Monthly Archives: November 2013

My hair

I had some hair.  I cut that hair.  ” For Susan Brownmiller!*” I said.

[*author of Femininity]

I had finally come to feel what a drag my hair was to me.  I spent as little time as possible on it, combing it every few weeks.  I think not all long hair is necessarily less practical than all short hair; there are more factors to consider.  And long hair does not a ‘bad feminist” make.  But factors and events converged, and for me, the time had come.

So, the hair trade, huh?  I eventually accepted that some people were actually making wigs, that not every buyer got a boner from possessing a woman’s dismembered body part (necrophilia, anyone?).  I don’t think either is harmless.  On the one hand, there’s this cutting/shaving fetish, which is certainly on the spectrum of violence/torture/humiliation of women.  On the other hand, the beauty industry and the physical appearance standards within the program of femininity (“Femininity, in essence, is a romantic sentiment, a nostalgic tradition of imposed limitations” -Brownmiller).

I definitely wasn’t going to support beauty standards by contributing to any “wigs for kids” scheme (the kids are mostly girls, because they have standards to live up to, and the boys don’t mind so much being bald or shaved, because it isn’t socially important) (“Girls feel bad about not meeting beauty standards so let’s help them meet them” instead of “let’s destroy the beauty standards”).

It was pretty disgusting how many acquaintances assumed I’d sold it, or considered it a shame that I didn’t.  You know how I heard that?  “It’s a shame you don’t want to be a fetish object and let thousands of internet pervs get off on seeing you in a torture metaphor.”  (“Any violation of a woman’s body can become sex for men; this is the essential truth of pornography.”  -Andrea Dworkin)

It’s my body.  I disposed of it privately.


Personal Nigel

“Trauma bonding!  Trauma bonding!  Trauma bonding!”  The voice in my head was screaming it.

I could feel that it didn’t feel good.  I knew what that meant.  I’ve finally felt what it’s like to feel good in a romantic/sexual situation, and this felt like all the other times.  Which, conveniently, is still a gendered split.  Women feel good, and this felt like all the other men.

So I’m a bit crushed.  He was just like all the other men.  I’ll say this now, hoping I’ll disagree with it later, because it’s my best friend we’re talking about.  “Best friend.”  Or whatever.  A dude.  A Nigel.  We had for a number of years maintained strict platonic boundaries.  I think maybe that’s the only thing that made it possible for us to relate as pseudo-equals.

But now that’s busted.  I did it, and I wish I hadn’t.  I was so confused in the moment, feeling ill, and telling myself that doing something was better than doing nothing.  No.

I guess I’ll just say: If you think you have a male friend who doesn’t see you as an object, don’t ever give him that chance.  Don’t ever let your guard down.  Because once you see each other that way, and you see each other seeing each other that way, I’m not sure you can ever really go back.

If there ever really was something to go back” to.  Maybe there never really was.