Wrote this for my blog:
It's strange isn't it how something as ordinary as hair can carry the weight of identity. For most people, hair is just hair, a style, a length, a preference. But for me, it it's a battlefield.
Once again I'm growing out my hair. Not for fashion, not for vanity but for the female side of me. The woman inside who has waited patiently through decades of buzz cuts and barbershop small talk, longing to see herself in the mirror.
But that female side of me doesn't have the final say. My male side is still here too, the man I've always been to the outside world. The man that worries about looking scruffy, unkempt, too old for long hair. The man that remembers how my wife grimaced the last time I grew it out. My male side wonders if this pursuit is foolish, maybe even selfish.
And yet, every time I'm out and about, maybe in a shop, or in a crowd, I'm haunted by female hairstyles. Waves, braids, ponytails, loose curls, half up buns and long straight sheets of hair cascading over shoulders. Every style is a reminder of who I'm not, and who I could be.
Growing my hair shouldn't be this hard. But for me, it's not just growth, it's transformation and transformation always comes at a price.
I've had short hair for most of my life, since my teenage years. The kind of hair cut that blends in, that says "typical male", or more honestly, "he doesn't want questions." It was need, masculine and expected.
But a few years ago, something shifted. Maybe it was the weight of never having truly seen the female side of me, the woman inside, reflected in the mirror. She'd been there all along, waiting quietly in the shadows of the who I've been told to be. And one day, she asked for something simple: "Can we grow our hair?"
And so I did.
At first, it felt uncomfortable. Not physically, though there were plenty of awkward phases, but emotionally. Every inch of growth was a a conversation, an argument between the sides of me that have never fully agreed. The man who worries about looking unkempt, strange, or God forbid, too feminine and the woman who sees hair as a kind of freedom, a symbol of alignment, a chance to see herself... just a little more clearly.
But even that attempt was interrupted. When my father died, I cut it all off again. A sudden decision, made in the haze of grief and obligation. Somehow, short hair felt needed, a return to something solid, predictable, "proper" for a funeral. But afterwards, I felt like I had like I had said goodbye to more than just a man, I'd said goodbye to a part of me too.
Now, I’m growing it out again.
And every morning I wake up and feel the same tension, one hand on the scissors, the other on a dream.
My wife didn't like it the last time I let it grow long. She said it didn't suit me and it aged me. Part of me understood, I didn't exactly look like the man she married. But part of me wonders if she ever truly met the rest of me. The woman who's whispering beneath the surface since long before either of us said "I do."
There is another strange twist to this, a kind of visual overload going on. When I go out, to the shops, a cafe, walking through a crowd, or even at work, I find myself captivated, distracted even, by the women around me. Not in a sexual way, but in a deeply envious, yearning way. I see their hair, long, flowing, styled, unstyled, thick, fine, pinned, curled, straight, and I ache. Not because I want them.. but because I want to be them.
It’s overwhelming. I see hairstyles I love, ones I imagine myself wearing. And then I remember I?m not supposed to. That to wear hair like that as a man, even a crossdresser, invites scrutiny, stares, discomfort. And so the war continues.
Hair grows slowly. Too slowly, it seems.
What makes this journey harder is the quiet war between expectation and reality too. In my mind, I see my feminine side, long sleek hair flowing effortlessly down her back, soft and voluminous, like the the women I pass on the street. But the reality is different. Testosterone has shaped my follicles over decades, coarser strands, and uneven texture. My hair doesn't grow like theirs. It rarely falls the way I imagine it should. What I long for feels just out of reach, not because I lack patience, but because my biology seems to be holding a grudge.
Some mornings, I catch a glimpse in the mirror and feel that jolt of disconnect. The hair I'm growing doesn't always match the vision in my head, and it's painful. It's not just about hair, it's about the chasm between how I feel inside and what the world sees. Between the woman I carry in my heart and the man the mirror insists on showing me.
But I keep on going.
Because part of me believes, or at least hopes, that this time, I won't cut it. That maybe I've earned the right to see what it looks like to feel whole.
It's only hair, people say. But for me, it's not.
It's a declaration. A slow, defiant, deeply personal reclaiming of some I was told I couldn't have.
Any maybe.. a step closer to becoming who I've always been.
Some people grow hair. Others grow courage. I'm trying to grow both.
Thanks for reading
Lotte x
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You will become stronger in the ways of the Pink Fog. May the Pink Fog guide you and be with you now and forever.
