You can have straight buddies, trans buddies, tall buddies, and small buddies. But you definitely need some butch buddies. There's a unique, comforting tenor to my relationships with my butch friends that I just can't get anywhere else.
See, butch buddies share some cultural commonalities. Other butches know what it's like to be called "sir" at a coffee shop, have experienced the indignity of wearing a bridesmaid's dress, have struggled over whether to wear a tie to a job interview, and have lived through near-flat-top experiences at the local barber shop. It's important to have people with whom you can bond (and laugh) about this kind of stuff. Sure, you're not going to be friends with some chick just because of your shared affinity for Axe deodorant. But if you DON'T have a trusted cadre of butch buds, seek 'em out--they can be useful in a multitude of situations:
Each of my friends fills an important role in my life, but I know I'd feel a peculiar loneliness without butch buddies--one that stems from having a part of yourself that no one else can really "get."
11 Comments
Don't be a victim. When I had long hair, I pulled it back into a ponytail and didn't give two craps about it. But since cutting it short about four years ago, I've become downright vain. I used to go to a barber. There was something rite-of-passagey about it. I often got sir'd throughout the entire haircut, even if I was talking (in my clearly female voice) the whole time, which always amazed me. But if I didn't get sir'd, I'd often be told, "We don't do women's hair," whereupon I would spend the better part of fifteen minutes explaining to the guy that I was in the right place. Inevitably I'd get a cut that was plain, inoffensive, and largely devoid of style, but since this was the still closest I'd ever come to having my hair cut the way I wanted it, I was happy. My barbershop experience, despite its drawbacks, was vastly superior to my experience at places like Supercuts--discount chains that snip men's and women's locks. Inevitably, the haircutters there (I don't know what to call them--they're not "barbers," and God knows they're not stylists) would try to charge me twice as much for a "women's" cut though I made it clear that I wanted a regular guys' cut. Usually I'd come away with cuts that were guy-ish, but too long--as if the haircutter was stubbornly determined not to reveal my whole ears to the world. Worst-case scenario, I'd come away with some atrocity--including, but not limited to, feathered sideburns. Eventually, I asked a butch I'd just met (C, who later became a very good friend of mine) where she got her hair cut, and she gave me the name of her stylist. That's right--an actual stylist. I was highly suspicious. I made an appointment anyway, and when I arrived, I announced that I wanted my hair "exactly like C's." The woman spent a few minutes examining my hair, then pronounced it "too thick" for the C's haircut. This, I thought, did not bode well. So, fully planning to stop at a barber shop on the way home, I said, "Can you do something kind of dykey, basically a guys' cut, super short on the sides and back?" To my astonishment, the haircut rocked. Just like you're probably better off going to a Yelp-favored mechanic over some dude behind the local gas station, it actually makes a difference when the person knows what he or she is doing. A good stylist will thin your hair if it needs thinning, color it if you want it colored, and give you a cut that will actually look good as it grows out, too. The sole downside is that I now pay $60/haircut, and I am far from wealthy. But to a vain butch like yours truly, it's worth every penny. Bottom line? Find the most stylish short-haired dyke you know and ask where she gets her hair cut. If you don't know one, stop the first one you see on the street and ask where she goes. Not only will she be flattered, but probably sympathetic as well, since she, herself, has probably navigated the hair-raising gauntlet from which you have just emerged. Yesterday evening was a little trippy, but wonderful. I went out for dinner with my girlfriend, my ex-husband, my ex-girlfriend and her girlfriend, and another couple. My ex-husband thought it was *hilarious* that I had slept with half the people at the table. He and my gf were kind of making fun of me together, and I loved it, because they're two of the most important people in my life, and if I can spend time with both of them together, it makes my life feel a lot more complete.
I wonder how other butches out there balance their past and present, especially if they are still close to people who knew them before they were out as gay--or even before they were "out" as butch (to the extent that one comes "out" as butch--more on this another time). At the root of it all, I'm still the same person that I was five years ago, but I look different and carry myself differently, and am much more confident in who I am. It's got to be strange for people to see someone they care about so much go through such a big transformation. I don't want to discount the extreme pain that can result when one's relationship with others changes. God knows I went through things I'd never want to relive. I'll probably blog in more detail about this later, but my divorce, and the couple of years leading up to it, were the worst time in my life. But it's also worth noting that it's absolutely remarkable what people can get used to, and what they can come to see as "normal"--especially if, at the root of it all, they really love each other. I had a phone argument with an insurance company this morning. As a result, I decided to wear a tie to work. Wearing a tie puts me in a good mood. Today's selection was silver plaid on grey--a Calvin Klein tie I picked up last year either at Ross or Macy's, and a Geoffrey Beene shirt I found at Goodwill. I've been liking monochromatic look lately, with a loosened tie. It's strange to feel as though I look my best, but simultaneously know that others think I'm trying to be nonconformist. I don't mind *being* nonconformist, but I don't like that that people might think I dress as I do to TRY to be nonconformist; I'm just being me. The unhappy fact, though, is that when I *do* put on a tie in the morning, I spend a few moments mentally combing through my schedule, making sure my attire is appropriate for every setting I'll be in. Not just the level of formality--which I'm guessing everyone thinks about--but the appropriateness of my apparent "deviance." I'd like to say that I don't care what other people think, but in a professional setting, that's not always true. I want to do what's best for me AND my career AND my self-esteem, and sometimes these paths don't align. I also don't like that wearing a tie makes some people assume I'm trans. I'm not. I support people who want to transition; I'm just not one of them, and I don't like people thinking I am. I'm not sure why I care. Maybe it has to do with the centrality of gender identity. That is, just as it's (often) important to trans men to be perceived and recognized AS men, it's important to me to be perceived and recognized AS a woman. I've been using Weebly quite a bit for other things, so when I decided to start a new blog, I thought I'd give it a try. I've been thinking for some time about writing a blog that deals chiefly with my butchness, dykiness, and sexual orientation more generally. I've been butch for... oh... my whole life, I guess. Like many other butches, growing up I preferred boys' clothing, wished I could join the Boy Scouts, and always wanted short hair. But unlike many other butches, I married a (bio) man, wore makeup, and didn't realize I was gay until I was in my late twenties. I was, by no means, a "girly" girl, but although I never developed an affinity for heels or dresses, I was unmistakably female and never would have identified as butch, bi, queer, etc. My ex-husband says that the only physical clue he had was the way I took my wallet out of my back pocket--like a guy. But when we both look back, we can see many, many other clues--some of which I will talk about here. I have plans for this page. Big plans, I tell you.
|
|