Barbershop

I know I’m due for a haircut when the gender dysphoria and the bedhead start to get bad. I’ve been putting off my next haircut, too, because I got “she/her”d through my last one. I finally tried putting in a request at the local LGBT salon for Jen, but I’ve never been, and my hopes are low.

I find free parking—a blessing on LA streets—and walk up to Folklore, where I push open a glass door with a rainbow flag hanging inside. There’s a low couch and chair with a coffee table, a row of barber chairs and mirrors, and some merch and hair products for sale. I’m greeted by an alternative queer with a mullet, stretched ears, and tattooed arms.

“Hi. I’m Dakota,” I say. “I have a 7:00 with Jen?” I hate how it comes out as a question, but whatever.

“She’s in the back. She’ll be right with you.”

“Thanks.”

I take a closer look at the merch while I wait, and I see they’re selling Tom of Finland buttons and Daddy socks. Tempting.

“Dakota?” I hear. I turn around and lock my gaze with the hottest silver fox I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s probably in her forties, broad-shouldered, wearing a tight black T-shirt, cuffed dark blue Levi 511s, redwing boots, and a barber’s apron. In the second that I stare at her, I explode into a thousand stars, and an enormous hole in the floor swallows me.

I gulp. “That’s me.”

“Jen. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I managed to say, putting one word in front of the other successfully. I feel like I’m doing a sobriety test on the side of the road, and I just passed the walking portion.

I sit in the chair, and she drapes the apron over me, wrapping one of those little pieces of paper around my neck and fastening the apron. “Comfortable?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“You can breathe? I don’t want you fainting on me.” I wonder if that’s happened before or if she just senses how fucking nervous I am.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, offering a small smile.

“So what are we doing today, Dakota?” she asks me as she rests her hands on my shoulders, looking at me in the mirror.

My thoughts stutter and stop and fall out of my head. I have nothing to say.

“Um… ah…” I stammer. Fuck. “I, uh, want a fade from a 1 to a 3 on the sides, all the way up the part, but no hard part. And a trim of like half an inch off the top?”

God dammit. Another question instead of a sentence. I hate it. I’m trying to work on it.

She runs her hands through the top of my hair, and I almost shiver. “Sounds good, my man. Let’s get started.”

And God bless her, she doesn’t make small talk with me. I’m bad at small talk in the best of circumstances, and being nervous and stammering because my hairdresser is the hottest butch I’ve seen since moving to Los Angeles would not help. She focuses on the haircut.

I focus on her.

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