4/9/26
When I was about 17 I dyed my hair.
It’s not as if I hadn’t dyed my hair before.
At the tender age of 7 I begged my mom for pink and purple streaks, she allowed it.
At 9 I tinted my hair with Kool-aid in my backyard in the summer, sitting in the grass, eating freezies, believing for some reason that The Sun would make the red dye 40 take better.
At 11 I bleached my face-framers while my mom was bleaching her roots, the stench of ammonia and peroxide burned my 11 year old nose hairs.
At 14 I dip-dyed my hair pink yearning to be a real Tumblr girl.. I posted laptop selfies to Facebook.
I guess I did a thing :p
By the time I was 17 my hair was beginning a grow out from a big chop I had the beginning of grade 12. My (EX) hairstylist made me look like an old woman. I cried and cried after that haircut for hours, and I’ve been giving myself at-home haircuts ever since.
Once I had taken a shower and the 1940’s curls had left my head, I was somewhat revived. I looked like a teenager once more.
I didn’t do much to my hair for the next few months, I just let it grow back, hoping that by my grad there would be enough of it to put into a fancy braided up-do (I fear I’m really, REALLY aging myself here).
At the time, silver hair was very popular. Lavender and blue-ish tints were everywhere on social media. I’m not sure exactly who or what was the patient zero was on this trend (probably a a Kardashian, if i had to make a guess) nevertheless, it was all the rage.
I watched copious amounts of tutorials on how I could achieve lavender hair without bleach, because I was lazy, non-committal, and didn’t have a burning desire to fry my hair off before graduation, especially after the whole haircut debacle. There was one girl on Youtube I was absolutely obsessed with, a very cool early-20’s artist type. I watched as she mixed up a potion on her carpeted bedroom floor and plopped it onto her head. I was mesmerized, and convinced I could achieve a similar colour.
I procured my supplies and slathered the dye onto my head, utterly satisfied with my decision. Honestly, I had never felt more confident. For the longest time I felt completely out of control of my body. Dyeing my hair, all of my hair, gave me some autonomy back I had lacked for years.
I was little nervous about school. I wasn’t sure if people would even notice what I had done, but people definitely did. As a person who normally sort of faded into the background that was a nice change of pace.
One interaction stood out to me more than any other though, more than the compliments from friends, and the tens of likes on Facebook… While I was walking to class, and my best friend’s younger brother came up to me in the crowded high school hallway. We’ll call him… John. John was a little shit-stirrer. Whenever I came over to their house, John was always in the background making snide-teenage-brother comments. That was just his vibe, I suppose, though in my opinion the vibe could have used a severe adjustment. He wasn’t exactly peaches and cream.
“I see you’ve dyed your hair…” John stated, obviously.
“Yeah!” I replied, gleefully.
John paused and looked at me with a strange intensity…“Poisonous frogs are always the most colourful.” And just like that, he walked away, leaving me gagged, stunned, shocked, and shaded.
I had never considered myself a poisonous sort of person.
Scratch that, not even a person, but an animal.
A small, unassuming animal.
Prey.
Prey with a with a big ol’ warning sign plastered on my head for all to see.
When I told my friend about it, they told me to think nothing of it, he was just being John, don’t take it seriously, my hair looked great.
But, as passing comments normally go, it stuck with me.
It has stuck with me for 12 years.
It is something I have wondered about on and off since I have continued to explore dyeing my hair a variety of fun colours. Does my hair express something about myself that I don’t want revealed to the general public? Does it scare off dating prospects, or friends? Do people take me less seriously because I dye my hair fun colours and give myself goofy at home haircuts? Do people view me as lesser because of it?
Or is it just fucking hair?
When I had long blonde hair I was treated very differently. I was catcalled far more often, I was leered at far more often, I was harassed far, FAR more often. I have told people that my hair very well could (ideally) be a sort of repellent for shitheads, especially since I gave myself my first gender-affirming haircut last year.
I still get the stares since I’ve chosen to present more in line with my gender, but the looks are often more angry than lusting. The stares I get from older men are especially concerning, sometimes I fear they’ll burst a vein in their head… And I’d be lying if I said I don’t find that just a tiny bit entertaining.
Maybe there is something titillating, even empowering, about being exactly who you are… When that who you are just happens to intersect with the exact opposite of what straight men desire. Maybe feeling empowered by that is a tad poisonous.
Or, perhaps I just fear being desired by straight men more than I fear being hated by them. I don’t think there’s much I find more objectionable as a non-binary person than having straight men lust after me, calling me a pretty lady, acting entitled to my body simply because of my biology.
I’m used to the hatred, I’d rather it not be paired with lust. Be disgusted, be confused, be disturbed, but dear God, keep your dick in your pants.
There is a part of me that would rather be viewed as a liability than being viewed as fuckable.
Unfortunately, there are still plenty of men that claim to want an alternative big-titty-goth-girlfriend. Under the patriarchy you can only be a scary bitch within the realm of fetishization. The reality is that being a part of alternative subcultures requires some level of social awareness and activism. The men that only desire the aesthetics of alternative expression generally cannot handle what comes along with it: a fucking backbone.
In my experience, straight men severely underestimate the power of (gendered) expression. To them, hair, makeup, and fashion are only used to attract men to women. Too much attention to your outer shell is a sign of vanity, too little is a sign of laziness. Expressing yourself outside of the norm usually means you’re a freak, whether that be the poisonous kind or the fetishized kind… Or both.
Being aware of all of this misogynistic bullshit can be enough to cause someone (me) to consider not expressing yourself at all. I did even that, for a while, I toned myself down, I didn’t want to be seen, I didn’t want people to know me. I grew so tired of hiding myself. It’s exhausting pretending to be someone you are not.
I have begun to learn that if people misinterpret me, misjudge me in passing, that is not my responsibility to fix. Unfortunately, people will judge you no matter what. People will say stupid things in an attempt to bring you down, try to make you feel small and unworthy. People will stare, make stupid kissy noises as you walk past them on the street.
But people cannot take away who you are, deep, deep down. They cannot remove your essence, your kindness, your humour, your smile, your laugh, how you move through the world, how you choose to express your identity. They may try their hardest, but they will never take away what makes you who you are.
Dyeing my hair is an expression of my autonomy. My body is my world. Having the ability to adorn it how I please means I have agency.
When I look in the mirror I don’t see prey, I don’t see poison, I see freedom.
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