The Masculine Urge to Let Your Hair Down

I’ve always wanted the manliness flowing locks, and I don’t think most people understand that about me. It’s a proper shame.

…I realize we might need some context here.

I am generally genderqueer, with a vague leaning on androgyny. Most days my human uniform is overalls and a crop top. I don’t wear makeup and I do fantasize a little bit about my face being less rounded—a different conversation to be had there with weight goals and whatnot.

But the two “feminine” things I will not abandon are very specific with particular meaning and intention behind them. The first is my breasts. I want to breastfeed my children and they are a valuable intimacy tool. Yes, that’s the phrasing we’re going to go with today. But the other femininity I will not abandon is my hair. I will fight to the death to protect my two feet of easily-tangled, difficult to manage wavy locks.

The thing about my hair that’s always hard to describe to people, though, is that while its seen as traditionally feminine, I don’t love it in a feminine way. I crave my hair not to crest my shoulders like an angel in a sun dress. I want…

Well, I want Alucard. Thor. Legolas. I want that secure, powerful, gentlemanly, and even at times a little bit regal kind of hair. But my inspiration is never women’s hair. It’s always these fantastical men.

Unlucky for me, I have the round little face of a baby cherub so its not like its easy for that to come across in my hair choices. There’s probably something in there about me needing to mentally deconstruct my ideas of femininity vs. masculinity. Similarly, the truth that our culture struggles with the blending line between the two. In theory, all it should need is me saying I want to be androgynous Alucard and that’s that. I’m gender neutral and majestic, vampiric majesty and all.

But it’s never that easy, is it?

Mornings like today are when I sit with the acceptance that whatever gender expression I feel, its going to be a bit off. Because I could partially transition, but then I’d risk facial hair, which makes me want to heave. Or I might enjoy the loss of breast tissue on the day to day, but miss it dearly as a mother and wife. My feelings about gender are too… fluid and gray.

I can’t be a cute voluptuous woman AND neutral for writing and gardening AND lean and lithe like an elven prince.

The only way I could perfect what I want is by becoming A shapeshifting witch, and as much as I practice tarot, I’m not really sure that’s happening anytime soon.

Some parts of me have come to accept that’s alright. That this specific way of being, this flavor of humanity and modern technology, it just can’t sustain all the dreams my head can hold. After all, I don’t think I’m getting a pocket dragon anytime soon (a baby alligator is quite close—though they do pose the pesky problem of growing up).

Yet there is a quiet, hopeful, child-like voice in my head that every so often likes to whisper: it’d be nice to have it all, wouldn’t it?

And yeah, it would be.

As I am, no one would be able to tell how I feel about my gender by looking at me. They’d clock the long hair and cherub face and large breasts and assume “yep, woman”. But I know. I know there’s a lot more there. A gambling wheel of who I might be each day.

They say write what you know, and I know what I am. I’m Steph. I’m a little guy and an elven man and an adorable young woman and a very witchy they. My photos may not see me, but I do.

For today, we’re content. We’re surrendering to the masculine urge to brush our long hair behind our shoulders. Sitting tall all the while. A woman, a man, and more.