Moving Past My Trans Obsession with Feeling Fake in All I Do
A selfie-driven reevaluation of wigs and social media as performance
Fat thumb pressing against my phone repeatedly, I lose count of how many pictures I take. I crane my neck a little to the left — snap. My chin tilts to the right — snap. I pull my phone back, searching for a new angle to obscure my edges — snap.
I am the modern-day transgender Narcissus, enraptured with my reflection.
Hair adorning my head is a foreign sight. Even when it grew naturally, before the onset of baldness, it never draped near a quarter as long: strands dangling down my face, one eye covered.
Brown? Dirty blonde? Brown with blonde highlights? My friends discuss, unable to determine the precise shade while my mind wanders to Samara from The Ring. I’m not planning to contortionist out of a TV screen anytime soon or scale the inside of a well, nor do I look like a demon, but I’m reminded of how her hair waterfalls down, obscuring her face.
Despite my wild comparison, I feel pretty — undeniably so.
When my friend Jake said his mom was off-loading some old wigs, skepticism was my immediate response. These were quality, real hair and all, he assured me —and I had first dibs. Surface logic dictates…
