Are we not femme?

Nothing like a little fishing for compliments to restore one's faith in blogging. Flattery will get you everywhere with me, folks. Besides, I just fixed up the sidebar, that took a while.

It's getting a little stressful round here. Between the government committing genocide by neglect in New Orleans (why New Orleans??? WHY?? Why couldn't it be some godawful place like Houston or Dallas? Or Crawford? Because nobody built them on fucking wetlands, I guess is why), the fact that I as yet have no place to live in France (I've been trying to get in touch with people but...they're French. There's only so much I can do), and have, inexplicably, been dating two people the last couple of weeks (I'm not complaining about that, by any means--it's just that clearly I seem to have been dropped into an alternate universe and I haven't got my bearings yet and I can't help wondering where the fuck they were in June)--well, I actually ended up breaking my knitting needles mid-stitch the other day, I was so tense.

I imagine I come off as wound tighter than a clock spring, which I'm not. But I should start meditating more regularly.

As a result, I decided to chop off my hair. For that sense of control, if nothing else. I seem to follow a pattern of chop it off, grow it out almost chin length, chop it off again. Butchiness gives me a sense of confidence and strength; reiterating gender stereotypes, I know, but there it is. Which is why I like to mix it up, walk around with my butch hair cut wearing a girly skirt. And I love getting my hair cut, the whole process is so soothing (unless I go to My Mother's Expensive Salon for Ladies of a Certain Age, where everyone has frosted dos and red nail polish and it's so incredibly girly I want to puke). I went down the street to Super Cheap-o Barbershop, picked out a picture of what I wanted, and showed it to the stylist, who was the second butchiest woman I have ever seen (nobody beats my old statistics professor, who also coached lacrosse). I mean this woman was a classic bulldagger, she's got the buzzcut, everything; even I knew she was gay, which is saying something, since my gaydar is completely defective.

"Are you sure you want it that short?" she asks.

"Oh sure," I said, "I've had it short before, short as yours in fact."

Either this gave me away or she's got better gaydar than I've got, because as soon as she hears I'm going to France she starts telling me about her German girlfriend. I look at her and she looks at me and we exchange knowing smiles. And she starts flirting with me. "Oooh, you look good with short hair! It's so cute on you!" I'm sitting here with a 50-something butch dyke calling me Gorgeous and singing the praises of the buzzcut. It was fantastic. I mean, this is really, really unusual for me; I live in white middle-class suburbs that have a church on every corner. In fact there's a Baptist one across the street from that shop. You don't just randomly run into other openly queer people; you might see someone pick up a copy of The Advocate at Corporate Bookstore Emporium, but you might not even make eye contact with them. It made my day; hell, it was practically the only bright spot in the week. (For the record, I didn't get a buzzcut, but it is awful short).

As I leave she says "You have fun now, Gorgeous! Whenever I hear of France I'm going to think of you!" Needless to say, I left her a big tip.

(Post title from a Butchies album).