Tres chic

In part, my mother calls to ask whether Amber is nonbinary. The clue is not that I had written as much here -- no one reads this site, not even you -- but that I referred to Amber as "they" once during a call.

I confirm this. Gender is not my mother's favorite topic; she would rather it avoid her family. Already, my nibling Alieyah decided he was Elijah -- though he persists in presenting as distinctly feminine. At least I can say that Amber is keeping their given name.

I text a friend that my mother found out my spouse is an enby. Now Amber is going to get their hair -- nine years of growth and over a foot -- lopped off. On Sunday, we are having dinner with my family.

Of course, I accidentally send this to my mother, spoiling the surprise. I double down, which is the only way with her.

Amber's short hair is not wholly gender confirmative. They will spend one morning of our Ithaca trip at a scientific conference and think they will be taken less seriously with flowing locks. I disagree -- what inspires more confidence than a bun? -- but it is not my head or presumptive doctoral program, so I am not given a vote.

In the past, a partner cutting their hair short had been the first volley of a soft breakup. Coupling this with Amber requesting their pronouns shifted from "she/they" to only "they" has a greater potential for worry. They are presently not enforcing their pronouns at work but will socially -- mostly with me so far, as I am good practice. All this could mean their preference in partners might likewise alter -- it probably won't, but it might.

They have always been pansexual, but their practical experience with women was constrained to the era and style of high school, thoroughly above the belt.

Granted, Amber went pixie early in our relationship and still had shorter (but not short) hair at our wedding. They seemed to like me well enough at these points, but they were not then on the cusp of a sea change via a doctoral program; now would be the time for another drastic shift and a clean start.

I dreamt in the early morning that they kept changing until they were no longer someone I could love, becoming male and terse. I do not mind the haircut but I do not love the dream of choosing it as a symbol.

The salon's songs are about girls having fun, the time of their lives, or only loving when you let them go.

The stylist hears what Amber wants. She openly resists, repeatedly asking Amber if they are sure they want to do this, counseling them that they do not need to and could have something less severe. Amber insists. The stylist then asks if I want to snip off Amber's braid. I state I do not wish to participate.

A few cuts later and Amber has a bob, which looks great on them.

This will not stand, though the stylist tries. Bobs are too feminine.

The stylist keeps snipping, though she still acts like she is taking an Exacto to a Cezanne.

The stylist asks again if it is short enough. It is not.

Amber finally rules they have been mutilated enough and lets the poor woman stop.

And Amber is beautiful, as they always are to me. Their hair is boyish, and they hope it is androgynous as well as professional. For this latter quality, they eschewed an undercut. They may not next time.

The stylist says not every woman can pull this off -- it is not as though she asked Amber's pronouns -- but my partner can. Their androgyny cannot divorce itself from femininity -- they are cute no matter what, even when they dress masc.

Smelling different -- the soft powder scent of a proper haircut -- Amber is as though a new person. My bodily demand is to get them in my bedroom. Instead, I buy them a bagel sandwich, which we eat while watching a forgettable show on streaming. I refuse to let them go far, wishing to nuzzle their lovely short hair.

last watched: True Blood
reading: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell