I don’t let many people see me with my hair down. Sometimes I look at my long hair and question my butch identity. How silly. How wrong.
Butch comes from my belly, deep down. Butch is the low center of gravity I carry in my walk. Butch is my hands grabbing your hips as you turn around. Butch is that feeling you have when you’re with me of being held. Butch is in my presence.
I am strong but not hard. I am vulnerable though sometimes wary. I am careful who I show myself to and when to let down my guard. When I trust, it is for life. When I love, it is deep and always even after one of us moves on.
So here is my hair – to be twisted in fingers, gathered behind my neck, to have hands lost in it cradling my skull.
Tell me never to cut it. Tell me never to let it fall on my shoulders unless I’m with you.