My Queer Hair Journey
By Ali (she/her) who is obsessed with writing and has more than ten different diaries.
Growing up is confusing for the most part.
I didn’t really care about boys. They just smelt terrible and swore a lot.
But my friends knew exactly how to get one to like you.
I needed a guy so I could fit in otherwise I would be the freak I felt like I was.
The first rule was to learn how to look the part.
I unfortunately was a really hairy child. I was born with a full head of hair and blamed my dad ever since.
So, whilst my mum was shopping, buying deodorant and lipstick, I snuck away and stared at the daunting women’s razors. Each blade was perfectly feminine covered in sexy pink packaging.
I picked the pinkest razor and begged my mum to buy me the blades.
Whilst we lined up to pay, I saw a woman in front of me, she was unlike any I had seen before.
She had green hair, wore a leather jacket and big chunky boots and her lipstick was black.
I didn’t even know lipstick could be that colour.
She must have noticed me staring and gave me a quick grin.
She wanted to look different, and she looked happy.
I looked down at the razor in my hand and passed it to my mum to hold.
I think about that woman a lot.
Now as an adult.
Every time I get my haircut short or bleach my eyebrows.
When I’m going to a job interview or visiting family.
I also think about myself at that moment.
A glimpse into the fate of my teenage years struggling to suit the image that every girl wants yet I never did.
The coming of age between a girl becoming the only woman she thought she had to be.
I want to be that woman with green hair and black lipstick.
I want other queer youth to notice me with my bright hair or funky clothes and know that they don’t have to hide away from who they are even if they feel they aren’t allowed.
I’m terrified still, don’t get me wrong.
That spotty teenager is screaming at me to stop myself every time I dye my hair.
But I know now that I don’t need to like smelly boys to fit in.
Photo credit: Shanil Lakhlani
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