When I was a little girl, my busy and non-girly mom always had my hair cut in what was then called a “pixie” style. It was easy and very, very short. I did not look like a pixie. I looked like a little girl who cut her hair with a hedge trimmer.
When I was about ten years old, I went ice skating with friends. There were lots of kids there, and one of them, a little girl younger than me, skated up. “Are you a boy or a girl?” she asked.
That was the end of the pixie cut. I put my ten-year-old foot down, and my hair grew. In high school, I washed my long hair every night and set it on orange juice can-size rollers. It was too thick to dry overnight, so I sat under the hairdryer for twenty minutes before I went to bed. Every night.
And why am I recalling this?
Right now, I’m almost ten weeks past my last chemotherapy. My hair’s about a quarter-inch long, and I’m sick of wigs and hats, so I finally said the heck with it, I’m going commando. I wear girly clothes, lots of eye makeup, and big earrings. I have hips and breasts. Well, breast. The other one is a silicone facsimile, but the illusion’s pretty good.
So I was surprised when at work last week, I was washing my hands in the public bathroom, and a lady walked in, looked at me, walked back out, checked the sign on the door, and walked back in. Surprised and very amused. In fact, I laughed all afternoon.
I am a girl.
“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” Proverbs 31:3