed was I could take a note from her book and look like her:

I know she’s straight but honestly there should’ve been at least five lesbian remakes with her in the first one, because how in the world do you explain this heterosexually?

You can’t. That’s that good gay shit.

Monica gave me a model I could follow. As an untreated, unmedicated mentally ill kid, obsession should’ve been my first, last and middle name as well as the name of the street I lived on. I didn’t just love orange juice, I drank it every day three times a day for years until my stomach gave up on me and told me to call it quits. I didn’t watch The Lion King once, I watched it every Saturday morning for years in my Simba chair and came to school spirit day like this:

So I didn’t go into basketball lightly. It’s all I asked for when my birthday and Christmas came around. I’d beg my grandfather to take me to the courts when we visited. I would talk only about basketball day in and day out. My mother and sister couldn’t stand me.

You ain’t never met someone who does the most like me

I figured, you focus on one thing long enough, everything else fades away. I was pretty good at dissociating (still am) but I still knew there were plenty of everything else’s I needed to be the hell away from if I was going to survive. God knows I needed that. So, I kept my hair plaited back and went outside and dribbled and ran laps and practiced defense until they called me to come in cause it was way too dark for me to be out by myself.

iv.

I settled on an all-girls Catholic school for high school because I had fleeting annoying thoughts about girls and I thought immersion therapy would make all that go away. I don’t want to give spoilers but…

I wanted to go to the WNBA, but this dream was crushed when I got to the high school gym. We were supposed to play against freshmen on THE VARSITY TEAM MEANING THEY’VE BEEN SCOUTED SINCE AT LEAST SEVENTH GRADE and I knew my love of basketball wasn’t going to make me Chamique Holdsclaw nor make my legs run any faster so I just walked my tail to the theatre instead. I can’t sing a lick, but I can do almost everything else — or at least pretend to, and isn’t that what theatre is all about? Around this time, I got weave.

I wanted to be someone new, someone different from the geeky girl who daydreamed too much. I figured being me was what got me in trouble in the first place, so I studied my surroundings so I could fit in better. Chameleon this shit. All the girls at school had straight hair, or at least hair that didn’t look like mine. They were also really damn pretty. I couldn’t do much about the latter but I could copy the former. My cousin relaxed and straightened my hair and glued in tracks (I had them sewn in during the summer) taking inspiration from Rihanna during her Umbrella phase and Beyoncé circa the B’Day album.

I think I could’ve blended in all four years except, well, I heard her sing. I thought theatre was a place where you could mask, where you could make a home in something you never could be. I wanted to be straight and sane and the safest kind of black (even if it doesn’t exist) and I thought theatre would let me do that. But it turns out theatre is for unearthing truth, not burying it, and that paired with me and obsession? Shit, buddy, was I ever in trouble.

I started to do theatre really seriously because the girl I had a crush on was in everything and it took a lot of guesswork out of trying to be my own person. I signed up for things I had no business being in. I started off slow with theatrical design and stage craft. Since one theatre class was required, my ass should’ve stopped right there. But I signed up to do sound for the fall musical and then tech for the spring musical. Again the next year. I added Improvisation to my schedule and tried to back out but my counselor wouldn’t let me. After I got comfortable with that, I did shows and went to every musical, if I wasn’t tech-ing and performed in the tech parody of the musical. Then I signed up for Acting, which everyone laughed at. Then Honors Acting and by this time, tech for the last show because even though we’d had a falling out, she said, “But you have to! This is the last show we’ll have together!” So I climbed my ass up to the spot loft even though I’m terrified of heights, and shone a light on her for three months straight. I had no idea what the inside of my chest was doing, but I wanted it to keep happening. Being as close to the stage as I could made that happen. I went to braids,

microbraids,

a brief stint where I wore a wig for dance concerts (we did disco),

and twists.

v.

My granddad died sophomore year. That along with a crush I had no idea what to do with, I turned to self harm. I skipped class cause I couldn’t keep still and I saw him in the hallways and I felt like the walls were closing in on me whenever the clock moved closer to three.

We had a ceremony where everyone had to come back to the school dressed up, with parents in the audience. I wore pants and a white shirt and got crankier the longer I saw everyone. She was in a dress and makeup that made me want to punch walls out of want. The only way I saw out was telling her, so, I texted her because I couldn’t look her in the eye.

She was really good about it. She probably would’ve been great about it. I wouldn’t know because literally as soon as I got we should talk about this in person. text, I ran. I didn’t look back.

I told my mom. I remember crying but I’ve blocked out most of everything else. It wasn’t a story I wanted to keep.

My psychosis got worse. I cut deeper and more often. My moods were out of control, going from dancing on cloud nine to a pocket knife within minutes. Looking through my journals, I talked about suicide a lot.

We had retreats every year as a class, like mini group therapy sessions. They’d each give me enough hope to keep going. Catholics believe that homosexuality is a sin, but suicide is unforgivable. I didn’t really see a way I could move in between those two impossibilities but the retreats gave me belief I could try.

I fought with my friends. I wrote them letters about how much I loved them. I forgot to keep the light off while getting dressed one morning and my mom caught me with scars on my legs. Everyone talked about college and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I wrote her a letter explaining that I wasn’t gay, I was just sad about my granddad and she made me smile. I went to prom with a boy and everyone told me how beautiful I looked.

I lied a lot and hoped I wouldn’t get caught.

vi.

Senior year, I went blonde.

I kept skipping class until I got caught and served Saturday detention. I quit Improv even though people said I was good and I enjoyed doing it. One day, I thought I was getting better; the next I believed I would always be fucked. I drank. I cut. Then, I took a Creative Writing class second semester and didn’t realize until I was halfway through reading my first story that I was coming out.

It went well. Everyone’s notes were helpful and the ground didn’t open up and swallow me whole. I walked to lunch feeling lighter than I’d ever felt. I held my friend’s hand while I told stories during lunch.

A younger girl, a freshman, came up to me and said, Hi, I have a crush on you. I froze. I could feel the entire lunch table staring. I let go of my friend’s hand. The girl ran back to her friends before I could do anything. One of my friends who was in the same writing class as me, pointed across the cafeteria to girls who were laughing. My friends told me to talk to the freshman, to make sure she was alright.

I had Improv next and all I could think as I walked to the classroom above the theatre was Why is everyone telling me to worry about that girl when I feel like shit too? Can’t I take a minute to feel like shit instead of ignoring it and deal with it later (if ever)? Then, guilt would come back and remind me that I wasn’t allowed to feel anything, much less anger. The shitty feelings doubled up on top of the shame I already carried. Walking into the classroom, one of the girls from the cafeteria laughed, You should’ve seen your face! I’m not sure what my face did then, but it must’ve been right because she kept on laughing until I heard myself laughing with her. When I thought of how I stayed quiet instead of going after that girl to see if she was alright, I thought I deserved this much. I went to Improv class and one of the girls from the cafeteria laughed, You should’ve seen your face! I didn’t think I had a choice but to laugh along with her.

Second semester continued to spiral. I stopped talking to my best friend because good things don’t last and I wanted a say in how something ended this time. I failed Calculus because I was too busy cutting in class and ignoring the teacher because she made me mad and grudges are the only thing I can hold too well. My friends started getting college acceptances and I was anxious, thinking I’d get left behind. I went to the first college that said yes.

I went to prom with the same boy.

Smiled whenever a phone was pointed at me.

We took graduation pictures and I counted down the day til I could get the fuck out of there.

vii.

By the grace of God, I graduated. My family bundled up all my stuff in cars and trucks and we drove down to North Carolina. My parents, sister, and I had been a couple months before for an orientation and my gut told me this wasn’t right. But I’d ignored it this long, I thought it was best to keep going. I remember sitting in the bathroom with a razor reminding myself, It’s just four more years. You can do four more years. You’ve made it this far, what’s a little more?

But this time, I couldn’t do it. The first night there, the school threw a welcome luau for the freshmen. I stayed in my dorm room, sitting on my bed, IM-ing one of my friends. I was one of the first to go off to school and telling them how anxious and terrified I was, they told me I just needed to get used to it. But I kept imagining my family driving back home, leaving me stranded, without one person who gave a fuck about whether I stayed here or not. This didn’t feel like something I could get used to. In the middle of the night, I texted and called every family member I could, telling them if they didn’t get me right now, I was going to empty out the family-size Advil bottle sitting on my dresser. I don’t remember much after that, except my cousin being the first to answer and someone getting me. Coming back to the hotel room, and my sister pulling back the cover without hesitation telling me, You can always come home. My grandmother, the next day, holding my hand and saying, It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.

We came back. I thought North Carolina was a fluke. I called my second choice and they told me I could still come, that I’d still get scholarship. This time it was just me and my parents. I remember telling my cousin, I’m going to miss you so much. and he told me, Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. I told him I was going to college and he said, Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.

We drove up to New York and I tried to imagine myself in the mountains with the snow and dial-up Internet and groups that already didn’t laugh at my jokes. My dad said, I’m sure going to miss you, kid. I loved going on car rides with you and hanging out. It won’t be the same without you. I didn’t even make it to my dorm room after that. A therapist was called. I cried so hard into the hotel comforter, I thought the mattress would forever be tear stained. We came back home that morning and my cousin jumped down the steps, Hey, Exi! I told you I’d see you! How was college?

I looked for schools, swearing I wouldn’t fall behind my former classmates. I tried online but would give up on the last assignment and stop answering phone calls to sign up for next semester. I was accepted into a school closer to home and had to keep my back turned whenever the metro train approached. After a week, I resigned. I couldn’t stop seeing myself hanging from the ceiling.

My parents let me stay home. My sister went to school and I rode with my dad to take my cousin to and from school. I read a lot online and tried to catch up on everything I missed while closeted (I ended up watching Imagine Me & You a lot) and I stayed in the basement and paced for hours. I wrote plays and essays and poems that weren’t very good. I came out (again) hoping that would solve everything. I got a mohawk. Getting out of bed any day was nothing short of a miracle.

For at least a year, I was season three Quinn Fabray. But after cutting my hair, instead of getting a tattoo and trying to steal my baby back from Rachel’s mom, I talked to hallucinations and made plans to go back to high school and give myself a do-over. I thought changing something on the outside would change the wrecked ruin of me on the inside. I thought somehow the inside would get a memo from my outside and get into shape. Just like Quinn, the cut didn’t save me. It just made me look different — closer to myself, yes, but not all the way there yet.

Though it had been suggested once or twice, this is when I really started therapy. The first person didn’t fit, but I tried to make her. Every week, I’d sit in her rocking chair (the sole reason I gave her the okay) and would talk about my plans to get back into college. I left when my paranoia told me this wasn’t going to work out and I saw how much my parents were paying for me to pretend to get better. The second person, I felt more comfortable around. She was gay, at least. I mostly looked out her top-floor window, the sky was usually so much bluer. A couple of sessions in, she said something about my grandfather. I kept looking out the window. At one point, she brought up abuse. I kept looking out the window, but I wasn’t there anymore.

It was slow and hard work chipping at me to get to any kind of truth. She knew I wrote and told me about this contest one of her friends was hosting. Teens and young adults who would write a piece about growing up that could be included in a book. My submission was a letter to my parents about that day in the cafeteria. I never felt like I could tell them what happened or why it still hurts so much. I hoped this would be some kind of healing. It was accepted and I still felt like shit. There was a reading hosted for all the contributors. I came and thought my sister would only come in but my dad did too. I didn’t want him to hear me talk about being gay again so when the editors asked me to speak, I just smiled and said, No thank you. I got angrier every time they asked and ended up sulking in the corner. One of the publishers asked me about writing a book and gave me her card. I told my mom about what may have happened with my grandfather. I didn’t want to talk anymore in therapy. A couple of weeks later, my therapist and I talked about checking me into the hospital.

After talking with my family and freaking out after reading a book called Suicide Notes, we decided to try outpatient instead. I applied for and got into an intensive outpatient program. From the intake meeting, I felt better. Not cured, but better. The therapist was kind and easier to talk to about the hard stuff. I had orientation and decided if the art therapist could stomach my creepy picture without making me feel like shit, I’d tell the truth, I’d do my best here. When she smiled after my explanation of my piece, it felt like a light went on inside me.

I took the metro to and from the place almost every day. Some days I couldn’t make it myself and my dad would pick me up and we’d get my cousin and they’d distract me for a while. I had group and workout and art and DBT skills and individual sessions and no one yelled at me when I showed up too early, sitting on the three steps that lead to the front door. No one shooed me away when I paced outside the doors during lunch, letting the laughter from the conference room comfort me into knowing they were still there, they hadn’t disappeared yet. No one made me feel the worst kind of invisible, the kind that doesn’t see reason to stick around. They believed me when I didn’t want to even know myself and every day I wrote little notes to remind myself that this was real, that this was happening to me, that I could hold this a little longer.

But they couldn’t stop the mood swings.

iix.

My mom would plait my hair into cornrows every Sunday night and it was something I took comfort in, let me revel in childhood without staying too long for it to become dangerous again. I mostly just kept my sweatshirt hoodie up and let it be.

But one day, I made her upset and she didn’t plait my hair. I remember barely getting any sleep that night. Feeling like I was too small in my skin, too big in the world, too everything and not enough. I played my music really loud as I walked into the group room, upset and trying to hide it. I came in with really tore up looking hair, but I knew I deserved it.

The people in group listened to me mumble about my weekend and I tried to rush the ending on my hair. It was quiet for a moment and then they said very gently: “That must be really tough. I’m so sorry.” I tried to brush it off, it’s not a big deal it’s not like anyone’s looking at me anyway. I tried to make myself smaller, but they wouldn’t let me.

I think I was supposed to feel better but that kind of understanding couldn’t fit in me right just yet. I obsessed over it and I manic-ed and angered at my audacity to feel anything other than thankful and vowed to get my own clippers because family is too much to deal with anyways and I don’t need the world to so easily see that I am unloved and this isn’t something I should have to worry about. I thought about my head and decided to try on the love other people gave me. I asked my dad to take me to the barbershop. I didn’t get clippers. I got a binder instead.

It was another step towards becoming myself. I kept going to therapy and figured out it may not have been my grandfather, it may have been him, it was probably some other people too. My best friend and I made up and try out talking to each other with love because we’re hoping practice makes permanent. I applied for jobs and schools and got frustrated at just the thought of being confined again. A man followed me from the street to the metro and I turned around to come back to the safe place. I hid under chairs in the waiting room and saw my grandfather even though he shouldn’t be breathing. I relapsed and got rejected from jobs and walked the other way when a girl even smiled in my direction. A man on the train told me I looked like I kiss good and held his junk while staring at me. I flashbacked so hard, I don’t remember how I got home. I got my first job and one of the managers harassed me and other workers and nothing could stop him. Another coworker made pedophilic jokes around me. I didn’t see a way out and I cut and cut and prayed and finally, I wrote. After I wrote, I went back to treatment and spoke.

I started to pay for my own treatment. I made plans with my therapists on how to talk to people above the manager and my coworkers. They didn’t like it, but I kept a pocketknife on me and felt safe. The manager was moved to another location. Other coworkers told me stories to remind me I wasn’t alone. Over the summer, I did a paid internship at a nonprofit and learned to manage my anxiety better. I applied for a women and nonbinary people of color writer’s retreat and got in.

I travelled for the first time by myself and stayed in a place I never knew existed. Surrounded by people who had no reason to like, much less trust and love me, created a home for me as soon as I stepped out the car. I told the truth as much as I could and fell in love with so many people in just four days. With my knees knocking and my hands shaking, I performed my poetry and everyone listened to me like church. I was held, in more ways than one. I learned about found family in high school, but that one dissolved as soon as we hit the graduation steps. This family I love (and they still love me) stayed and still stay even years later.

I came back home and relapsed. I came back and tried to build myself again into a person who couldn’t wait to keep living.

Working again, I picked up drinking. Cried because I was out but still didn’t think people I loved still liked me. I cut off my mohawk and got a fade. Volunteered with literary organizations and helped out with an abuse resource blog. I let my hair go back to black. I advised in workshops and worked and felt like it wasn’t enough. I kept showing up to group and individual and tried to sit in the same room with my emotions for hours at a time. I applied for all kinds of residencies and submitted to journals and signed up for all kinds of classes in bursts of manic energy. I cancelled classes and ignored plans and I got into LAMBDA’s Literary Retreat for Emerging Writers.

I spent a week at college with people who made me excited to learn everyday. I didn’t have to censor myself when I talked about whose face I liked best. I looked forward to hanging outside my room and ate healthy and enough. I smoked and flew by myself for the first time. I got drunk the first night. I went to my first gay club. I read my work at West Hollywood Library. I came home feeling touch my head to the floor grateful and super vulnerable and fucking invincible. I wrote this status:

ix.

Things aren’t magically better but they are different. A different I’m learning to love and handle better everyday. Now, I go to the barber shop and after I get my fade, I run my hands through the back of your head and the buzz warms my fingertips. I can look at myself in the mirror longer. My arms and legs aren’t clear but they’re not as blood-drip heavy. I don’t let healing become linear but I haven’t made recovery impossible. I still go to therapy and I talk and I write and I think about endings less. My body feels more home than ever. Hair has memoried me and made me and continues to pull me forward even when I can’t get out.

I never meant for my hair to be the way back to the lighthouse. I never knew that each step in my hair journey would be one of the few things that would anchor my memories, allow me to tell myself in the truest way I can. Hair is extension of myself and so I thought it was just for making my parents, my family, my abusers, my friends, and strangers happy. I thought it would keep me safe. Or at least, invisible. I thought it would be the last thing to help me figure out my identity, that it would just be an afterthought, like I always was. But, it’s become so much more than that. My hair is the first way I was able to gain autonomy over my body, to learn to navigate my identity through what I did with my curls, how I kept my kitchen, the color I used to express myself. Now when I need to ground myself, I don’t have to wait for anyone to help me. I don’t need to depend on everyone else. I can just reach up.

Listen,

“See now I’m performing emotional labor.”
– Rachel, Managing Editor

 (Photo by Allen Berezovsky/Getty Images for Fashion Media)

(Photo by Alberto E. Rodriguez/Getty Images)

(Photo by Jon Kopaloff/FilmMagic)

You Need Help: What To Do With Your Gay Hair In Trump Country

Welcome to You Need Help! Where you’ve got a problem and yo, we solve it. Or we at least try.

Q:

I currently rock a pretty Rachel Maddow-esque ‘do and I love the sense of identity and individuality it gives me, but I live and go to college in Kentucky. In the first week of President-Elect Trump, I’ve been catcalled more viciously and with more derogatory remarks aimed at my stereo-typically gay haircut than I have in the previous three years that I’ve lived here. They’re getting more physically aggressive too. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been seriously considering growing out my hair to a more generic bob length for peace of mind… but that also seems like giving up and giving in to everyone else. So, I’m stuck. Is growing out my hair to make myself less of a target giving in, or is it a smart decision given the current (hate filled) political climate?

A:

Don’t grow your hair out.

I know these advice posts aren’t usually so emphatic, but I must start by beseeching you not to do it.

I totally get it, and I’m pissed as heck that you even have to ask a question like this. I think we are all in our little corners of this dark, turbulent universe trying to figure out what will keep us safe in a world where Donald Trump is the next president and his VP is a guy who thinks electroshock therapy will fix our queer brains. I’m over here in Dallas, Texas going to Trader Joe’s instead of Kroger because TJ’s is easier to get out of and has a smaller parking lot, so if someone starts fucking with me I can escape more easily. I find myself trying to pass as male, trying to disappear, making myself as invisible as possible — and wondering, always wondering if there’s something else I should be doing to keep myself safer.

Babe, I get it.

But don’t grow your hair out.

I used to have long hair, and then I had short hair, and then I had long hair again, and then I cut it, and then, and then — this cycle lasted almost a decade. I probably spent a cumulative three years with an awkward half-mullet. The last time I started growing it out, I was moving to Nicaragua and I felt like growing out my hair would provide some semblance of protection, make me seem normal, shield me from critique in communities where traditional gender performance was not to be tampered with. And you know what? It didn’t fucking work. I still got harassed all the time, I still got groped, and on top of that, I looked in the mirror every damn day and thought about shaving my head. When I finally gave up and got it cut, the volume of catcalling and harassment stayed the same; the difference was with short hair I sometimes got called a faggot instead of a slut. The other difference was that when I walked down the street I felt like myself, and that made me brave.

Back in Texas with a #1.5 fade, I’m always aware that my appearance could make me a target. But it’s not about my hair. There is no hairstyle in the world that would make me seem straight, feminine, or “normal.” And friend, I doubt you could pull it off either. I think you could style your hair like Dolly Parton and people on Kentucky front porches and in Kentucky truck beds would still call you a dyke in that horrible ugly tone that only bigots can growl with.

For reference, according to Google, here is Rachel Maddow with a bob looking gay af.

So fuck them. Wear your hair however you want to, and wear it like armor. They do not get to take your Rachel Maddow coif from you. Put your gay haircut between yourself and the world. If you are white, put your gay haircut between your black classmates and your racist professors. Put it between women who need abortion care and anti-choice protestors, too. Take your gay haircut to the polls every chance you get, and in the meantime take it with you when you volunteer at your campus’s SA/DV center or your town’s youth services center.

Be bold, darling. I wish I could tell you there is a switch you could flip or a wig you could wear that would make this time less terrifying and make the assholes less brazen, but there’s not. We have to be brave instead. We have to fight for people of color and Muslims and trans women and each other. We are looking at an impossibly ugly few years, and we have to find ways to settle into our bodies so we can be brave. Don’t make it harder for yourself, because God knows the people around you aren’t about to make it easier. Be your truest self and wake up every day ready to fight your best fight.

Keep your clippers at the ready, because you’re going to need them.

Sara Ramirez is Bisexual: “Grey’s Anatomy” Star Comes Out, Gets An Alternative Lifestyle Haircut

This morning, at the 40 to None Summit to benefit LGBT homelessness, the gorgeous and talented Sara Ramirez showed up to introduce us to her fantastic new buzz cut and her intersectional truth: she’s the multi-racial daughter of immigrants, and she’s bisexual.

Anyone else just burst into tears? No? Just me?

Most of us know Sara as Grey’s Anatomy’s Callie Torres, half of Calzona, one of the longest running queer relationships on network television. Callie was the first person I ever heard use the word bisexual on the teevee. She made no apologies for her truth, and loved with abandon. She meant so much to me. She inspired me; she brought me comfort. The curve of Callie’s path as a bisexual woman helped me understand and embrace my own bisexuality, and I was gutted when she left the show. I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch it since. But today, seeing the amazing woman who brought Callie so much passion stand up in her truth, embrace her intersections, and use her voice to bring awareness to the cause of LGBT homelessness, it’s almost more than my cold black heart can handle.

Shit is tough right now, you guys, but today, in this moment? Sara Ramirez is an out, queer, woman of color, and I for one couldn’t be more thrilled.

What a year for bisexual visibility!

UPDATE: The True Colors Fund has released a full video of Sara’s speech. (Get ready to cry again.)

3 Alternative Natural Hair Looks For Scissor-Shy Curly Queers

I love my long natural hair. It is part of my heritage, my identity, and even my career as a performer. Some days, I wish I had an alternative look that might express my queerdo feels, but there’s no way I’m going to cut it all off (again). Natural hair doesn’t really lend itself to versatility, not easily at least. I rock what natural hair connoisseurs call a “wash’n’go” which sounds super simple and easy breezy but actually entails about 30 minutes of conditioning, detangling, and finger curling to smooth out the wily bits. Not to mention the approximately 20 minutes of blow-drying, which only does half the job. I spend the rest of the day with a slowly expanding afro. It is dry by maybe 4 pm. I’m really not kidding. It ain’t easy being natural, but it feels good. It feels healthy and like a part of who I am. I follow a few natural hair bloggers that make more complex natural hairdos look so easy, but I’m skeptical about the ability of the layperson who wants to achieve these looks. Given that doing my hair can be such a chore anyways, I decided to give a few of these styles a shot, and rate them based on ease, time, and queerdo suitability (1 being the easiest, quickest and milquetoast-iest, 5 being the hardest, most time consuming and gayest, respectively).

Janelle Pompadour

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0pP3VHJLgA

I actually did this one for Halloween one year, and I can definitively say that it is easier the second time around. Make sure you do it with dry hair; it’s even easier because even if your curls aren’t at their perkiest, you can disguise them within the pouf, so it’s a good “day 3” hairstyle (hair that hasn’t been washed for three days). But it ain’t for the faint of heart. I’m going to need a few lessons in sass before I have the self-confidence to rock this one outside of the house. Ease: 2, Time: 1, Gayness: 5.

Uncanny, n’est pas?
Janelle via Mark Abraham Photography

Fro-Hawk

You get the idea.

This one is normally super easy if you start out with freshly washed hair, but I wanted my hawk to be more floppy, if you know what I mean. So I spent 24 hours with my hair in bantu knots (little knobby twists all over my head), disguised under a sweet head wrap. Those were fun to unravel, and then I just pinned up both sides into the center. Make sure to pin the sides as close together as possible, to achieve maximum height in the hair, otherwise it will be too wide and your head will look boxy. Ease: 5, Time: 5, Gayness: 5.

worth it just to unravel those little hair doodles.

Top Knot Bun With a Twist

via Black Girl Long Hair

It’s supposed to be easy enough, but I just ended up with what looked like a fresh pile of poop on top of my head. This might be a better style for people with longer hair and tighter curls so it’s easier to achieve the volume. Anyways I’m not even gonna post a picture ’cause I looked that bad y’all. Ease: 1, Time: 1, Gayness: 1.

Next time I’m gonna lock myself in my bathroom for an entire day and do temporary yarn dreads. Stay tuned.

How To Dye Your Own Hair Every Color You’ve Ever Wanted At Once

Following in the footsteps of every uni student cliché before me, as soon as my parents dropped me off in the tiny box that would be my room for my first year out of the family home, I shaved off most of my hair and turned what was left of it purple. I say this casually, as if the process was pain-free and smooth sailing all the way — when in reality my first time had me bent over the sink in said tiny box while a friend poured jug after jug of too-cold water over my newly (and unevenly) blonde, frizzy hair. BUT three years on, I can now safely say that I know enough about dyeing my hair to at least remember not to stain the bathroom tiles.

And I’ve found a partner in crime!

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: I’m not a professional hairdresser. Always follow the instructions provided by the manufacturer, and if in doubt, consult a qualified professional. However, there is very little to the process that requires specialist expertise, so don’t be scared off! My partner and I have gotten a fair amount of practice in and learnt how to do more complicated colour combinations, but I’ve done this even with friends who’d had no prior experience at all. Doing your hair yourself is fun, much cheaper than going to the salon, and probably only moderately hazardous to your health.

Step One: Bleaching

I’ve known more than one person who’s said things like, “I dye my hair so frequently I’ve forgotten what the original colour is” and I’m never quite sure how to respond. Is this a really roundabout humblebrag? Do these people never look in the mirror, wildly stabbing at their scalp every time they sense their roots have grown out? My hair is black, so bleaching isn’t optional. Some people have success getting tinted hair by just dyeing unbleached hair, but bleaching is the best way to get bright, long-lasting colours.

Before we begin, here’s a few things to take note of:

• This how-to assumes you’re bleaching your hair as a first step to dyeing it other colours. While it’s possible to lighten your hair to platinum blonde, etc. at home, it’s also pretty hard to do evenly, so if you’re doing this (especially for the first time!), maybe lower your expectations.

• If you’re using permanent hair dye (instead of temporary or semi-permanent ones like Manic Panic), the dye might already contain peroxide and/or ammonia to lighten your hair. I didn’t run into any issues this one time I bleached my hair before using Herbatint dye, but it might be different for you. Try to avoid ammonia in hair products.

• The effects of hair bleach are permanent. Bleach oxidises the melanin in your hair (turning it from your natural hair colour to colourless) so there is no way to go back to the original colour until new hair grows out. There’s no getting around it: bleach smells terrible and feels terrible and will make you wonder why you’re putting yourself through this. But the end results will make you feel awesome about yourself and even if it messes up, hair always grows back!

Preparation

Keep your hair as clean and healthy as possible. Avoid using hair products and heat styling tools, and try not to bleach your hair too soon after other chemical treatments like hair relaxing. Condition! And then condition some more — but not too soon before bleaching, because conditioner coats hair cuticles and makes it harder for the chemicals to work. Shampoo your hair about a day before bleaching, so it’s clean but your hair has some time to build up sebum to protect your scalp.

Decide on the strength of the bleach you want to use. Hair bleach usually comes in two parts: bleach powder and cream/clear developer. The volume of the developer affects the strength of the reaction that lightens your hair.

• 20 vol: for light-coloured hair
• 30 vol: for medium/dark-coloured hair
• 40 vol: for very dark hair

Most guides recommend that you don’t use 40 vol developer and that you don’t bleach black hair (especially if it’s been dyed black). I do all of these things regularly with reckless abandon and great results. If risking the health of your hair for vanity and convenience isn’t your thing, try using 20/30 vol developer and bleaching your hair multiple times instead.

Get bleach! Boxed kits are great for getting started: Manic Panic (US) and Directions (UK) are popular options. We’ve also experimented with perfumed bleaches like GATSBY Ex Hi Bleach but found the artificial smell even more offensive — might work for you though. These kits contain all the equipment you need, but you’ll need more than one box if your hair is long or thick. For a more economical option, you can buy bleach powder and developer in larger quantities and mix them as needed.

Do a strand test. This is especially important if you’re using a new product, have previously bleached/dyed your hair, used henna or have skin conditions/allergies. I’ll admit I usually skip this step because I’m not too fussed about what colour my hair ends up since I move on immediately to dyeing, and neither my partner nor I have reacted badly to bleach despite having eczema and psoriasis respectively. But your mileage may vary, of course, and bleaching is by far the most destructive step in this process so take all the precautions you need to feel confident you’re not about to melt your ALH off.

Process

Cover everything. Bleach will ruin your hands, clothes and rental deposit. Wear gloves and apply Vaseline to your ears and hairline; if you have cartilage piercings that you want to keep covered, use cling wrap. Use plastic sheaths or newspaper to line your working area and cover your back and shoulders. Don’t wear anything you’re going to miss if bleach falls on it; tops with a wide neckline are good so you can get it off without it brushing your hair. (Plus there’s always the option of not wearing anything.) Always, always use bleach in a well-ventilated place, unless you enjoy entertaining paranoid thoughts about your imminent death brought on by inhaling noxious fumes.

Mix the bleach powder and developer in non-metal containers. Mix the dry into wet (which I always do wrong). If no instructions are provided, the powder and developer should be added in roughly equal proportions till no lumps of powder remain and the mixture approximates the consistency of buttercream frosting. Getting the ratio exactly right isn’t super important; you just want it smooth enough to spread and not too dry.

Section and clip/tie up your hair (again, no metal!). Bleach is quite thick and doesn’t work itself into hair easily. I find it easiest to tie the top part of my hair up with a rubber band and then pull out small amounts at a time, but a more common method, especially with thicker/longer hair, is to use clips to section the hair into quarters. It’s a lot easier to do this with a partner so you can make sure nothing gets missed, but if you’re on your own, set up two mirrors so you can see the back of your head.

Work from the bottom up with a plastic brush or your (gloved) fingers. This seems counterintuitive, but the tips of your hair will take the longest to process because they’re the farthest away from the heat of your head. To get a more even colour, apply bleach to your roots only 5-10min after you’re done with the rest of your hair. (This also reduces the risk of chemical burns from too-strong bleach getting into contact with your scalp.)

Do NOT bleach your eyebrows. This shit will blind you.

Keep a close eye on processing time. Bleach might act faster on your head than during the strand test because of your body heat. To prevent the bleach from drying out and to speed things up a little, wear a shower cap. You can also use a hairdryer, but I don’t recommend it because it can make your hair really brittle. Try not to leave the bleach in for more than 30min — an itchy scalp is normal, but stop immediately if it feels like it’s burning.

Rinse the bleach from your hair with cold water and shampoo. No matter how healthy your hair was, bleach will make it feel like straw, I’m sorry! Don’t worry though, it’s nothing deep conditioner won’t fix. If you’re going to bleach your hair again or dye it immediately after, save the conditioner for later.

Bleach again (if necessary). Ideally, you should let your hair rest for about a week — with plenty of conditioning — before bleaching it again. Realistically, if you’re anything like me, you’ll be unwilling to live more than two hours of your life blonde(ish) and want to get it all done in one go. I’ve never had problems bleaching with 40 vol developer twice in a day (and thrice with 30 vol), but as always, be very careful if you’ve not done this before.

This is what happens when you don’t take your own advice: as you can see, the tips are darkest because we didn’t start from the bottom. (Also, that tank top is no longer black.)

Use toner (if necessary). Toners are essentially very dilute hair dyes that help to remove the yellow/orange tones that remain after bleaching. Lilac (also called white) toners neutralise yellow tones, while blue toners neutralise orange tones. If you’re not dyeing your bleached hair, purple shampoo works as a long-term solution to remove brassy tones. A cheap alternative to all of this is to mix a bit of violet (bluish purple, not reddish purple) hair dye into regular conditioner and work it into your hair, and if you have green-toned hair (usually from swimming in chlorinated pools), some people swear by tomato juice. Keep an eye on your hair — if you overprocess it, it’ll take on the colour of your toner. To be honest, though, we’ve had very poor results with toners and find it to be an unnecessary use of time and money.

Step Two: Dyeing

Preparation

Wash your hair with clarifying shampoo. Unlike bleach, dye (probably) won’t do horrible things to your hair but you do need to remove build-up and oils so it gets absorbed better. Hot water helps to open up your cuticles.

Choose the right colour. Hair dyes are translucent, so choosing what’s appropriate for your hair is a bit more complicated than you’d expect. (I learnt this the hard way.) Here’s a simple colour wheel:

These are the main colour types/relationships to be aware of:

• Primary colours (red, yellow, blue) are colours that cannot be made of other colours. This is pretty 101, but if you’re planning to mix dyes together, it’s worthwhile to invest in primaries.

• Complementary colours (on opposite sides of the wheel) neutralise each other. When used in small amounts (as in toner), this can help to remove the faded remnants of your last dye job and give you a paler base to work with. BUT if you use say, green dye on red hair, you’ll just get a muddy, unappealing brown. Streaks of complementary colours in your hair give you strong contrast.

• Analogous colours (next to each other on the wheel) boost each other’s depth and vibrancy. Streaks of analogous colours give you smooth harmony, as well as what is described as “cool” (green, blue, purple) or “warm” (red, orange, yellow) blends. My current hair colour is a mix of Directions turquoise, cerise and plum (or as Natalie calls it, “merbutch”) and it’s definitely my favourite to date.

• Monochromatic colours are tints, tones and shades of the same hue. To get a lighter, pastel shade, you can mix your hair dye with an appropriate toner or conditioner. These slow down how quickly the dye gets absorbed into your hair.

To minimise the amount of processing you put your hair through, work around the wheel (e.g. from blue to purple to red hair). Mix dye as you please, but it’s best if you mix the same brands together and don’t mix different types (e.g. permanent and temporary) because they’re made of different stuff.

Get hair dye! I really love Special Effects and Directions, and have had less luck with Manic Panic though it seems to be a lot of people’s go-to semi-permanent brand. It’s unlikely you’ll find the more unnatural (and better) colours at standard hair salons, so if you want to buy them in person try to find the kind of shops where they sell 394209 kinds of piercing jewelry and studded belts and everyone dresses in (faux) leather. Are they called punk shops? Goth shops? I am clearly too uncool to know this.

Do a strand test. This not only helps preempt any skin reactions or other hair health issues (as with the bleach), it also serves a preview of what the dye’s actually going to look like on your hair. Fair warning: while turquoise is lovely and everyone wants it in their hair, it also often shows up as green unless you start from a very pale base and tends to fade very quickly.

Process

Section your hair and paint the dye on with a brush. Use a toothbrush (or even just gloved fingers) if you don’t have a dedicated plastic hair dye brush. It’s really fun, like an art project!

My kind of three-way.

If you’re using more than one colour or high/lowlighting your hair, there are plenty of ways you can do it:

• Get a highlighting cap or poke holes through a shower cap, pulling each section of hair that you want to dye out through the plastic. This is the best way to make sure nothing you don’t want dyed gets dyed, but figuring out which strands to pull through can get confusing.

• Wrap each dyed section in foil. This gives you a better sense of where to apply dye, but is messier than the cap. Cut the foil before you start dyeing to make the process less exasperating.

• Coat sections that you don’t want dyed in conditioner or petroleum jelly. Semi-permanent dyes don’t stick to these bits. This is useful if you want Rogue (of X-Men)-style hair.

• Just paint it on. This is how my partner and I do our hair because we want the colours to blend together, not show up as distinct streaks. (Also because we’re lazy. Mainly because we’re lazy.) If you’re doing it this way, be prepared to get messy — clip/tie up the sections that are done to get them out of the way, or just get in there with your fingers.

Combing through the hair as you go along helps to make sure you get to every strand but if your hair is feeling fragile (especially after bleaching), don’t push it.

Leave the dye in for as long as you want IF it doesn’t have any developer in it. (If it does, don’t exceed the processing time stated on the box.) Put a shower cap on and use a hairdryer to help the colour set better. Some people choose to leave the dye on overnight, but I think that’s a colourful accident waiting to happen. With most semi-permanent dyes, leaving them in for longer doesn’t damage your hair but you might get a much darker colour than you’d bargained for — it’ll fade with a few washes though.

Rinse the dye from your hair with cold water and shampoo. It’s gonna be messy: back when I used Special Effects’ Blue Velvet (one of the longest-lasting dyes I’ve ever tried) regularly, my bathtub would look like a Smurf murder scene. At this point I usually get quite distressed that none of the dye is sticking because my hair’s short enough (and my eyes myopic enough) that I can’t see any of it while a seemingly endless stream of dye bleeds out into the water, but don’t worry, it’s still on there. Probably.

Condition! Conditioner is just so good for your hair, you guys.

Clean any hair dye stains on bathroom tiles, etc. before the dye dries. When the dye’s still quite dilute often just soap, scrubbing and running water does the job, but I also use nail polish remover for more stubborn dried stains. The stuff on your hands will wash off eventually.

Step Three: Aftercare

Don’t wash your hair too much, but condition plenty. Semi-permanent dyes fade with each wash. Shampooing your hair excessively makes it drier and more brittle, which is particularly a concern for bleached hair. On the other hand, you can’t condition too much! Conditioner helps to seal the colour in. Try to get colour-safe, sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner.

Add a bit of dye to your conditioner to maintain your colour. Or, if you need to neutralise certain tones in your hair (dye can act in strange and unpredictable ways, including changing colour upon exposure to sunlight or chlorinated water), remember the stuff about toners and the colour wheel.

Cover your pillowcases! Temporary and/or cheap dyes will bleed really quickly out of your hair, including when you’re sweating, but even the best semi-permanent dyes will probably stain your clothes/anything you rest your head on while your hair is wet.

 Here’s a recap of the most important tips we’ve covered here:

• Do a strand test before trying any new chemicals.
• DON’T shampoo your hair right before bleaching.
• DO shampoo your hair right before dyeing.
• Work from the bottom up.
• Condition, condition, condition (but only after processing).

Now we’ve got the basics down but everyone has their special feelings about how to get their hair done exactly right (I know I do) — you’ll figure it out as you go along. Share your own tips and photos in the comments!

I Would Grow My Hair To Cover the City

I had a dream last night where my hair was long and black and cut to my shoulders. I remember it being natural, like it had always been this way and I had just never noticed. I remember running my hands through my hair, feeling the length of it touch my cheeks, my neck, my shoulders. When I woke up I plodded to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, running my hands through my hair: buzzed on the sides, short on top. My head, a bristle-brush comb. I pull at the hair on the top of my head so it stands up from my scalp.

My grandfather didn’t recognize me the last time I saw him. The last time I went to see my family in New York City I sat in the kitchen on a stool next to my mom. He is in his nineties, bird-bone thin and frail, a sparrow, and all I think of when I see him is him in my ten year old eyes, watching him show me how to use an electrometer, pulling the parts out from boxes in a closet in the hallway. Now he turns to my mom and says in Toisanese, “Where is your little girl?” He puts his small thin hand out in the air close to the floor as if measuring the height of a six year old, measuring my height. My mom says in Toisanese, “She’s right here,” patting me on the shoulder. “She’s right here.” He looks at me, startled. My mom says, “It’s because of her short hair that you didn’t recognize her.”

Me, taken in 2012.

I look into the mirror and I want to pull my hair, every follicle attached to a spool of black fishing line under my scalp. I want to pull and pull and pull until every strand is touching my shoulders. I want to pull until every strand is down to my knees. I pinch patches of buzzed hair between my thumb and forefinger but the tug never gives to the release and zip of a line thrown out to water. I want to undo every time I cut my own hair with a set of electric clippers in the kitchen of my apartment these past nine months, my wife going through and making sure the cut is even. I want to pull and undo my short masculine hair, my “Sir, do you need help with anything” in the supermarket, the “What can I get you, son?” at the diner, the “He was in line first,” at the movie theater.

I want to undo the hair that has inched me closer to who I am, made me feel the most like me that I have ever felt. It’s the hair that gave me the courage to tell airport security that I am female bodied when I went through the body scanner. It’s the hair that showed me the first step to figuring out how my body felt under men’s cut clothes, the courage to go into the section of the store where the male mannequins stood, the first step to binding, the first step to making my body my own.

It is the hair that has given me who I am but has made me feel farther from myself than I have ever felt. It is the hair that quieted me in my grandparent’s kitchen. I went to the living room to sit by myself after my grandfather didn’t see me, six years old, under his palm. The hair that meant I was growing up and getting old and he was growing old and getting older and it meant that things were changing and I was changing and he was changing. It was the hair that made me see how I didn’t fit into the four-foot space between his outstretched hand and the floor, measuring the inches of child-me, the one with the long hair, the one with the girl face, the one who has a place in my grandparents’ kitchen.

Taken in 2007.

I first shaved my head in a cabin in Maine when I was 19, after I had come out to my parents and often found myself crying in the shower, on the train, in the bus, in my bed. When I first saw the hazy specter of myself in the flashlight-lit mirror in the dark of the bathroom, no hair to cover my scalp, the nape of my neck, I saw myself as my grandfather: hazy, myself but not myself. My head was the texture of someone else’s head. My body was a part of someone else’s body. I had made a mistake. I was losing parts of me in patches: The tuft of hair at the top of my head, the skin on my knees. I was losing myself and losing my family. All I saw in the mirror in the woods was what I missed: My father’s eyes, my mother’s cheekbones, my grandfather’s mouth. I found myself crying, hand on the sink, hand in my cactus hair.

I wanted to get it back. I started growing out my hair, sharp and jagged and haphazardly mulleted. I refused to cut it as it grew, feeling the length at the back of my neck as the return of something familiar. All I could do was wait for my hair to be long again to undo what I had done, to unsee what I had seen: An aging man, an aging granddaughter, a lack of time. I didn’t think about my hair much then, what it looked like. What I cared about was its length. I counted the inches, waited for the moment when it would be back to normal, when I would look the way I used to, and maybe he would look the way he used to, too.

But 12 months later, my hair grown into a bob cut, we were still old, and getting older, and I was still me and unhappy and gay and lonely and it didn’t fix anything. I wanted my hair to be a time machine, a way of going back. I was willing to do anything to get child-me back, the girl under my grandfather’s palm, the one he missed, the one he was wondering and asking about, instead of me, myself: Short men’s hair cut, plaid men’s shirt, deep voice, five foot eight. I was a foot and eight inches too tall, hair too short, missing someone even though he was right in front of me. I knew he missed me, too, sitting next to him, close enough to hold his hand.

Taken in 2008, immediately after I shaved my head.

I want to be the granddaughter he remembers so badly. I want him to see me and know that I am my mother’s daughter. I want him to believe that nothing happened in the last six years, after I came out, found myself alone, found myself no longer a daughter but a disappointment, my marriage a secret my parents don’t tell their friends. I want him to believe that I am the same girl I grew out of, the one with the long, long hair and braids. I want him to believe it so badly that I want to believe it, too: That I am a daughter who is welcome even though my mother asked me not to come to Christmas last year. I want to believe that I am accepted even though my grandfather does not know that I am married and this is a secret we will keep from him, now, until he passes away. I want to believe that I am loved and loved and loved even though I have to go to Thanksgiving alone, and this Christmas alone, in order to see my mother and father and brothers. I want to believe that it is easy, pretending like this is okay, that my wife is not a part of me, like my heart is not missing.

My dad tells me that this will take time, but he did not tell me that time hurts. It feels like all of this is my fault, but my wife tells me it isn’t when we are sitting on the couch, our foreheads pressed against each other, her hand on my cheek. It feels like if I could have fought more, things would be better. If I had done nothing at all, maybe things would be better. I want to undo it, as easy as letting my hair grow into shocks of black to my shoulders and elbows and knees. I would do it; I would let my hair grow to the floor. I would grow my hair out to the carpet. I would have it trail yards behind me as I walked. I would have it grow out the door, out of the apartment building, if I could. I would grow my hair out to cover the city if I could get it all back.

Taken in 2010.

But my hair is still buzzed, clipped over my ears, and it was too late to grow my hair out for this Christmas, and I do not know how much time I have left with my grandfather. I want him to see me and know that it is me who is sitting next to him. I want him to know this one more time if I can. As I stand over my bathroom sink, staring into the mirror, I imagine my hair is a spool, and I pull out the length of the strands, one by one, willing them to luxuriously long lengths. I imagine myself as not myself, at my grandparents’ apartment this Christmas, wearing makeup, a women’s blouse, long hair combed to the middle of my back: What he thought I would grow up to be, what my mom thought I would grow up to be. I want to pretend that it is easy.

So I do: My hair is long, and I am straight and I have no wife; I am single, and I am happy. I am happy to see my family, and everyone greets me at the door and my grandfather sees me and calls me Whitney. My mother tells me that she told her friends about me at church, at her volunteer work, and that everyone is excited to see how I am doing. I am sitting on the stool in the kitchen and I know I belong, and I have never questioned this. I brush my hair out of my face, tuck the long locks behind my ear. I look up to see the faces of my family and I take this all for granted. I take it all for granted.

And then, I wake up.

Special Note: Autostraddle’s “First Person” column exists for individual queer ladies to tell their own personal stories and share compelling experiences. These personal essays do not necessarily reflect the ideals of Autostraddle or its editors, nor do any First Person writers intend to speak on behalf of anyone other than themselves. First Person writers are simply speaking honestly from their own hearts.

BREAKING NEWS: Jennifer Lawrence Gets A Haircut

The only picture of Jennifer Lawrence’s new Alternative Lifestyle Haircut that matters today:

via {Jennifer Lawrence’s Facebook}

Because no one can resist a cute blonde with an ALH and Google Glass. FACT.

Lez Get Dressed For Work: Real Talk About Your Queer Hair At Work

Because you deserve to be the best dressed homo in the office. Read previous posts here.

Header by Rory Midhani

A lot of you spend a lot of time thinking about your hair. This extremely scientific fact is supported by my very professional observations about how damn good your locks look. I think Autostraddle readers as a whole probably have the best looking hair around, statistically speaking. Of course, I’m not in charge of the universe, and what I think counts as great hair is not necessarily the same as, say, what your boss thinks.

via tran-twins

If you’re just starting out in the professional world, or if you’re just starting out in the alternative lifestyle haircut world, it can be hard to figure out how to mediate the two. On the one hand, you have to be true to yourself and get whatever haircut makes you feel the best. On the other hand, you most likely need to work, and your coworkers might not understand that shaving the sides of your head is a queer signifier and instead think you’re maybe a little too rebellious for the office. It’s unfortunate, but true: the special element that gives your hair that super gay edge to it might be just the kind of attention grabbing look that is not encouraged in your line of work. As I’ve mentioned in this column, the hard part about dressing for work is that work isn’t about you (usually), and so you really shouldn’t be taking attention away from it. But hair is so central to happiness, to self-identification! What’s a homo to do?

Do you get the haircut and risk your job? Do you take the job and risk your individuality? Or is it actually not as big of a deal as you might think it is? Like, maybe your boss will just think you have a “pixie cut” and you’ll never correct her that what you actually have is a very specific “dyke cut” and it will just be whatever.

ye olde pixie versus lesbian question via luthien97

Maybe you saw this coming: there’s no right answer here. Every situation is different, and you have to feel it out. Maybe your alternative lifestyle haircut is frowned upon because you work with a bunch of homophobes who don’t deserve you anyway, or maybe you are just in the kind of office where everything on you needs to be proper and tidy (as an ALH tends to not be). Also likely is that it’s your own fear holding you back — fear of being visible, of looking different.

Currently, I’m lucky enough to have a day job where my weirdo haircut is fodder for articles, but I wasn’t always in such a situation. When I worked at an abortion clinic right out of college, my coworkers were constantly commenting on my hair, which at the time kind of looked like Baby Bowser. “You would look so pretty with long hair,” they’d say to me, which was actually not a compliment. The patients would stare at me, too. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because I looked like a dyke, but because I looked unprofessional in comparison with the other people working there. “Unprofessional,” of course, is a relative term. I looked unprofessional in the context of a medical facility, but would have looked very professional in the context of a blog for girl-on-girl culture. You know?

via andropeople

To further this discussion, I polled some other working queers of various professions to find out what their feelings are. It turns out there are a lot of feelings out there. No one is surprised. Read on to learn their stories.

Ashley, cashier: The day I came in with an undercut framed by my long hair, all hell broke loose. Several managers told me I couldn’t have it displayed in public, that I’d have to part my hair on the far side of my head to cover up the “bald spot” (what if I had had surgery?). I agreed with a few managers that once the warehouse was closed I would be able to wear my hair however I’d like (much like our tattoo policy, as soon as we’re closed, you may roll up long sleeves, take off covering bandages, etc). I conceded to this because I have to pick my battles. But on two separate occasions while the store was closed I had managers tell me to cover my head. I told them to walk around and make sure all our other employees were covered up too before I was covering anything. One manager even told me my lifestyle “connotates an alternative lifestyle,” even though I am cool with saying I live one! I still don’t expose my undercut while we’re open, but as soon as those doors close and the last customer walks out, it’s game over.

Allison, intern at Utah Clean Energy: About a year and a half ago I gave the ol’ middle finger to society, cut off ten inches of my dark curly hair, shaved the sides of my head, and began my life as a true rebel without a cause. I didn’t do it because I’m MOC and queer but because I needed a big change. My fauxhawk adds to my identity and I have enjoyed keeping my hair short and “alternative” ever since. I never saw it as a problem until I started interviewing for grown up jobs and internships. No matter how feminine or androgynous I dressed for my interviews my haircut stole the show and made it into Allison’s Genderfuck Variety Hour. A feeling of uncertainty is always present after the person interviewing finds out I’m the Allison they will be speaking with, almost as if I can see them thinking, “We were just expecting someone… different.” Ever been misgendered several times by the person interviewing you during the interview? I know this feeling well. There are very few vague laws protecting LGBTQ+ folk from workplace discrimination in Utah and the ones that exist in Salt Lake don’t stop institutionalized discrimination from happening. My hair makes it known that I am not a part of normalized society. I’ll never know if it was the true cause of me not getting hired but I know it has sometimes made a negative impression.

Abby, works in the legal field: I’d had long to very long hair for basically my whole life when I finally decided to cut it all off. I was nervous that I couldn’t really pull off short hair, but also I worked at a law firm and was nervous that if I got an ALH, I might get fired. Not because my bosses were homophobic, but because it was an environment that expected a certain level of professionalism in behavior and appearance. And despite being on the more casual side for law firms, you were still expected to dress on the conservative side. Also, people had been fired for a lot less. When I went to get my haircut, I hedged it with, “I want to go really short. I want something kinda gay, but I also work in a law office, so I need to be able to look professional too.” And the woman cutting my hair totally got it. Despite being a little nervous, I got only compliments on my hair when I went into the office the next day.

Rae, archivist: When I graduated from college , I was determined to get a job at the main research library of the NYPL. I was 22 and still had College Hair, specifically a College Mohawk. When the human resources department contacted me for an interview, I didn’t go out and get a new hairstyle (instead I went out and got a new button-down), but I instinctively combed my hair differently to make it look more like Job Hair. I still remember what it felt like to tuck the tail of my mohawk into my new shirt. So much meaning is invested in personal style, so I don’t necessarily advocate getting a hairstyle you don’t feel any connection to, or one that makes you feel like you’re doing an impression of somebody else. When I was just out of college, I basically started doing an impression of a version of myself that didn’t exist yet. In terms of what I think is appropriate First Job Hair, I’d say washing it is the most important thing. And starting to get more regular haircuts. And never underestimate the value of a comb or pomade. The NYPL hired me, so my mohawk didn’t sabotage me. And I was fortunate enough to be hired for a union position, so I probably could’ve kept my College Hair. But I wanted to start transitioning into the next version of myself as soon as possible.

Okay, now it’s your turn!

via bklyn boihood

DIY Beauty Bar: Dry Shampoo For Everyone

Most people I know either consider dry shampoo their super secret weapon or are convinced it’s not for them. Up until a few months ago, I fell firmly into group two. But recently, I’ve been using a homemade version that keeps my hair looking bouncy and all-around good wayyy after I last washed it.

If you’ve got straight hair, chances are you love this stuff. Why? Well, it’s a lot easier for the oils that your scalp makes to travel down a strand of straight hair, meaning that your hair gets oily faster. Dry shampoo gets out the grease that starts showing up before the end of the day.

Curly and kinky hair is harder for oils to get to the bottom to, so it’s usually drier. Some of us wash our hair every day, but most of us with a little or a lot of curl can get away with a lot more time in between washes. Personally, I wash my hair about once a week. It keeps my hair from totally drying out while stripping away product and general dirt that accumulates throughout the week. While most of my hair looks still looks shiny and bright on wash day, my edges right near my temples tend to get a little too shiny.  This is where the beauty of dry shampoo comes in. Dabbing a little bit  on my hair right above my ears (and occasionally on the top of my head after I’ve been wearing a hat or a scarf) whisks away the oil and stretches out the time before I have to go through the who laborious process of  washing my head.

Even with all its benefits, dry shampoo still gets a bad rap. You can’t really blame its detractors, though. Take a look at the ingredients of a store-bought dry shampoo.

Allow me to translate: Isobutane is used as a refrigerant and lighter fuel, propane is a common ingredient in lighter fuels and some gasolines, alcohol 40-B is denatured alcohol and is also used in lighter fuels and household cleaners and butane is… suprise! an ingredient in lighter fuels. I try not to be an alarmist about this kind of stuff but, um, gross. Besides, in addition the whole becoming-a-walking-match downside to using this stuff, alcohol is a pretty harsh way to dry your hair out. So in the interest of your health and safety, we’re going to make our own version!

Dry Shampoo

Ingredients for Light Hair
2 T of Cornstarch or Arrowroot Powder
2 T of Baking Soda
2 T of Oatmeal

Ingredients for Dark Hair
2 T of Cornstarch or Arrowroot Powder
2 T of Baking Soda
2 T of Oatmeal
4 T +/- a little depending on your color of Cocoa Powder

Instructions

1. Pour the ingredients into a blender or food processor. Pulse until the resulting mixture is fine enough to go through a salt shaker.

2. That’s it! To use it, shake or pat it onto the areas of your scalp that need a little help and massage it in. If you have straight hair, comb the powder out over a sink. If you have curly hair and don’t like to separate your curls, flip your head over and help it out by gently rubbing your scalp to help it out.

Resources: Free People, The Weather Girl Life, Crunchy Betty

Butch Please: Butch Cuts Her Hair

BUTCH PLEASE is all about a butch and her adventures in queer masculinity, with dabblings in such topics as gender roles, boy briefs, and aftershave.

Header by Rory Midhani

I cut my hair about twice a month, sometimes more. My hair grows faster than I can usually keep up, so I’ve become well-acquainted with the kitchen floor buzz from a drunk best friend. Now that I’m an “adult” with an “adult career path,” I get my hair cut at a salon, which feels like a mature life decision even if it’s only about fifteen bucks a cut. I show them photos on my phone of schoolboys in the 1930s, or Justin Bieber. Usually Justin Bieber. And I say, make my hair look like Justin Bieber, but gayer and more kind-natured.

That post-haircut feeling is irreplaceable. My neck may feel like a bed of red ants, and there may be enough hair on my face to stock a drag king for a year, but I feel like a million bucks. My hair reflects the way I feel inside. My hair is the way I wanted to cut it for years and years and years, and that feels goshdarn great.

When I was a tiny Catholic schoolgirl, one of my teachers said that short hair was not ladylike, and little girls with short hair would grow up to have bad manners and skinned knees. And an adolescent me heard that girls with short hair did gross things with other girls, and they were ugly and mannish and I shouldn’t want to be like them. Cutting your hair off was a “big deal.” In movies and books, it usually came with a psychotic break or a huge life change or a sign that the character meant business. Well, I mean business, even if it’s the kind of business that is conducted by buying a lot of short sleeved button-ups and being knocked over by intense emotions.

I was born with a full head of hair. Thick black hair, actually, and according to family lore, the first thing my grandfather said when he saw me was, “Damn, it looks like he’s got a bear up there.” ‘He,’ because until the moment my slick little baby body was fully exposed, all the doctors and old wives had said that I was going to be a boy. So sure were they of my gender that they had a blue hospital onesie and blanket ready in preparation. The nurse had to go get a bow for my hair so they’d know the difference when they went to look for me in the Special Needs Unit. A tiny pink bow clipped to my brand new hair, and bam! Gender.

My hair was grown out for the next five years. My dad was given the task of braiding it every morning, but by the afternoon it was out of its well-meaning plaits and flying around my head. My hair was thick, coarse, and usually a tangled mess. I hated combing my hair because there were always knots, so the process was more of a punishment than anything. I avoided hairbrushes, and since I usually ran outside to play immediately following my baths, any effort to detangle was moot in a heartbeat. Apparently my hair was very compliment-worthy, and my parents were always hearing what beautiful hair their daughter had.

I got my first haircut at five not because I had any interest in a shorter style, but because it would be much easier for my parents than the daily ritual of wrangling me into a chair and attempting to get me to sit still long enough to detangle my wild mess. I had a pageboy bob to go with my new plaid uniform. I spent the next fifteen years growing my hair out at various lengths, only sometimes trimming it to my shoulders.

When I was ten years old, a lady in a pink dress looked me over and told me that my hair was my best feature. Don’t let her cut it, she said to my mother. I had those words tucked in between my ribs for years. If I got rid of my best feature, would I have any worth? She hadn’t said anything about my pimply face or my lack of breasts or my sticky-out hips, so she must have known the same thing I’d told myself: that they were ugly, and something to be hidden away, erased if possible. Boys didn’t like me, and people didn’t tell me I was pretty. I had to keep my hair long, or I’d be all the things I secretly thought to be true.

When I first came out, I kept my hair as it was. I didn’t cut it, but I thought about cutting it. I thought about cutting it a lot. But I did not cut it. I felt like people might be more accepting of my queerness if I wasn’t *that* queer, if it was one small facet of my personality that you’d never know unless you asked. I felt like it was more comforting to my parents if I still looked like their old daughter. I might be a lesbian, I wanted to say, and you might not like that about me, but I still look like a “normal” girl. I’m still the girl you wanted me to be, the one who wears dresses and gets good grades and doesn’t fuck up. I know you think that this queer thing is part of fucking up. It might be harder to love me now, but I’m trying to make it easier for you anyway.

My family was not the only reason I hesitated to cut my hair. I was already losing friends and receiving negative reactions to my coming out, so I thought that the less I changed about myself, the less likely people were to interpret my new queerness as a bad thing. Looking back now, it only makes me sad to think of how much queer people are asked to hide and shrink away and accommodate everyone else in an attempt to feel a little of the love that society tells them they don’t deserve. Coming out is planned around other people, and based on the least amount of negative impact. Queer issues aren’t brought up around family or loved ones so as to not make them uncomfortable. Complaining in the workplace isn’t done as often as it should be, for fear of making drama or being pigeonholed. I have done these things, or my friends have done these things, or someone we know has done these things. We shouldn’t have to do these things, but we do.

Now, hair is part of my queer ritual. I cut my hair off when I was twenty. It was representative of a lot of major changes in my life, including a final departure from my worst year of depression, anxiety, and self-harm. The partner I had at the time hadn’t been jazzed about my new style, as she claimed that it threatened her masculinity. Out of a combined fear of her words and my own perceived ugliness, my first short hair cut was on the feminine side of things. I also hadn’t known how to explain to the hairdresser that I wanted a short cut like a boy, not like a girl, so I’d nodded quickly when she’d finished and said everything was fine. Because it was a feminine cut, my mother seemed to be okay with this new style. I was still wearing “girl” clothes. I was still not obviously queer. I was still easier to love.

When I was a senior in college, my best friend and I started cutting each other’s hair. We were not always sober, but the ability to shave off whole patches of our heads in mismatched ways was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done with my body. The fact that my hair, unquestionably queer and strange and masculine, was now such a huge part of my self-care was monumental. I am more than willing to spend an hour on my hair now. I have at least three hair products with me at all times. I always have a comb, and it is frequently employed to fix any strays. I have had multiple styles over the last two years, and I’ve loved them all. This happiness involving my hair is tied in part to being unapologetically recognized as queer, but even more, it’s tied to being in control of how I look, how I present, and feeling comfortable enough to do with my body as I please.

A very special note: To my long-haired butches, you’re damn gorgeous, too, and I may be joining you. I’ve been told by many that my jawline and cheekbones were too big and unsuitable for long hair, but I’m in that place where I’m sick of people telling other people how to make their body smaller. Masculinity doesn’t mean short hair, and you’re living proof. Butches are butches no matter their hair, their style, the way they walk or talk or fuck or love. If you say you’re a butch, you’re a butch, baby, and you’re butch enough. Don’t let anyone or anything tell you otherwise.

Phenomenal Fun Photos From Phresh Cutz February Fundraiser

Hey girl, your hair looks really good today and your outfit looks superfly. Could it be that you attended Phresh Cutz, a queer pop-up barbershop and clothing swap in Brooklyn this past weekend? I wouldn’t be surprised, because everyone there had really good hair and really awesome clothes…

If you couldn’t make it don’t fret. Per usual we’ve rounded up a collection of crazysexycool images that reflect the perfection of this party, and now comes the part where we show them to you! And don’t worry, even if you couldn’t make the party, you still look awesome today. I promise.

Photographs © Ronika McClain, Julieta Salgado, and Zulai Romero 2013.

Autostraddle received all images from the photographers — if you see a photo of yourself here that you do not want on the Internet, please email carrie [at] autostraddle [dot] com so we can remove it.

We Were There: Phresh Cutz Pop-Up Barbershop Chopped Some Locks

PHRESH CUTZ hosted So Phresh, So Clean, a (Formal) Queer Pop-Up Barbershop and Dance Party! on Saturday, January 19, and we told you to go. The event was fanfuckingtastic as anticipated. Now you can read Autostraddle’s own Katrina KC Danger’s reflections on how PHRESH CUTZ came into existence and what it means to her and to all of us. Then, when you’re done feeling All The Feelings, you can scroll through an incredible gallery and appreciate the humans, the community, the sexiness and the perfection that is a PHRESH CUTZ event.

We did it because we wanted to, and we thought maybe some other people might want to, also. It seemed simple: a party where people could get their hair cut, for queers, by queers. We felt safe with each other, and we wanted to spread that feeling to others. We cut our own hair, and we figured we could probably cut other people’s hair too. We liked how the way that we looked made us feel, and we wanted other people to look and feel that way too, without shyness or apology. We wanted to drink and dance late into the summer. And we wanted to do it for as little money as possible.

And so PHRESH CUTZ was born. It wasn’t the simplest thing ever, but it also wasn’t too hard. There wasn’t much adversity involved. No one told us we couldn’t, no one tried to stop us. Friends took us into their homes, they put their heads in our hands. Time passed, and the crowds grew, our staff expanded, the buzz rang louder, and this little idea we toyed around with became a full-fledged, regular, well…thing.

We never felt luckier.

But luck is a funny thing. It implies that the tides could change, that things come and go — both of which are true — but it also implies that the success we’ve had is pure coincidence, and it’s not. One of the hopes that built PHRESH CUTZ was the idea that you could spontaneously create space, but often what appears to be spontaneity is actually the result of extensive planning. And that’s what it was. A labor of love that started as a conversation, that stretched across networks, that engaged people with so much talent and so much enthusiasm, that it did in fact seem – even to us – that it had built itself from the ground up.

And in a way, that’s luck. When I think of the talented, passionate, beautiful people I work with, I feel infinitely fortunate that I didn’t have to go far to find them: they’re my best friends.

We didn’t see it coming, the way this little project went from zero to 60 in just four months. But in retrospect, I guess can’t say that we were too surprised. Why don’t the things we want deserve a little spotlight? Why shouldn’t we expect to see our queer experiences reflected back at us? We found love (in a hopeless place), it seems, by giving the people what they wanted — because it’s what we wanted too.

It gets weird to talk about after a while. We get so immersed in it that it can get to the point where it’s sometimes like, “Yeah, it’s a party, and we cut hair,” but it’s also something I actually never get tired thinking of or talking about or sharing with people: “Yeah, it’s a party! And we cut hair!”

And we love it. We love you, in every moment. We love giving someone their first queer cut while their partner stands smiling on the sidelines, camera phone poised to capture the moment. We love dancing with you: on the floor, on the benches, screaming the words to every song. We love the last-minute rush, setting the stage — lights, camera, scissors — and filling an ordinary space with the potential for transformation. We love the diversity that exists, from the newly out queers to the couple who came to PHRESH CUTZ to celebrate their 17th wedding anniversary.

That being said, we could always do better. We could always be bigger, brighter, we could push the edge forward, challenging our own imaginations and reaching farther out. We could always do better, yep, and we plan on it, too. The next few months have a lot in store. With each party, we’re looking for more space, more barbers, more haircuts. And soon we’ll have a Kickstarter video to really get us off the ground. Scout, one of our barbers, and Ronika, our head photographer, are both coming to A-Camp (which influenced PHRESH CUTZ in a big, big way), and maybe we’ll spread the PC love.

The future is as bright as it is long, and one day, we hope to set up shop for real.

Thanks for your support, for making this possible. Never forget that you’re as complicit in our future as we are, and that that’s no small thing. For us, for now: all we can do is grind harder, reach farther, and speak louder, because we’ve found that the more we insist on putting our voices out there, the more clearly we’re being heard. We did a thing, and people are paying attention, because we deserve it like that. And more importantly: so do you.

You can find PHRESH CUTZ on Tumblr, Facebook, and Twitter.

Photographs © Ronika McClain, Julieta Salgado, and Vanessa Friedman 2013.

Autostraddle received all images from the photographers — if you see a photo of yourself here that you do not want on the Internet, please email carrie [at] autostraddle [dot] com so we can remove it.

You Should Go: PHRESH CUTZ Queer Pop-Up Barbershop Is Back In Brooklyn Saturday

Remember that time Katrina KC Danger cut some queer hair at camp and found her true calling in life and then came home to Brooklyn and assembled Hair Force One, “a teeny tiny collective of queer amateur barbers of various skill levels and gender identities spreading hard love and good looks through Brooklyn and beyond”?

And they started hosting PHRESH CUTZ, amazing chill accepting relaxed fun pop-up barber shop party situations where anyone can show up and have a drink, get a haircut, chat to some cool humans, dance quite a lot, and generally have a fanfuckingtastic time?

this is hair force one via Ronika McClain

Right, well after two highly successful events, Hair Force One is back to ring in 2013 with their first PHRESH CUTZ event of the year, the oh-so-elegant So Phresh, So Clean, a (Formal) Queer Pop-Up Barbershop and Dance Party! Yes, it’s a formal themed bash, and yes, it’s extremely legit, and yes, I think every queer in Brooklyn and beyond is gonna show up, so what I’m saying is obviously I think you should go.

Actually I feel so strongly about it that I wrote you a poem. Ahem.

Twas the night before PHRESH CUTZ
and all through the land
shaggy haired queers were cheering
and clapping their hands.
“Let’s go to Brooklyn,”
they said loud and clear
and to Brooklyn they’ll go
from distances far and near.
They squealed as they told
all their friends the good news:
this would be a place for sexy hair,
dancing, queers and tons of booze.
“And these barbers won’t misunderstand
what we mean when we say,
I want an alternative lifestyle haircut
and I want it today!”
Yes PHRESH CUTZ is scissors and clippers and dancing galore
no more does a bang trim feel like a chore.
So rejoice, my dear queers,
those sad days are gone,
now get ye ass to PHRESH CUTZ
and party til dawn!

And now that you’re all impressed (slash appalled, it’s fine, I’m not a poet for a reason) here are the cold hard shiny facts:

When: Saturday, January 19, 7:30pm – 2am (haircuts end at midnight)

Where: LaunchPad at 721 Franklin Ave., Brooklyn, New York (take the 2, 3, 4, 5, or S)

Cover: $7/2 drinks, $10/2 drinks + haircut, $5 flat rate for non-drinkers

Dress Code: Formal/semi-formal. Optional, obviously, but why not dress up? I’ll be reviewing Lizz’s winter fancy fashion tips tonight.

For more info and to RSVP (please try to RSVP) visit the Facebook event.

look how excited shilpeezy is about phresh cutz! how can you say no to this face?!
via Ronika McClain

Some things to note:

+ I’ll be working the photo booth at this event all night, so please come say hi to me because secretly I’m a little bit shy even though every other Autostraddle staff member will tell you that’s a lie!

+ I’ll also be scouting the scene for crazysexycool kids to feature as Straddlers On The Street, so if you’ve been dying to submit but haven’t gotten around to it, now’s your chance!

+ Today, this very moment, is KC Danger‘s birthday! Yes! It’s true! So when you see Danger running shit like a boss tomorrow, please make sure to say something extra nice to her, because she is quite simply the bees knees.

Happy PHRESH CUTZ eve, everyone! See ya tomorrow.

So Phresh, So Clean, a (Formal) Queer Pop-Up Barbershop and Dance Party! takes place from 7:30pm – 2am on Saturday, January 19th at LaunchPad, 721 Franklin Ave., Brooklyn, NY. Haircuts will end at midnight.

An Unprofessional on Cutting Your Own Hair Unprofessionally

I think about hair a lot. I feel like we all do. It’s something that’s so intimate and so personal, but it’s also so expensive and so time-consuming when you’re going to a pro. Don’t you wish you could just do it yourself? I know cutting your own hair sounds intimidating, but so does moving out or filing your taxes. You really have to just get out there and do it.

Luckily you don’t have to go it alone. I taught myself to cut my hair a few years ago, so I might as well coach you through your first trim. It may get tense, it may get frustrating, it will get messy. I just want to reassure you that there’s hope in the least helpful way possible.

 On Cutting Your Own Hair Unprofessionally*

You can’t just start cutting your hair willy nilly! It’s a slow process. Figure out your Dream ALH by staring at one too many tumblrs of naked ladies with sweet ass haircuts. Make sure to peruse frequently “for research.” Hunt down a hairstylist that perfectly executes said style. As they work their magic, become increasingly aware of your inability to engage in small talk. Make up for your perceived social awkwardness by tipping more than financially advisable. Set up a follow up visit for eight weeks from now.

Hair-raising experience right here via sizima

Visit said hair dresser for at least six trims. This will give you enough time to memorize their movements and become overly confident in the simplicity of your ‘do. Set up a follow up visit for six weeks later.

Hem and haw for weeks on end about starting to cut your own hair as you realize your addiction to hair perfection has taken its toll on your budget. Set up a follow up visit for four weeks from now.

Check your account balance and sigh. Cancel your next appointment.

Go to a beauty supply store and cautiously circle the clipper aisle for the next hour. Finally wave down a sales person to explain the differences between the models since you are not a professional hair stylist. Become simultaneously incensed and embarrassed as they learn that you, a lady, are planning to shave off more of your own hair. Quickly purchase the model your hairstylist used. Slink away.

Hopefully these’ll work and I’ll never have to go back via Nick Brokalakis

As soon as you get home, ensure that no one else needs to use the bathroom for the next hour or day.

Lock the bathroom door. Create your haircut game plan: leave the fringe on top and create a graduated fade wrapping from temple to temple. Everyone will assume you wanted to be Miley. But don’t worry, that accusation won’t come up for at least three years.

Construct an inception type situation by propping one mirror across from another. Lay out your supplies: clippers, guards, bobby pins, comb and scissors.

Axes are optional via spencerpdx

Open your new toy and take the time to play with all of the gadgets and guards. Turn it on and imitate its whirring noise while making airplane motions. Stop when you remember that you are no longer five.

Contemplate making a sweet cape-poncho out of garbage bag for 30 seconds. Dismiss this idea since you’re home alone. Derobe.

Sweet cape

Underestimate how far away you need to set your clothes to keep them out of the hair spray zone.

Pin your fringe/bangs/mohawk/mullet/rattail back with more bobby pins than you thought humanly possible. Make sure that one of the pins is missing its rubber cap so you jab it into your scalp, ensuring you’re alert enough to continue.

Almost enough pins via hey__paul

Snap on a guard and flick the power switch. Take a deep breath and set the clippers to your temple. Narrow your eyes and grit your teeth as you make the first pass. That wasn’t that hard! Breathe a sigh of relief.

Look down. Nothing’s there.

Realize that the shears weren’t short enough to actually clip your hair. Switch to the next shortest guard. Same deal. Curse yourself for having bought a professional version with a limited number of lengths instead of the at-home kit with 16 different guards and a sweet ass cape.

Try again. Marvel at the difference between your newly shorn stripe and the rest of your hair. Marvel at the fuzziness of newly clipped hair.

Keep circling around your head in vertical swipes. Pause as you decide how to tackle the back of your head. Cautiously shear the back by training your eyes on your reflection’s reflection. Contort your arm in a way you didn’t think possible. Settle on “good enough” and make a note to even out your neckline once you’re done clipping the rest.

The “C”s stand for confidence via nemone

Start to smile as you realize how awesome you’re going to look and how much money you’ll save in the long run. Switch to a longer guard as you continue circling. Feel a sense of accomplishment! Resist the urge to kiss your clippers.

Rub your head as you celebrate your new found talent!

Discover that newly cut strands of hair can embed themselves in your skin making your fingers resemble patchy porcupines. The more you know! Spend the next five minutes removing your hair shrapnel.

Onto the bangs. Suddenly recall that your hair dresser would rotate your chair towards themselves (aka away from the mirror) whenever they cut your fringe. Go for it anyways. Pull a lock away from your face and snip your way down it. Feel each clip tug your hair as it gets caught in the scissors’ dented blades. You can’t stop now! Reach for another piece. Snip. Grab a handful. Chop. Continue shearing wildly. Tell yourself you’re adding “texture.”

Remember that you still have to deal with your neckline. Riding high on the heady feeling of accomplishment, situate yourself between the bathroom mirror in front of you and the one propped behind you. Examine your neckline and decide you want to start from “the left”. Start to move your clippers but immediately become confused with which direction you should be moving your hand. After a few false starts, you’ll manage to create a relatively straight neckline. Confidence level: high.

So content with the haircut from the possessed clippers!

Feel the back of your newly shorn head and realize you’d prefer if the hair below the base of your skull was tighter to your noggin . Switch to a shorter guard and start to make slow vertical movements.  Cockily speed up.

Clk-bzzt-chhhhhnnnnhhhk-CLUNK!

Look around wildly to see what that was. Nothing. Remain perplexed. You always sucked at identifying mystery sounds. Finally look directly behind you. Ohhh. That’s the sound of the guard slipping off allowing the clippers to eat an inch-high bald patch into your neckline before falling to the ground!

Evil clippers! You are no longer my friend. Via Teejaybee

Frown.

Panic slightly and realize you can’t go out looking like this. Mentally nix your evening plans.

Wrap yourself in a towel and tiptoe into the hallway leaving a trail of hair clippings à la Hansel and Gretel. No one’s home but the cat? Right, you had made sure that the house was empty before you started cutting. Stupid panic induced amnesia. Return to the bathroom.

Sheepishly text your roomie asking when they’ll be home to “remedy your situation.” No answer. Oh yeah! No one’s home because it’s exam week and you had the bright idea to cut your hair as a way of productively procrastinating.

Start to sweet up the clippings as you debate what to do. Make the witty observation that hair shavings are pretty much organic glitter when it comes to tidying up.

Might as well use them for arts and crafts. By Craig Ward

Fuck it. You can’t spend all day locked in your bathroom wrapped in a towel and a cloud of hair! Your hairline’s gonna be an inch higher, but so what? Pick up your clippers and soldier on. Contort once more so you can cover the back of your head with one hand. Attempt to align its edge with the top of The Patch. Guide your clippers against the edge of your hand, praying for a relatively straight neckline. Check the front of your head for evenness, clipping or tucking away any errant hairs. Refuse to survey the damage to the back of your head.

Step outside. Be prepared to tell people “you wanted it that way.”

Leave a tell tale trail of hair clippings on any human/surface you encounter for the next 24 hours.

Warily receive a compliment. Are they telling the truth or merely being polite? Receive another one. Relax.

The third compliment will quickly mutate into a request for “just a trim!” when they realize you did it yourself. Protest loudly. You don’t know what you’re doing so you’ll ruin their lovely hair and they’ll never look at you in the same way, irreparably ruining your relationship!! Receive a reassuring hug and a whispered, “Please?” Reluctantly give into their puppy dog pleas. Mentally make an appointment with yourself as you start to buzz their hair.

* If you really want to learn to cut hair, you should probably talk to Katrina.