Lesbian Short Haired
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Lesbian Short Haired
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Why is short hair for women considered being a lesbian?
percussionist, pianist, contralto · Author has 1.3K answers and 6.9M answer views · 3 y ·
I'm a lesbian who is attracted only to girls with short hair. Is this normal?
I'm 13, straight, and I want a pixie cut, but I don't think my parents will let me get one. I have a cousin who has a pixie cut, and she's gay. I don't want them to think I want one because of her. Will a pixie cut make me look like a lesbian?
Will people think you are a lesbian with short hair?
If you see a woman with really short hair, do you automatically assume she's a lesbian?
As a lesbian, I am not attracted to girls with boy-cut hair. They remind too much of a man and I feel weird thinking that. Can anyone tell me more about this mindset? I'll take anything.
I'm a lesbian who is attracted only to girls with short hair. Is this normal?
I'm 13, straight, and I want a pixie cut, but I don't think my parents will let me get one. I have a cousin who has a pixie cut, and she's gay. I don't want them to think I want one because of her. Will a pixie cut make me look like a lesbian?
Will people think you are a lesbian with short hair?
If you see a woman with really short hair, do you automatically assume she's a lesbian?
As a lesbian, I am not attracted to girls with boy-cut hair. They remind too much of a man and I feel weird thinking that. Can anyone tell me more about this mindset? I'll take anything.
Do teenage boys actually care if a girl has a short hair? I have a short hair and it seems as though every boy I’ve met thinks I’m a lesbian (I’m bisexual).
Why do many lesbians, not all, feel it is necessary to have short haircuts? You can still have long hair and be a lesbian.
Is it true that men who prefer short hair on women more likely to be bisexual?
Why is a younger girl with short hair assumed to be a lesbian, yet it's not assumed for older women who cut their hair short?
Are lesbians attracted to women with short hair and round faces?
Do lesbians find girls with short hair that are bottoms attractive?
I love my pixie cut, it is very flattering. But, many people assume that I am a lesbian. Is there anything I can do to stop this perception of me?
If you are a lesbian, what do you like about women?
Should gay people be allowed to get a short hair cut?
If a girl cuts her hair short does that mean she's a lesbian?
I'm a lesbian who is attracted only to girls with short hair. Is this normal?
I'm 13, straight, and I want a pixie cut, but I don't think my parents will let me get one. I have a cousin who has a pixie cut, and she's gay. I don't want them to think I want one because of her. Will a pixie cut make me look like a lesbian?
Will people think you are a lesbian with short hair?
If you see a woman with really short hair, do you automatically assume she's a lesbian?
As a lesbian, I am not attracted to girls with boy-cut hair. They remind too much of a man and I feel weird thinking that. Can anyone tell me more about this mindset? I'll take anything.
Do teenage boys actually care if a girl has a short hair? I have a short hair and it seems as though every boy I’ve met thinks I’m a lesbian (I’m bisexual).
Why do many lesbians, not all, feel it is necessary to have short haircuts? You can still have long hair and be a lesbian.
Is it true that men who prefer short hair on women more likely to be bisexual?
Why is a younger girl with short hair assumed to be a lesbian, yet it's not assumed for older women who cut their hair short?
Are lesbians attracted to women with short hair and round faces?
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Speaking as a woman with very short hair, no. And if “people” (whoever those people are) do think women with short hair must all be lesbians, they really shouldn’t. Women with short hair are just… women with short hair. Some short-haired women have young children who grab and pull long hair (ouch). Some women with short hair are, shall we say, of a certain age , and their hair just doesn’t look very good when grown out anymore. Some women with short hair have jobs where long hair is a hazard. Probably, most women with short hair just prefer having their hair short for reasons largely unrelated
Speaking as a woman with very short hair, no. And if “people” (whoever those people are) do think women with short hair must all be lesbians, they really shouldn’t. Women with short hair are just… women with short hair. Some short-haired women have young children who grab and pull long hair (ouch). Some women with short hair are, shall we say, of a certain age , and their hair just doesn’t look very good when grown out anymore. Some women with short hair have jobs where long hair is a hazard. Probably, most women with short hair just prefer having their hair short for reasons largely unrelated to their sexuality.
I can tell you one thing: having short hair has certainly cut down on the amount of predatory and threatening male attention I get, probably for exactly the stereotypical reasoning you used in your question. Thank goodness for that silver lining. But assuming we’re all lesbians? My husband would certainly be very surprised.
The assumption is: people with short hair sleep with women, people with long hair sleep with men. Therefore long haired men must be gay, and short haired women must be lesbians.
"I was desperate to find a sense of belonging in my new identity — what newly out queer teen hasn’t felt that pang of desperation?"
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In 1987, I won the blue ribbon in the Mason County Fair’s Pretty Baby Contest. This big win became part of my family’s lore, my parents often reminding me that, at 18 months old, I was the most beautiful girl in the county. Hell, in all of West Virginia, as far as they were concerned.
As a teenager, bored and flipping through family photo albums in an attempt to “find myself,” what I found was the photograph of my mother holding me up like a prize-winning blueberry pie, on stage in a wood-paneled room at the Pretty Baby Contest. I noticed her hair. Her wild, copper curls were cropped short on top, while the back hung down long, just below her shoulders. An obnoxious teenager deeply concerned with what I thought was the most humiliating haircut anyone could dream of sporting — the mullet — I screeched, “Mom! Oh my God! When I was a baby you had a lesbian haircut !” Her response to my outrage over her late-'80s style unlocked another level of family lore, one that I only began to understand when I grew older, into my own romantic entanglements and the conflicts that punctuate them: “I got that haircut to piss off your father,” my mother explained.
I grew up in a yelling household. You could say very nicely that we loved each other at a high volume, but the truth is that we all yelled out our anger. In 1987, just before the social event of the summer — the Mason County Fair — my parents got into an argument and my father called my mother a “bitch” for the first and the last time. Instead of yelling, she stormed out of the house, straight to the local beauty parlor, where she told her beautician to make her look “like a bitch.” She wanted a bitch haircut : a mullet. “I’ll show you a bitch,” she mumbled, tapping the photograph, her rage reignited by the storytelling.
“It was a lesbian haircut, mom,” I said, rolling my eyes and sliding the photograph back into place behind the photo album cellophane.
A few years after I learned the story of my mother’s mullet, I was desperate for a lesbian haircut of my own. Not a business in the front, party in the rear mullet: God, no. What I wanted was a short, edgy haircut. A haircut that would get me mistaken for the lead singer in a riot grrrl band. I came out as gay at 16, in 2001, in a small West Virginia town. Without many queer women around to model identity, the only way I knew how spot other gay girls was by their haircuts. I lusted over the girl with the curly bowl cut who worked in the milkshake shop a few towns over. No matter how many chocolate banana shakes I sucked down, I was convinced she would never notice me unless I chopped off my long, brunette cheerleader locks. To truly be seen as a lesbian, I would need a lesbian haircut.
I floated the idea of cutting my hair to my gay male friend, and he vehemently objected: “You can be gay without looking like a boy!” For the record, he was right: There are as many ways to look like a lesbian as there are lesbians serving looks. If he was secretly trying to protect me, he was also right: There would be trouble for me if I suddenly looked like a boy. But his protests were marred by internalized homophobia, and I rejected them outright.
I was desperate to find a sense of belonging in my new identity — what newly out queer teen hasn’t felt that pang of desperation — and so I was determined to see it go. The hair I pulled up into a ponytail and tied with a bow, the finishing touch of my high school cheerleading uniform. The hair that boys had tugged on in middle school, when they were trying to figure out how to flirt. I wanted to see it lying on the floor behind me as I walked out of the salon a new person: A queer one.
I couldn’t go to the beauty shop in my hometown, where the stylist had been cutting my hair — and my mom’s, my grandmothers’, and all of my cousins’ — since I was in elementary school. If I walked into “Foxy Locks” and asked for a lesbian haircut, they would have probably called my mother, with whom I hadn’t shared my plans for transformation. Instead, I drove to a shopping mall a couple of hours from my house. I had noticed some gay men working in the salon a few doors down from the American Eagle where my mom had taken me back-to-school shopping a few months prior. The gay stylists looked fierce: with their indoor sunglasses and impeccable facial hair, they looked like they put more thought into their style than all of the adults I knew combined.
When I walked in, there were no fabulous gay men on the shift. A polite female stylist approached to ask how she could help me, and I held myself back from blurting out, “Just give me a lesbian haircut!” Instead, I sheepishly held out the album art from lesbian indie pop duo Tegan and Sara’s This Business of Art , my favorite CD released in 2000. I said that I wanted what these girls had: hair short and spiked. One of the twins had frosted tips, but I couldn’t afford that.
I could barely breathe as the polite female stylist cut nearly a foot of hair off my head and asked if I wanted to donate it to Locks of Love: the only reason she could imagine that a 16-year-old girl would chop off her hair. When she paused in her snipping to answer the phone — the receptionist likely out on a smoke break — I bent down and grabbed a handful off the floor. I almost started crying, not out of regret, but out of relief.
After hot irons and blow dryers and what felt like half a can of aerosol hairspray, the polite stylist spun me around to the mirror, and my tears dropped hot onto the smock. She had given me a version of the haircut that both my grandmothers got at Foxy Locks: A teased bouffant of elderly heterosexuality sat atop my 16-year-old queer head.
A two-hour drive home and a vigorous shampoo later, I stepped in front of my bedroom mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors and, through the tears, started chopping at what was left of my hair. That Tegan and Sara CD became more than the inspiration for my haircut; it became the soundtrack of my emergence into queer style. A bit of pomade to tame my cowlicks and some gel to spike the hair at all the right angles, and I emerged, visibly queer. I dug my fingers into my scalp and felt cooler than I ever had before.
In Los Angeles, two decades after my mom told me the story of her lesbian haircut, I walk into a salon that describes itself as a place for “dames, gents, and folks in between.” I tell my stylist that I want my hair cut like Jenny Schecter from The L Word and she knows exactly what I mean. Infamous Showtime drama The L Word (2004-2009), following the lives and loves of a group of Los Angeles lesbians — very few of whom had stereotypical lesbian haircuts — tackled the rite of passage in an episode in which a character who formerly identified as heterosexual, Jenny Schecter, loses her long, dark hair, and was thus initiated into lesbian chic. Like myself at 16, Jenny wishes to be visibly read as a lesbian. She asks her straight male roommate Mark if he thought she looked gay or straight. His response: “If I saw you at a bar I would assume you were straight.” But how could he tell when women were lesbians, Jenny asks. “They have these haircuts. These very cool haircuts.”
When I got my lesbian haircut, the smiles that strangers had once given me on sidewalks became dirty looks. People whispered when I walked into women’s restrooms. There were homophobic remarks hurled from car windows, and from my father’s recliner in the family room.
Coming out in a small town taught me many things, including the high price we pay for queer visibility. It cost me a lot, but I also had much to gain. Including finally catching the eye of that cute girl with the bowl cut who worked at the milkshake shop a few towns over.
Today, it’s not obvious that I have a lesbian haircut. My hair is long, and straight, and I dye it brown to postpone the silvery salt and pepper that has crept in. I will keep dyeing it, I tell myself, at least into my forties. I have blunt bangs — just like Jenny Schecter — cut squarely across my forehead. I make the L Word -esque joke that they are my way of procrastinating on the Botox I’ll eventually inject into my forehead, hiding the lines that seem to deepen every time I think to check, alone with myself in front of the bathroom mirror. But when I was 16, feeling isolated as a queer in a small town, I drew strength from knowing that with my lesbian haircut, I was part of something bigger than myself. I was part of a community, and that, even more than the girl at the milkshake shop, was exactly what I needed.
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