Hiking Boots and Haircuts

Or, the footwear that made me and the hairstyles that didn't

The Boots Were Made for…

The first time I ever fought with my mother, we were in the shoe store we’d been going to my entire childhood. Three years out of private school and its sturdy brown shoes requirement, I wasn’t much more adventurous with my footwear; I would have been perfectly happy with another pair of Tretorns because my old ones had barely survived the summer at camp.

That day, I wanted to finish the shopping and go home. My mother was following me around, trying to get me to try on an assortment of ‘cute’ flats. I was having none of it. Mostly because I was tired of stuffing my exhausted ballet feet into shoes that thought everyone’s feet were flat, but also…???

High school was proving to be hard, and I missed my camp friends, who took me for who I said I was. So when I spotted the hiking boots there on a corner shelf, I instantly honed in on them. Forget flats, or the penny loafers that, “all the other girls in the band wear.” I had to have the boots.

Forget flats, or the penny loafers that, “All the other girls in the band wear.” I had to have the boots.

Chonky Done Right

They weren’t cute. They were brown and blue with red accents, branded with the name of an outdoor goods company that my bff would ultimately tease me about: “K is wearing cooler shoes!” But when I tried them on, they fit perfectly. They were comfortable around my ankles and in my arches, the right amount of clunky and not, and just the thing to pair with my jeans, t-shirts, and flannels. Hey, it was 1992 and I never claimed to be fashion-forward.

These were shoes that altered my stride just enough that I felt like I could move confidently through the halls at school instead of picking my way around clumps of people. They were shoes made for going places, even if it was only to catch the bus. There was nothing proper or girly or perfect about those boots, just like there was nothing proper or girly or perfect about me.

These were shoes that altered my stride just enough that I felt like I could move confidently through the halls at school instead of picking my way around clumps of people.

I told my mother it was the boots or nothing, that if she bought me loafers it was a waste of money because I’d never wear them. So she grudgingly bought them, and I was happy.

Not completely, of course. But happy enough. In my boots and oversized everything, I could at least pretend that I didn’t have DD boobs, or that I didn’t hate the way I looked in the mirror at dance. The only way I got through it was to wear a baggy tee over my leotard and hope Mrs. M didn’t make me take it off. Even my hair was wrong. I put the blame on dance, of course, saying that I had to keep it long to be able to put it in a bun four times a week. I never wore it down, always in a scraggly ponytail that I couldn’t stop playing with in class, because it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t short. And when I did cut it, it wasn’t short enough.

Every time I asked my hairdresser why she couldn’t make it short enough to hide under a baseball hat, she told me that I didn't want to look like a boy. Didn’t I?

Um. What did it mean if I did?

If You Say So…

My mother disliked anything that made me look “too masculine,” which was everything from my jeans to my gender-neutral marching band uniform. It was … fine isn’t the right word, because it wasn’t. But it was manageable. I wore the skirts she bought me because everyone said I was a girl and that’s what girls wore. I dealt with periods because everyone said I was a girl and that’s what girls’ bodies did. When everyone at camp talked about woman power, I chanted along. Everyone said I was a woman, so I must have been, right?

Right?

Everyone said I was a woman, so I must have been, right?

The Fragile Egg Cracked

I didn’t even *know* there were other possibilities until I was in college. I didn’t learn about non-binary and genderqueer and agender until well into my 30s. Presenting as a woman is so ingrained in me that I’m afraid that even when I have my top surgery, I will still engage in performative femininity just because it is what I’ve always done.

I got a really short haircut back in the summer. It wasn’t exactly all I had hoped for, because it turns out that I have entirely the wrong shaped head for a buzz cut. I’ve settled on a happy medium between too short and just short enough. I’m every invisible middle-aged dyke in my leggings, tank tops, baggy shorts, and crocs. But I’m also not a woman. I know how to move through the world in a way that makes people uncomfortable, a little too fast and a little too loud, and a little too coarse. I can mask, of course, be demure and appropriate and feminine. But none of it is quite right. It all feels like masks.

I can mask, of course, be demure and appropriate and feminine. But none of it is quite right. It all feels like masks.

Let the Journey B̶e̶g̶i̶n̶ Continue

I’m still figuring this all out, and my plan is to talk a lot about my journey here. I hope you’ll come along for the ride!

Oh, and those boots? I wore them every day all winter for three years of high school and then nearly every cold day at college. I finally got rid of them when I was 25 and getting ready for a cross-country move.