Wife, dyke

Shaving my head and getting hitched both require commitment and risk, and both will inform the way I see myself and the way others see me.

Hair is a status symbol and a gauge of confidence and emotion. I've worn my curly locks as a crown and cut it short in times of heartbreak. It looks vibrant after sex and flat after work. Only twice have I changed its color. A rebellious white streak came out gold. An expensive marmalade job was like the emperor's new clothes. The underside is shaved periodically, in high school to match a boyfriend's, post-college to resist becoming a professional.

Shaving it off at 20 would have been a baby dyke rite of passage. Going bald at 50 would mean I was sick or becoming my mother. Age 30 it is a deliberate decision. I am opening the door, stepping over the threshold and waving good-bye to "passing," to my overt femininity, to beauty, and saying hello to my big ol' alien head.

Kelley hates this idea, seeing as she wants to carry me over the threshold and make me her foxy wife.