An Experience Buying Male Clothing as a Woman
I’m a 500 foot lesbian. I mean that in the sense that between the masculine clothing and short haircut, that I can be identified or labeled a few blocks out pretty easily. I’ve taken the unsuspected “DYKE” from passing cars and felt the immediate double-triple take as pedestrians decide my gender in close proximity.
I carry a dapper swagger and my sense of aesthetic and style is a confident point for me. I wear men’s clothing — button downs of multiple textures, colors, textiles, and cuts. I accessorize with neck scarves, bow ties, pocket squares, three pieces, and suspenders.
Throw a hipster hat on top and you probably have a pretty good assumption of me.
I shop at this lovely place, Jack London (Ladies, they tailor slim). It’s a small shop within walking distance in the heart of the Lesbian neighborhood I live next to — it is less common to see a straight couple on the streets than anyone from the colorful LGBTQ+ community; which makes this particular experience all the more odd. People expect gays in this neighborhood, that’s the reputation.
While inside, the manager and consultant is assisting me — lovely man that didn’t miss a beat when a lesbian came into his shop. I love this guy. I’ve felt the cold sting of rejection in the past shopping in men exclusive sections of stores.
Judgmental clicks of tongues and averted eyes as store clerks tut around tying to busy themselves and look everywhere but at you. It’s not uncommon in my experiences.
But not here. Here we’re in a heated debate of pairing two loud patterns and brilliant colors together while layering textures. He’s edging me closer to rock and roll than my hipster pallet wants to consider and is pushing back more extreme pieces that he thinks I can pull off.
I’m straightening my tie when I tap my eyes against the mirror to smile at the customer next to me. He’s a broad shouldered bald man with a dominant upper body and unshaven face. He’s examining a gorgeous dark cerulean suit with mustard accents.
“That’s a beautiful suit, it looks wonderful on you,” is my comment. He observes me a moment, but says nothing — his facial hair hiding any expression.
He then exits to the main floor.
My partner can hide in plain sight from accusation but not appreciation. She’s a stunning red headed slip of a girl with long thick hair and full thick lips. She looks straight. And is wandering the floor while I change in the back.
Outside my hearing she witnesses the bald gentlemen approach the full length mirror and the store manager.
“Why do dykes have to cut their hair so short?”
He means it not in misplaced curiosity poorly phrased. What seemed like a neutral interaction with me in the back room reflects much more vile in my partner’s eyes. The way he pushed the words through his grin and a cocked head my direction.
The manager looked taken aback but didn’t waste time with his response: “It’s an aesthetic, and we’re in a shop to appreciate and personalize that.”
Tactful. Quick. The dispute is closed and the man retreats without another word on topic, exiting the store soon after. And I’m none the wiser.
In fact, I bullshit with the manager for another 30 minutes before finally leaving. It’s only outside and around the corner that my partner finally reveals what she witnessed.
I’m disappointed.
It’s an unnatural feeling to express when your assumed security is a lie. I felt safe in that store — and as overly sensitive as that suggests, it really was an anxiety ridden experience upon initially entering. I assumed I would be judged and ignored. Gawked at by side glances and stiff expressions.
Instead I found an environment of rich collaboration and appreciation with good conversation and better results. It had lulled me into a false sense of security that upon hearing of something, even so slight, it slapped me across the face with the reminder that I should have expected it.
And then I got angry.
And I am so tired of feeling angry.
People have grown complacent in our social progress, not in retrospect to all the conservative countries that pose dangerous threats to LGBTQ+ communities — and that is in no means trying to distract or minimize their very real and horrific struggles.
But people have gotten complacent in places that have legalized rights. Where comments like that still happen, and worse, and no one suspects. “It’s 2016,” we say, “that doesn’t happen anymore.”
Bigoted comments are the exception, not the rule. But in my current country, civil rights is still called “gay marriage” on the radio.
It seems random and disconnected and an overreaction. But I’m angry at the confidence in that gentleman to think he could make me the butt of his joke and share a laugh with a stranger. Because his confidence to do that destroys my confidence to look in the mirror and ask:
“Is my hair too short?”
