Bought at a thrift shop in SoHo a year before I started hormones, my hair was short at the time, just barely qualifying as a bob; I wore it slicked back, apart from two curls that fell on either side of my temples. I had been growing it out for six months since I last shaved my head. Before this, I had a ritual of buzz-cutting my hair whenever something bad happened to me. I would cut myself as well, an odd habit (I thought) to adopt at the age of 22, but I think anyone can find themselves at odds with their circumstance in such a way that motivates self-harm; this just happens to be most often the plight of adolescents. I was self-conscious about the idea that cutting was a childish thing to do, or at least something children do. Despite being a child still, standing at the precipice of a physiological shift that would change my life. Six months was a long time for me to go without a set of clippers. At this point, I knew I wanted to be a woman, but I just had no real conception of what that meant. I had a rudimentary understanding of my femininity, and using the blunt side of my desire, I fashioned a version of myself that felt manageable. This included a lot of pink, because: it's the girl's color. I don't wear much pink today. I mostly gravitate towards earth tones, and I also have nice tits.