- Tint of my iris:
- Dark gray eyes
- What is my favourite drink:
- What is my favourite music:
Finally he whispered urgently, "please just make me do it baby, please force me to eat my cum". This wasn't the usual semi-exhibitionist style for either of us, but then this was not a usual night for us either.
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I parted my long, honeyed tresses and pinched my hair into four ponytails. I stepped into the bathtub in a sports bra and shorts and held the first ponytail perpendicular to my head. Wielding a pair of scissors, Cole sawed through my thick mane, tugging at my scalp as he hacked through the hair, and the first ponytail fell to the bathtub floor. We repeated the process for three more ponytails, leaving behind a mess of comically uneven clumps. I was reminded of when my family would grab four pairs of scissors and crowd around our golden retriever, Daisy, to give her a sloppy DIY summer haircut in our Indiana backyard.
A roommate shuffled into the bathroom with an extension cord so that we could connect our electric clippers to a distant outlet.
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As Cole took the clippers to the back and sides of my head, the mechanical buzz vibrated through my skull. I turned on the showerhead to wash off all the little bits of hair clinging to my neck and shoulders and massaged shampoo through my delightfully short locks.
When I got out of the shower, I posted a photo of my new haircut. Within minutes, I received a text from an old friend. This pandemic year has slackened so many human ties, untethering bodies from one another, leaving us to float in our isolation.
In this tired solitude, all my communities—but perhaps especially my queer community—have drifted further away. Even more acutely, I felt that my queerness was drifting away.
I found the pandemic invisibilizing. So much of this time is characterized by stasis, and we remember people as we last saw them. I entered the pandemic in the early stages of my relationship with Cole—a cishet man—and I imagine others see our relationship as straight and static. One of the many things this pandemic has robbed us of is the opportunity to present ourselves as complex, evolving individuals.
Through Zoom screens and absence, we are collapsed. But this haircut was rejuvenating, dimensionalizing. It made me feel multifaceted and animated, pulling me out of my planar state as a flat form glued to the floor and giving me depth and permission to take up space—a prismatic affirmation of my bisexuality.
It was empowering to reclaim agency when our lives are otherwise out of our control. It felt dramatic and bold when every day is Blursday. When I looked in the mirror of my tiny apartment bathroom, Tiny husband fetish saw the haircut I was always meant to have.
The decision to cut my hair was less about being visible to the world and more about being visible to myself. My haircut brought me into myself or out of myself or centred me within myself or all of those shifts at once, complicated and contradictory Tiny husband fetish they may be. I felt gay and gorgeous, sapphic and sultry.
And I also felt profoundly in love with the man who had given me my haircut, squatting on the bathroom tile, helping me clean up the blonde dust bunnies of hair that had floated to the ground. I had never before been in a straight relationship where my sexuality was not viewed as a threat. Cole created space for my queerness to exist in our monogamous relationship, invited me to be all of myself with him. Here I was with Cole, the man who, when I was experiencing the worst symptoms of my anorexia and depression and desperate for something to do with my hands for some relief from my thoughts, offered me his favourite pair of jeans to embroider with dainty, multicoloured flowers.
Cole, who posed for a photo recreation of the movie poster for The Graduate : Me in his suit as Benjamin Braddock, he in my fishnets as Mrs. Robinson, one leg seductively extended into the foreground. Cole is so much at once; his Tiny husband fetish conventionally masculine presentation and openness to all that is not straight or gender conforming are what allow me to be all of myself, allow me to ask him—let him—cut my hair.
The real, unexpected gift of the haircut was that it was a co-creation and re-creation of my identity. We invited queerness into the bathroom and into our relationship. I gave Cole the scissors and trusted him with my hair and my head and my heart. I choose you over everyone. At the end of February, I laid in bed next to Cole and scrolled through Instagram, pausing my feed to watch the Canadian 1,metre record-holder bleach and dye her pixie cut over her bathroom sink.
Kate Raphael is a writer based in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
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