I should not at all be surprised at how superficial men can be. After all, I am a man and it therefore must follow that I occasionally suffer from the same debilitating lack of judgment, my brain cells impaired by that pesky y-chromosome, my neurons puttputting along in a valiant attempt to fire off and allow me to make sense of my environment. D'uuuuh . . . shiny!The circumstance that has brought these thoughts to the forefront of my testosterone-addled brain – true intellect is always lurking back there somewhere in the fogs of pornography and . . . um, well nothing else, if truth be told . . . that pass as thought processes in my noggin – is the amount of male attention I have received since yesterday morning. I used to have no problem whatsoever with male attention. In fact, I enjoyed it when it was welcome and I had absolutely no difficulties sending unwanted gentleman callers on their merry way. I suffer some terrible stage fright, which was a problem when I was a musician, but I would enjoy walking down Church Street, noticing the heads are swivelling my way and remaining there. But aside from my Cabbagetown adventure, I hadn't been experiencing so much of it recently. Until yesterday morning at approximately 10:17AM, that is.
10:17AM is approximately the time when the clippers starting mowing off my gorgeous, ever-expanding locks, leaving me with 1mm on the sides and back and 1.5mm on the top. The greenhouse on my head was just too much for my poor delicate composition. Now I look exactly like the handsome young gentleman to the left of these words. Why is it that I keep finding pictures of myself on Swedish soccer sites? I'm no soccer star. OK, I don't really look like Olof Malleberg (thanks SparkleMpls for bringing him to my attention, by the way). I look more like I've just joined the Israeli army (I cannot imagine myself joining any army, by the way). But the lack of distracting tresses all every which way on and around my head shows – and it grieves me to write this stereotype – my nose to be somewhat more prominent than I had remembered. Plus, the sun has managed to break through the layers of sunscreen I slather onto every square nanometre of my exposed skin and my summer colouring does indeed appear to point to some ancient Middle Eastern origin.
In any case, I digress as usual. My walk to the Starfucks's after my Samson impression was an eye-opening one. Men whose gaze used to go right through me when I had a nice early-70s moptop going now observed me predatorily. Little did they know that I was impervious to their powers of trash and smut. Months as an ugly duckling have reminded me that there is attention and then there is attention. Those who found me undesirable when my hair didn't fit an unwritten Queer Eye norm do not become more attractive to me simply because I pass evening gown contest in a silly beauty contast, all because my hair is now acceptable for a gay man. It's just hair.Only one day later and I find it inconceivable that I, a strong-willed, independent person such as I am, should have ever regretted lack of attention from these self-centred bozos. But I wonder how many intriguing guys I've glossed over simply because I didn't like their hair or clothes. Stupid y-chromosome. D'uuuuuuh . . . pretty!
