On How to Be a Girl

By the time I turned 40 I had a 10-year-old son, I had lost nearly 100 pounds and was at the beginning of what would be a 6-year decline of my marriage. I was in the best physical shape of my life, and in the midst of intense personal restlessness. I needed a change. So I cut my shoulder-plus length hair. I cut it very, very short rationalizing that it's practical and minimizes the gray. Reaction to this drastic change was mostly positive with some women saying they wish they had the nerve to cut their hair that short. Of course, there are always critics: I have been told the look is too masculine or opens my sexuality to question, or is just plain unattractive. But by far, the most interesting encounter I had was with a little girl in a laundromat. 

To set the scene, for the last decade and a half, my neighborhood has been in the throes of a demographic shift—ethnic enclaves are being displaced by young professionals from all over the country who are unable to afford to live in the city proper. But there are still many Greek, Italian, Latino, Indian, Asian, and Albanian families, all of which have deep-rooted gender identity rules for both appearance and role that are passed, if diluted, from one generation to the next.

I breezed into my local laundromat to put in one last load of wash. A little girl was sitting on a window sill next to a pair of small load machines while her mother folded a clothes fresh out of the dryer. The child was of Hispanic descent and probably around 5 years old, with big brown eyes and slightly longer than shoulder length hair with bangs. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a pink shirt. As soon as she saw me, she asked me if I was a girl in that unselfconscious way that only a child get away with violating the most egregious bounds of etiquette. You just can't get mad at it—even if it WAS the third time in that week I had to defend my appearance. So I curbed my tongue and checked my tone. I assured her that I was indeed a girl, removing my jacket to make myself more visible. The conversation continued...

"Well, why do you have short hair?"

"I cut it short so that it isn't in the way when I exercise."

"But boys have short hair."

"Yes, they do. But girls can have short hair too." 

Once I started, I couldn't stop: "There is no one right way to be a girl. Girls can have long hair or short hair. Girls can have muscles or not have muscles. Girls can become moms or not become moms. They can go to work or they can stay home. There are many, many ways to be a girl. You get to choose what kind of girl you want to be. No one can tell you how to be a girl."

Then I asked her, "Do boys sometimes have long hair?"

"Yes."

"Does that make them girls?"

"No."

"No, it doesn't. It makes them boys with long hair. Just like I am a girl with short hair. More than one way to be a girl, and you get to choose how."

I was speaking very softly while I worked next to this girl. I didn't want to scare her, and I didn't want her called away until I was finished.

"You can do anything a boy can do if you want to. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't. I have short hair. I am a mom. I am strong. I am the kind of girl I want to be. I chose. Always remember you can choose."

Her mother was either finished folding or had an inkling that we were talking and came to investigate. I assured her that we were fine. The child was not bothering me. Isn't it funny that as parents, we assume that our children are annoying another adult with whom they are interacting? I finished loading the machine, put in soap and quarters, and went back upstairs.

r.