Twelve and Sure: A Trans Boy’s First Short Haircut

By Owen

Mom asked if I wanted to bring a picture.

I said I already had one.

Actually, I had eleven. They were saved on her old phone, which I use for games and taking pictures of our dog. Most were almost the same haircut. Short on the sides, longer on top. Nothing fancy.

I picked one where the guy wasn’t making a weird face.

“That one,” I said.

Mom looked at it, then at me.

“Okay.”

I’d expected more questions. She’d already asked plenty: Did I want it that short? Did I know it would look different? Was I nervous?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Being nervous didn’t mean I didn’t want it.

My name is Owen. I’m twelve. I live in Minnesota. I’m a boy, and I wanted a haircut that didn’t make me feel like I had to explain that before anybody even said hello.

Everybody Had an Opinion

Before the appointment, my hair went past my shoulders.

People liked it. That was part of the problem.

Adults would say, “Such beautiful hair,” and then look at me like I was supposed to say thank you. So I did.

My grandma liked to brush it when I stayed at her house. She was gentle about tangles. I liked sitting with her, especially when she told stories about my dad being annoying as a kid.

I didn’t like the hair part.

Those are two different things, but I didn’t know how to say that without making her sad.

At school, I wore it tied back. During gym, pieces came loose and stuck to my face. In winter, it got caught inside my coat zipper. Once, someone behind me on the bus pulled my ponytail—not hard, but enough that I turned around.

He said he was just joking.

I hated how much I thought about it. Other people could forget their hair existed. Mine kept showing up.

When I first asked to cut it short, Mom said we could look at styles.

I said I already had.

Then she said we should think about it.

I said I already had.

I don’t think she understood how long “already” meant.

Being Sure

People ask how I know I’m a boy.

I don’t always have a good answer. Not because I’m confused. Because it’s a weird question.

How do you explain something that feels normal inside your head when everybody else keeps making it a big thing?

I know I like hearing “Owen.”

I know that when my friend says, “He’s on my team,” I don’t have to stop and fix anything in my brain.

I know that being called somebody’s daughter feels wrong, even when the person saying it loves me.

I’m not sure about everything. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. Last month I wanted to make video games. Now I’m thinking about working with animals, except I don’t want to do the surgery part.

I change my mind about normal stuff all the time.

That doesn’t mean every part of me is a guess.

My hair wasn’t going to prove I was a boy. Boys can have long hair. I know that.

I just didn’t want mine.

The Chair

The salon smelled like shampoo and something hot.

There was a stack of magazines nobody my age would read. Mom checked us in while I looked at a shelf of bottles that cost more than I thought shampoo should cost.

When the stylist called my name, she said, “Owen?”

I stood up really fast.

She asked what I wanted, and I showed her the picture. She looked at it properly. Not just a quick glance.

“Short around the ears, with some length up here?”

“Yeah.”

She asked a couple more questions. I answered them. Then she put the cape around me, and suddenly my hands were underneath it with nothing to do.

Mom sat in a chair nearby.

The stylist gathered a section of my hair.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

The first cut sounded louder than I expected.

She set the hair aside, and I watched it instead of looking in the mirror.

I’d imagined that part a hundred times. In my imagination, I was always smiling right away.

In real life, I mostly thought: That’s a lot of hair.

Then she kept cutting.

Looking Up

For a while, it looked terrible.

Nobody tells you about the middle part of a haircut.

One side was shorter than the other. The top stuck out. There were little pieces everywhere. I started worrying that I’d picked a haircut that only worked on the guy in the picture.

Then the stylist used the clippers.

They buzzed near my ear, and I tried really hard not to move. My neck felt weird with air touching it.

She brushed off the loose hair, did something to the front, and turned the chair a little.

“What do you think?”

I looked.

Then I leaned forward.

My ears stuck out more than I remembered. There was a spot near the front that wouldn’t stay down. I looked younger than the guy in the picture.

Obviously. He was probably twenty.

But I liked it.

I liked it so much that I didn’t know what to say.

“Good,” I told her.

Mom asked, “Good good?”

I nodded.

She smiled. I could see her in the mirror behind me.

I didn’t cry. I don’t think you have to cry for something to matter.

I just kept looking.

Afterward

Outside, the wind hit the back of my head.

That was strange.

I kept touching the short part until Mom told me I was going to get little hairs all over the car. There were already little hairs all over the car.

We stopped for lunch. The person at the counter asked, “What can I get you, buddy?”

Maybe he calls everybody buddy.

I still liked it.

Mom took a picture of me holding my drink. Usually I ask her not to post pictures without showing me first. This time, I asked her to send it to me.

I sent it to my best friend.

He wrote, FINALLY.

Then he asked if I could play later.

That was probably my favorite reaction.

Monday

I was nervous about school.

Wanting the haircut didn’t mean I wanted everybody staring at it.

Some people said it looked good. One person asked why I’d cut off so much.

“Because I wanted to,” I said.

That answer worked better than I expected.

There were still people who used the wrong name. My haircut didn’t fix everything. I hadn’t really thought it would, but a tiny part of me had hoped.

At lunch, my friend moved his backpack so I could sit down. We argued about a game. Somebody spilled chocolate milk.

It was a normal day with one really good thing in it.

Later, Grandma called. Mom handed me the phone.

“I saw your picture,” she said.

I waited.

“You look happy.”

“I am.”

We talked about the dog after that.

I know there are more conversations coming. Adults are very good at finding another conversation.

But that night, I brushed my teeth and checked the back of my head with Mom’s little mirror. I tried pushing the front in different directions. None of them looked exactly like the picture.

I liked my version better.

Before bed, Mom asked if I was still happy with it.

“Yep.”

She said good night and called me Owen.

I turned off the light.

This story is a work of fiction inspired by real experiences. Its characters, dialogue, and events have been fictionalized and should not be read as a factual account of any individual’s life.