I’d Take The Clippers Into My Own Hands At That Point

Since starting college, I try to get my haircut every two or three weeks. I go to the salon and ask for this barber who has worked there since I was a child and is a sort of family friend. I am a legal adult but am not allowed to make ANY decisions for myself especially for my own body. I’m also genderfluid, and my gender expression is usually masculine or androgynous.

I’m sitting on a chair waiting for him.

Barber: “Does your mom know?”

Me: “I literally just got here. Can you not, please?”

Barber: “Does your mother know you’re cutting your hair again?”

Me: “It’s just hair. My hair. It’ll grow back if I let it.”

Barber: “…so, undercut?”

Me: *Grins* “Yep!”

Barber: “You’ll look like a boy.”

Me: “IT’S. JUST. HAIR.”

Barber: “Are you gay?”

He says this in a loud voice, and everyone in the salon can hear him. His coworkers and the customers are now staring at us. I’m trying to get swallowed up by the leather chair.

Me: “…can we start?”

Barber: “Do you have a boyfriend? He’ll get mad you know, if you do?”

Me: “What? None of your business, and I’m not interested in dating.”

Barber: “So, you are gay! I knew it!”

The woman checking out at the register speaks up.

Woman: “GREAT! Do you want a cookie? You just outed her, and even if she wasn’t, SHUT THE F*** UP! No one here gives a crap!” *To me* “Just tell your mother the weather is too hot for long hair.”

Thank you, random stranger? You sorta outed me, too, you know.

I still get my hair cut in that salon with that barber. He still keeps asking about a boyfriend and telling me that boys don’t like girls who look gay or more boyish than them. He also likes to tell me that I look like a boy every ten to fifteen seconds. Yay.