Keen and astute observation of the world and people who inhabit it was a gift I was graced with from a very young age. I was an early bloomer. Memories of early childhood go back as far as my terrible twos. Complete sentences were formed around the same time, and my favorite book was a tie between the Oxford English Dictionary and the New York Times.
Doctors attribute this impressive toddler cognition to my extended stay in Mum's womb. After a few weeks of extra maturation past due date, it was decided a Cesarean section was necessary. If I wasn't coming out, they were going in after me. I was evicted by surgeon knife. I didn't go quietly.
Unfortunately the preschool percipience provided an unwanted side effect: an understanding and self-awareness of appearance. Turning to Mum and Dad as my role models of proper presentation wasn't enough, and because E! News didn't exist, I turned to my only other outlet: Walt Disney.
Cartoons weren't the first choice of a boy genius, but I played along to amuse my parents. Plopped in front of a TV, VCR rolling, I'd spend time examining the make-believe world and the ridiculous Disney creatures that inhabited it.
The study of Disney drew me to one obvious conclusion: eyelashes were the key in determining gender.
In a cartoon world where few wore pants and the unabashed had no shame in flaunting their "private areas," indication of gender was most easily taken by a character's eyelashes and their propensity to bat said lashes. If they had eyelashes, they were female. If they batted their lashes in a flirtatious manner, they were definitely female.
I was stunned. I had been lied to. I was living a sham.
Pants clearly were unnecessary, but more important was the horrific discovery that I had eyelashes and was clearly batting them with every blink. This little boy genius knew he was a boy, but cold the eyelashes also mean that I was some sort of mix? Perhaps some combination of man and woman. An in between gender.
Logically, I was a freak.
Scared and alone in the world, I did what any transgender four year-old would do: pick a side and commit. I was a boy, goddamnit, and I wasn't about to let some luscious girl lashes destroy my world.
Scissors were an obvious choice. The kindergarten shears with the round blades would allow me to trim up the unwanted eyelashes to a length deemed manly. I snatched the pair of mini scissors and calmly walked to the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror, however, I chickened out. Scissors? Eyeballs? These two clearly did not go well together.
The realization that I was more afraid of the scissors in my face than I was afraid of being a girl led me to the only plausible option left in my childish sex change arsenal. I would pluck the fuckers. While plucking wasn't enjoyable, it seemed like a more permanent fix. Perhaps the repeated pluck would also rip out the follicle and the lash would never grow again. Essentially extinguishing my femininity at the root.
The plucking process was long, arduous, painful, and lasted most of the afternoon. Breaks were necessary. Between plucking sessions, I'd admire my handiwork. I was truly looking more manly with each eyelash destroyed. Affirmation of manhood.
At around 5:30, Dad arrived home from his white-collar workday. He was greeted by his son. He was greeted by a man.
The family sat down for a well deserved dinner after a hard day's work. Dad coming home after a successful day of doing whatever the shit he did when he was gone, and me, busy at home, manning up.
But...wait...hang on...
I paused from my eating and examined my dad closely. Dad, he who embodies all that is man, had hair attached to his eyelid...like eyelashes...like me.
Relief.
Lessons to take away from my childhood traumatization: eyelashes do not determine gender and pants are unnecessary.
xoxo,
ShavedGolf
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