Water rushes down my back, and along with it I feel strands of hair, sometimes chunks, running toward my feet and down the drain. I get out, dry off, and brush my fingers through my hair only to notice more pieces intertwined between my fingers. Hair loss has never been uncommon for me, but at the rate in which it was happening had me thinking, “Am I sick? What’s wrong with me?” Standing in front of the mirror with my towel wrapped around me, I catch glimpses of me pre-transition. A stubbly face that I must shave every day, thinning hair, and other more boyish than girlish features. The only feminine traits I recognize are my hips and tits, which for the record are great, but what I don’t see is a woman.
“You’re so beautiful”, “You’re gorgeous”, “I wish I looked half as good as you”, “Your voice is so feminine”, “I would love to have you as my girlfriend”, “Your hair looks great”, “Transition goals”…
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, and more lies. How long have people been lying to me? “They’re just being nice” I think. They don’t really mean what they say, or maybe they used to. The Conservative media about trans people have gotten to them, that’s gotta be it. They’re just saying what I want to hear.
I reach for a pair of trimming scissors in desperation. Scissors in one hand, the ends of my hair in the other. I cut at the dead ends, still brushing my fingers through my hair as more and more strands hit the floor. “Just chop it off!” As if that’ll solve my problems.
I put the scissors down and pull my hair back into a ponytail. My temples clearly visible, my forehead protruding. I see a monster. Someone I don’t recognize. It never used to be like this. My hair was thicker when I was a kid, so thick and long that people would call me ma’am before even I realized. Puberty is to blame.
I turn to look at my back, remembering the days where my mother had to shave the unwanted hair that was growing. My head slumped over, wondering if I would have to do this for the rest of my life. The hair doesn’t grow there anymore, thanks to the hormones. If only they could have also stopped it from growing on my face.
Lying in bed, my towel still wrapped around me, he tells me I’m beautiful. I don’t hear it, or rather I choose not to hear it. “No wonder people don’t want to be my friend; I look like this”. It’s 6 p.m. Sleep. Sleep is what I need. I’ll feel better tomorrow. I hope.
The only part of my transition I regret is not being able to start sooner. My parents were like many others, thinking it was just a phase. I suppose I didn’t help with that when eventually I pushed those feelings aside. The only reason I did was because I had given up. I didn’t realize I could live how I wanted to. From a child’s perspective it was as fictional as magic.
My hairline receding, my shoulders broadening, my facial hair. All things I still struggle with today, nine years later, which could have been easily avoidable. All things these bigoted people make fun of, and what they use to denounce my womanhood, could have been easily avoided. I don’t always blame my parents, but sometimes I do.
Gods how I wish the younger generation would have it easier. But now they’re being targeted. Will it ever stop? I want them to be able to experience everything so fully as their selves. Not skipping their prom because they felt uncomfortable with themselves, not missing yearbook photos because they faced extreme distress over their appearance, not trying harder because they didn’t want their successes to be attributed to someone they didn’t want to be. Just let them live. The pain of waiting is unbearable, and only gets more difficult as time presses on.
You put into words some of the same things I think about and struggle with. Even with the difficult times since starting my transition, I'd never go back!
Thanks for your writing