It had been nearly a month since schools had closed when my mamá helped me shave my head. I was starting my junior year of high school—it didn't take long for me to fall into the habit of school, excited to get what many called the hardest year of schooling over with. I tried to ignore my papá’s paranoia about COVID as it slowly made its way across other countries. Surely it wouldn’t reach us.

The first case in Chile was discovered just north of where I live. It took the government twelve days to suspend classes indefinitely, and we were thrown into online classes without the infrastructure for them—too many children didn’t have internet access, too many teachers didn’t know how to teach online, too many parents were left confused and stressed by the situation. The unprecedented times became more precedented as the months passed.

The sudden isolation made me anxious. It wasn’t that I was a very social person at school—much the opposite—but I needed to see people everyday. Hear their jokes and watch them while still being isolated on my own terms—not because a pandemic was kicking off into full gear. Being left alone also meant dealing with my gender alone.

I was semi-closeted at school, but still treated like a girl, although almost everyone knew I was weird gender-wise because I made no effort to hide it. On top of that, Spanish constantly required me to misgender myself, and I was exhausted. I still had to use my deadname during online classes, of course, but because the rules around keeping our cameras on were hazy at best, I knew I wouldn’t be seen too much, and I thought about shaving my head more and more.

I’d had very short hair since mid-2015, when I was eleven going on twelve, and just exploring what being trans and/or nonbinary meant for me. I’d never dared to shave my head; I have a very round face—something I hope will change once I start testosterone—and I wasn’t ready for such an unmistakably masculine thing while still halfway in the closet. The idea stuck around though, for two reasons: I was curious about how it’d look and about the sensation of a buzz cut’s texture. I’ve had my sides shaved before, and as an autistic person, I always found the fuzziness of it to be absolute sensory heaven. I could touch it all day long. I hoped, if I did shave my head, that I could have that same experience again as it grew out.

I asked my parents about it, and they agreed. I was quite excited, not having expected such acceptance of the idea; my papá even suggested that he should shave his head, too. Mamá took me to her bathroom and used Papá’s clippers to shave my head. My thick hair made it a lengthy process, even though it was short. As she buzzed my head, bits and pieces of hair fell onto the floor, and we laughed and teased each other as she worked. Halfway through, the clippers shut off—they’d run out of battery. I looked into the mirror for the first time since she’d started, and saw a complete mess—half-shaven, with tufts of hair remaining. It was a rebirth to see myself like that; a little mess of gender expression that wasn’t quite masculine yet. Like I’d finally made a real choice with my body, one I was happy with. I’d only felt this way one other time—it was my first short haircut six years ago; that awkward pixie cut so many transmasculine people go through.

Mamá plugged the clippers in to recharge and let me live for a little while, telling me to wait an hour or so before we picked it back up. I told my friends excitedly about shaving my head, how there was some buzz already. The hour passed quickly, and before I knew it, I had my head tilted over the sink again, and Mamá worked through the remnants of my hair. Looking back, the clipper’s guard was too short—instead of leaving me with a nice buzz, I was left as bald as I was born. We laughed at the sight of me, and I took photos, but I was suddenly self-conscious about my ears, which I had never really noticed until then, the way they stuck out a little. I joked about it with my parents and my boyfriend; I went online and sent my friends selfies. Jokes abounded, well-meaning, of course—you look like an egg, or like this meme, and on and on, and even though it got to me a little, I was happy that I finally did what I had been thinking about doing for years now.

Papá told me I looked like an actor that shaved his head for a role; he couldn’t remember his name, but it was still wildly euphoric to be compared to a famous cis man by my papá without a hint of sarcasm, of irony, of comedy. Moments where I was affirmed made me feel safer, more comfortable. Being accepted like that, being told sure, you look like a man, was rewarding after years of half-hearted support. The work from coming out at twelve has been an uphill climb—like my parents gently making fun of me when I nearly cried over being gendered correctly after my first short haircut.

For days after Mamá had cut my hair, I watched it grow; it was at the perfect texture three days in. It had just the right amount of fuzz; the stimming possibilities with it were amazing, and I was sad to see it grow more. I wanted to keep it in that perfect place forever. I did enjoy how I looked as my hair grew—the spiky, fluffy stage a week in was especially sweet. I took photos, sent selfies, and appreciated how much shorter showers were now that I didn’t have to deal with my hair as much.

One factor I hadn’t counted on after shaving my head was teachers asking us to turn on our cameras during online classes. I have my bi flag and my trans flag in the background, which I’ve never cared to hide; if someone knew what they meant, well, they’d be a little less shocked when I came out at school, but shaving my head felt different. When our head teacher asked us to turn on our cameras, I decided that it was now or never. I bit the bullet, clicked the camera button, and held my breath.

Everyone was staring at me. My head teacher gasped, exclaiming my deadname. My transness is an open secret; everyone is just waiting for me to say it already. But for the time being, I pretend I like my deadname. I’m waiting to get my name legally changed before socially transitioning; I don’t want to deal with my Catholic school’s administration or the bathroom debate.

My head teacher asked why I shaved my head, and I replied that I wanted to try it out. There was a long pause before he said I looked tough. I hadn’t quite recognized that I was butch then; I thought it was a lesbian-exclusive term until I met butch bisexuals like my dear friend, James, but being told I looked tough was a turning point for me. I realized I wanted to look tough, yet approachable. A sweet in-between state.

My hair grew out with time, and soon enough, I didn’t have my shaved head anymore. In September, I went to a barber for the first time after my hair had gotten messy enough to warrant it. After years of hairdressers, it was a distinctly masculine experience—the barber only talked about my haircut. Reggaeton blasted from a wall TV at full volume; compared to being forced to socialize every time I got my hair cut before, it was a blessing for my autistic self, even though the music left me overstimulated.

I’m too self-conscious to get my head shaved again anytime soon, but maybe when I’m on testosterone that will change. My face and body shape will be different, less round—my face, at least; I do plan to be a bear—and then I can rock the look again. But for the time being, shaving my head was a learning experience—a rebirth as I lean into butchness, becoming more and more comfortable in my identities, and learning what I want out of masculinity.

About the Author

David Salazar (he/xe/she) is a teenage writer from Chile. He describes himself as a butch bigender bisexual and is autistic and mentally ill. Xir writing deals with queer identity, Latinidad and romance primarily, but often delves into other topics; lately he has been experimenting with horror and magical realism. She is in her senior year of high school and plans to be a psychologist/writer/weirdo. You can find him on Twitter at @smalllredboy.