5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
Ray
F rom the library, Jordie takes me back to their place, but we don’t even really go past the entryway. They take my bag and shove it onto a hook next to theirs, right by the door. I try not to be too disappointed about not getting an invitation to come inside. Jordie talks about all the stores they want to take me to see. They scroll through different hairstyles they think would suit me as we walk from their apartment on campus to their barber—Eddie. Apparently, this Eddie is worth going to a masc space for because he knows how to work with Jordie’s curls.
There’s an unobtrusive pride flag decal in the front window, confirming Jordie’s assurances that the place is queer friendly. The sign by the door says walk-ins are welcome, but it’s intimidating to walk into a space that’s so blatantly meant for men. There are two older guys sitting in chairs getting their hair buzzed and another big guy at the counter with a shiny bald pate and freshly trimmed beard paying.
I want to ask Jordie if we can even be here. But they don’t seem at all uncomfortable in this space. And when the guy paying leaves, I get a glimpse of the willowy barber ringing him up and relax the tiniest bit at his rainbow enamel hoop earring. If Jordie is comfortable here, even with their clearly femme-leaning presentation, then maybe I can be too. Even if I don’t look the part yet.
“Eddie, this is my friend Ray. He needs a new look, right, Ray?” Jordie grabs me by the shoulders, like they’re presenting me to Eddie for inspection.
“Um, yeah.” I nod woodenly.
“Sure, I can squeeze in a cut. Can we see what we’re working with?” Eddie mimes taking off my toque. I reach for it, tempted to pull it further down over my long golden locks. Hide the beautiful braid my parents love so much. Can I really just cut it off?
“Or you can tell me what you’re thinking?” Eddie suggests when I stand there, frozen with indecision.
“Um—” My mouth is too dry and I can only shake my head to clear my mind.
“Blink twice if they dragged you here against your will,” Eddie only sounds half-joking, but his quip startles a chuckle out of me.
“Ray? You okay?” Jordie squeezes my shoulders, grounding me. I want to be brave for them. Weird thought, but I do. “You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for. I just thought—”
“No, I’m here because I want to chop it all off,” I say, snatching the hat from my head and crumpling the soft, colorful wool between my fists.
It’s a daunting request. I have no idea what I’ll look like without my hair. I haven’t had short hair since I was a toddler playing with scissors. Dad says when he caught me trying to tape some of my hair back in place that I told him I wanted to look like my brothers.
The preschool pictures of the pixie cut my mom’s hairdresser salvaged from the mess are some of my favorite kid pictures of myself. I look like a boy in those photos. Albeit one with a penchant for sparkly barrettes and swishy skirts. It’s the most me I’ve ever seen myself.
Whenever we pull out the old photo albums, Mom laments having to correct strangers who assumed I was a boy for the next year while my hair grew back out. For the longest time, I didn’t have words for the weird mix of pride and sorrow that story always fills me with. Now I do.
I bet Jordie would have had the guts to tell their parents that those strangers were actually right. I don’t have their courage. But they give me the confidence to nod when Eddie takes in the braid that falls halfway down my back when I remove my hat. He gives me a kind but skeptical look. “Are you sure? That’s going to take some time to grow back out if you change your mind.”
“Yeah. I want it short.” Like a guy. Like him and the other men who look like they belong here.
“Alright, take a seat and we can figure out how short we’re going.” Eddie gestures toward an empty seat in front of his workstation.
Jordie gives me a big, reassuring smile. I sort of wish I could ask them to hold my hand, but I draw strength from just having them there to support me. Whatever I look like after this, Jordie will still be my friend. They’ll still see me past all the parts that don’t feel like me.
Eddie sweeps a cape over me. I have to sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting and picking at the loosely draped cloth as he goes over the various options. I’m not sure how to describe the type of cut I have in mind. Jordie helps me figure it out, scrolling through images on their phone until I see one that reminds me of my oldest brother. Shorter on the back and sides, with a little length on top. It jumps out at me, a euphoric wash of longing. I can picture myself as a guy with my hair styled like the model in the image.
“This one, please?”
“Sure.” Eddie nods. “We can go with a tapered look and leave a few inches on top to start and if you want it a little shorter, we’ll adjust from there. And now I’m going to turn you around and suggest that you don’t look until it’s done if you want to get the full effect of the transformation. Are you certain you’re ready?” Eddie asks, glancing between me and Jordie.
Jordie tugs playfully on my braid. “I didn’t realize how much hair you were hiding under that hat, sunshine. You sure about this?”
“Yeah.” I nod, my resolve firmer now that I’m so close to the point of no return.
I might look like a butch girl with short hair, but at least that’s a step closer to who I am inside. It fits better than the long hair that makes me want to crawl out of my skin every time someone tells me how pretty it is. It’s too tied up with being the daughter and sister my family expects me to be to feel anything but too femme for me.
“Right, did you want to donate all this length that we’re taking off?” Eddie offers.
I only have to consider for a moment before I nod. “Yes, please. If that’s a thing I can do.”
“It sure is. Hold tight.” Eddie reaches for a hair tie.
The idea of my unwanted hair helping someone else eases some of the anxiety roiling in my gut. If I somehow hate the results, I can take solace in all that long hair not going to waste. It might help someone who wants to feel like a pretty girl; that’s totally worth embracing the giddy nerves sparking through me as if I swallowed a live wire over taking this plunge. And it gives me an out for explaining why when my folks see what I’m about to do. Win-win.
Eddie threads my braid through the tie and snugs it close to my scalp. He checks one more time. “I’m going to cut right above the tie. Is here alright?”
“Yeah, that would be perfect. Thank you.” I force a nervous smile.
“Of course. Ready?” Eddie asks as he reaches for his scissors.
“Yeah.” I nod again, and saying it makes me even more sure that this is exactly what I want. Jordie hovers nearby, distracting me with gossip about their friends when Eddie holds his scissors against my braid. I feel a pang of razor-sharp terror that I might regret this the moment he makes that first irrevocable cut.
Eddie meets my gaze in the mirror. “Last chance to back out?”
“Do it.” I say, grasping my courage in both hands as I meet Jordie’s encouraging gaze in the mirror.
The snick of the blades seems loud as he shears off most of my hair in one fell swoop. Eddie coils up the severed braid and stuffs it into a Ziploc bag from his workstation.
I was worried the sight of all that hair would fill me with regret, but when Eddie hands the baggie to Jordie, all I feel is buoyant relief. As if I can shed all the expectations that gorgeous long hair embodies just as easily as a single cut. Each snip of the shears as Eddie tidies the ends of my hair and reverberates through to the core of me. I’m allowed to do this. Allowed to make my own choices, even if they’re wrong, and I change my mind.
Jordie is watching me with concern as my eyes well with happy tears. They squeeze my shoulder through the cape thing Eddie draped over me when he turns to exchange the scissors for his clippers.
“You okay?” Jordie asks.
“Yeah. I can really do this.” The awed realization in those words is embarrassing in its naked longing.
Jordie’s concern melts into another of their encouraging smiles. “You really can.”
“We good to keep going?” Eddie checks in with me as he adjusts the guard on his clippers.
“Yes, please.”
I can’t wipe away my smile as Eddie finishes trimming away the ragged ends of what used to be my braid, then carefully buzzes the hair at my nape. The steady vibrations remind me of my high school best friend’s family cat purring on my chest. Alice always seemed so bemused that he liked me because the cat usually only likes guys. I miss my snuggles with Grumpy Gus, his rumbling purrs a loud dose of gender euphoria.
This is like that on steroids. When Eddie brushes away the last few stray hairs and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a boy is beaming back at me. Well, okay, maybe not quite. His cheeks are still too round, his chin too narrow. But at a glance, it’s damn hard to tell for sure. My belly flips with delight at that. Happy squirming, like the first plunge down a rollercoaster.
“What do you think?” Eddie asks.
“I love it.” I turn to get a look from every angle. Eddie grabs a mirror to show me the back and I preen a little more, floating on cloud nine as I pay and Jordie shepherds me out the door.
“This way,” Jordie loops their elbow through mine as we leave the barbershop. They guide me along a bustling narrow sidewalk toward a busier road with wider sidewalks for foot traffic and cyclists.
I stuff my hat into my hoodie pocket as we walk. There’s no need to hide under it anymore and the late summer weather is too hot for it. Has been all along, but I just hated how I looked without it. Now I don’t. Everything seems brighter with Jordie at my side. They make learning the area around my new home seem like a thrilling adventure instead of lonely and isolating with potential threats lurking in every shadowy laneway.
The late afternoon sun is still too hot, but a slight breeze ruffles my hair. It makes me feel more connected to the world. Almost like a simple haircut let me shed a layer of the separation from reality that makes my baseline dysphoria bearable day-to-day. A promise that someday I can experience my entire life like that, free from the invisible barriers that protect and smother me.
We stroll past a mishmash of huge chains, cute small businesses in tiny storefronts, trendy restaurants, and coffee shops. In my periphery, I keep catching brief glimpses of the boyish version of me reflected in the windowed storefronts. The sight has me grinning uncontrollably. I want to just run my fingers through my hair over and over, a tactile reminder this is real. I’m really doing it. Trying to play it cool in front of Jordie, I practice as much restraint as I can muster.
“Looking good, handsome.” Jordie grins at me as we walk around a coffee shop’s terrasse seating.
“I really am!” I beam, running my fingers along my scalp yet again to revel in the velvety soft bristles under my palm. Sort of like petting Gus. It feels like a boy’s head. Restraint might be overrated and Jordie seems to understand the euphoria is about so much more than a haircut. Then I process what they said and my face heats. “I mean, I really look more like a guy.”
“Yep.” Jordie grins at me. “A handsome boy.” They wink, chuckling at the heat burning through me when they praise my looks. That’s a weird contrast to how I normally feel about appearance related compliments. The juxtaposition is so strange, but I want to hear more, especially masc-coded ones from Jordie. “Come on, sunshine, we’ve only just begun this transformation. I’m taking you thrifting and we’re getting you a binder.”
“School supplies?” That can’t be right.
“No. For your chest so you can stop cooking yourself in those oversized hoodies you’re obsessed with.”
“I’m not obsessed.” I scowl, getting defensive even though I was just thinking about how uncomfortable dressing to hide my dysphoria is in the late summer heat.
“Of course not. You just don’t want anyone to actually perceive you?”
“Yeah.” I squirm, fighting the urge to pull free of their hold to cross my arms over my chest. “Pretty much. Not if they’re perceiving the wrong things.”
“I get that.” Jordie’s tone softens with genuine understanding. “The right clothes help a lot. Promise.”
“Even if I can’t pass?” I worry my lip between my teeth. I’m so used to hearing how well I fit the stereotypes of who I’m supposed to be, killing myself to be that person. It’s all but impossible to imagine what passing would even look like.
Jordie steers us around a crowd of younger students at a bus stop. They look and act like high schoolers with their loud voices, school bags, and fancy coffees, but there’s something subtly off. It takes me a second to realize the wrongness is that back home they’d almost definitely all be wearing matching school uniforms. Another of those jarring reminders I’m in a different country here. Jordie’s reply is jarring in an entirely different way.
“Even if you never pass. Passing doesn’t have to be the point.” Jordie tries to hide their exasperation, but I hear it in their voice.
“It doesn’t?” I squeak, not daring to believe that or even let myself hope it’s true. Most of what I’ve seen with my furtive efforts into figuring out what it means to be trans makes that seem like the point.
“I mean, maybe for some people it is.” Jordie waves off the caveat like an annoying gnat. “But it doesn’t have to be. The point is for you to go out into the world feeling confident in who you are.” Jordie gestures at themself and then my hair. I resist the urge to touch it again.
“How do you do that?” Because I genuinely have no clue. I’ve only really gotten as far as the silent screaming in my head that I’m not a girl. The rest is a daunting blank canvas of trying to reinvent myself without the guideposts most people take for granted.
Jordie shrugs. “Lots of trial and error to figure out my style, and then loads of practice not giving a shit what anyone else thinks about it. And I have a feeling this place is going to help too.”
Jordie stops and points to a boutiquey little shop with a discreet sign in the window.
“What do we need here?” I ask, wary of the wall of bras on display when we walk inside.
“Binders. Pix and Celeste swear by this place. The owners are super queer and they sell gaffs and other gender stuff too, ignore the bras, okay? They’ll hook us up with what we need.”
Jordie leads me to a salesperson at the counter before I can protest, and true to their word, I’m whisked back to a fitting area.
“Is it alright if I take some measurements?” The matronly looking worker asks.
I nod, even though this reminds me of my first bra fitting with my mom. That was awful. It seemed like I had to smile through the entire ordeal even as I screamed internally about the wrongness of the milestone we were marking. The measuring tape makes me squirm, even though they do the sizing over my hoodie. At least it’s over fast.
Then there are a few different styles of binder to choose between. I grab a couple that look comfy enough.
“Want help? The fabric can be a pain to get used to.” Jordie offers.
I want to say yes. But the idea of Jordie seeing what’s under my hoodie, let alone my entire exposed chest, is too daunting with the way the fitting left me reeling. Everything is too raw to handle my crush seeing the parts of me I don’t want anyone to notice. “Um, not unless I need it?”
“Okay, I’ll wait out here for you,” Jordie offers with a reassuring smile.
I take my top choices into a changing cubicle and wriggle into the first one. It feels like I can’t breathe—the material is way too tight. The next one fits weirdly. When I finally settle on one that hugs my body and presses my chest flat without my ribs creaking, I try my t-shirt on over it. The difference it makes in the mirror takes my breath away. I reach out to touch my reflection, needing some proof it’s real. I look… like me.
Jordie might have a point about this whole clothes and haircut thing. The tag on the binder makes my stomach roil in a whole new way though. I try to convince myself it’s not much more expensive than a nice bra. It’s not. If I use the bank card my parents gave me so I’d have spending money here, I know they won’t think twice about it.
Mom is always saying that the right undergarments are important. How a nice new bra can be a huge confidence boost. For the first time, looking at the way the binder reshapes my body, I understand that on a visceral level. If I can walk out into the world looking like this, yeah. That’s worth the cost. And it sells stuff they’d expect me to buy so I won’t be outing myself.
Jordie is waiting when I step out of the changing booth with the binder.
“Good?” they ask.
“Yeah.” I smile. I make my purchase and we leave the shop with a discreet paper shopping bag.
“Thanks for suggesting this.” I smile at Jordie.
“Of course. I figured it would be good to have before our next stop.” Jordie grins. “So, where were we?”
“Talking about how passing doesn’t have to be the point of transition.”
“Right. Exactly. The important thing is being true to you.”
“Even if people hate you for it?”
“Those people don’t matter, if they can’t accept the real you,” Jordie insists with all the conviction I wish I had. It’s obviously a philosophy they live by with their pins and rings and shirts proclaiming who they are to the world. And that’s great for them, but I’m still scared.
“Even if they’re your family?” There it is, the heart of my fears. I don’t want to lose my family’s love. I’ve worked so hard to be what they expect. They love me. But what if they only love the version of me I’ve shaped myself into for them?
“Nope. Not even them, unless it’s a matter of making sure you’re safe to tell them. Do you think it would screw up your school funding for them to find out?”
“No? At least, I don’t think so. But they’re going to be… upset isn’t the right word. Disappointed, maybe? But not with me specifically. Just that they don’t have the perfect family they imagined. No more visions of Dad walking his little princess down the aisle and no more mother-daughter spa days that I silently loathed. That sort of thing.”
Jordie nods. “Yeah. I think my mom had a bit of that. And some confusion about what to replace those stereotypes with since it’s not like I was transitioning to an easily defined identity she understood and had a societal blueprint for. But she loves me more than her ideas about who I should be, so we got through it fine.”
“You think my folks will get over it?”
“I hope so,” Jordie slings an arm around me, “and if they don’t, then you can make a new family. But you don’t have to tell anyone about anything until you’re ready. You can take this as fast or slow as you want. There aren’t any rules or hard and fast timelines. And if you need to stay in the closet, I can use your deadname or a nickname and different pronouns for you around them. That is assuming I ever meet or interact with them.”
“I guess we’ll play it by ear on that,” I say.
Much as I appreciate the offer, everything in me rebels at the thought. I don’t want to hear my old name on Jordie’s lips. Not ever. Even if they know it from my school email address.
I still haven’t worked up the courage to ask the registrar about changing that. What if my family sees it? I need to be the one to tell them. That’s assuming I even can change it without a legal name change. Just thinking about all the logistics of transitioning makes me mildly panicky. Baby steps, and that one is way down the list.
Jordie hasn’t commented on my legal name, but I had to email them for a group project, so I know they’ve seen it. I let the subject drop and we talk about different clothing styles. Jordie grills me about what I like and don’t like as we turn onto a side street toward our next stop, a cool thrift shop.
I bite my lip and stare out over the racks of clothing, trying to work up the courage to step into the men’s section to shop for myself. It’s ridiculous that I can grab a shirt or something for my brothers, no problem, but picking out something for myself still seems taboo. I touch the velvety softness of my shorn scalp. I still have enough hair on the top to run my fingers through, but it feels like what I’ve always been told a boy’s hair should be. Every time my fingers find that instead of my long braid, joy bubbles up in my chest all over again. If I can take a boy’s haircut for myself, then I can take men’s clothes too. I can.
I stand hesitantly at the end of the racks, still trying to nerve myself up. Jordie clucks their tongue and asks for my sizes. I stammer out my shirt size with a hot flush. I only have a vague idea of my pant size, to the extent of getting hand-me-down loungewear from my brothers over the years. The sizing is way different for their jeans, so I only have a ballpark number there.
Jordie nods. “Okay. Let’s start with figuring your pants size first.”
They squint appraisingly at me, then march us to a section with roughly the right waist size. “Here, hold this to your hips.” They hand me a pair of ugly pants.
I do as they say, glancing dubiously at the corduroy fabric. Jordie snorts at my expression.
“Relax, I’m not saying you need to buy them, just looking for a size, sunshine.” They move to stand behind me and adjust my hands, smoothing the waistband of the pants flat against my body. I hold still, every nerve ending in my body tuned to how close Jordie is standing.
They guide my hands so gently, and I savor the touch. I know they’re just measuring where the outer seams of the new pants land. It means nothing. But with Jordie so close behind me and the pants tugged snug across my waist, I can almost trick myself into feeling like Jordie is hugging me from behind. Total swoony date move that has my heart pounding with want.
This isn’t a date, it’s just more proof that Jordie is an amazing friend. It’s still trippy to be this close to them. Almost impossible to deny that I’m more attached to them than I usually get with friends.
It could just be that I don’t know many people here and their kindness links them inextricably to so much gender euphoria that I’ve been starving to find. Regardless, I think about them all the time, and my emotions are definitely tilting more and more toward a hopeless crush. This outing and focused attention as they scrutinize my pants is adding fuel to that spark.
“Okay, so that’s about right for the waist, and I’m pretty sure we’re looking for a shorter inseam. Sorry.” Jordie steps back and I miss the warmth of them being so close. I turn to face them.
“Eh? I’m okay with being short.” I shrug. That’s the least of my dysphoria. It helps that my dad and brothers aren’t that much taller than me. Shortness runs in the family. “So, I just, pick stuff?”
“Yep, grab whatever speaks to you. Then we’ll take it to the fitting room to figure out a style that feels like you.” Jordie turns to the racks and runs their fingers over the section of clothing in my size. They start pulling out garments and draping them over their arm until I’m certain they can’t carry another thing. Jeans, khakis, t-shirts, button ups and more in all kinds of textures and patterns and prints.
“I don’t think I can wear that!” I protest when they grab a polo.
“No? You aren’t into the preppy look?” Jordie smirks at me. They slide the hanger back onto the rack and pick a colorful short-sleeved button up next, arching a questioning eyebrow at me. “How about this?”
“Maybe?” I lick my lips. “It’s not too bright?”
Jordie snorts and adds it to their pile. “Not as bright as you by half, sunshine. We’re going to try a little of everything and see what makes you smile. Sound alright?”
“Yeah.” I agree, licking my lips. Normally that would sound like torture, but I trust Jordie. I want to see myself looking like the guy I’ve been hiding under an uncomfortable cocoon of concealment.
When I’m with Jordie, I can’t wipe away my smile. And when Jordie smiles back at me, I don’t want to. They give me the courage to be Ray. Not just try on a name and pronouns that felt too impossible to ever really be mine, but to actually be myself for the world to see. I pick a few more items to try on, embracing this chance to figure out who I want to be.