From the Lesbian Comedy Show to the County Fair - When The Short Haircut No Longer Works

When we wear our identifying markers, we expect people to just come correct... but in the Midwest, being a woman with a short haircut is no sign of what one does behind closed doors...

It had been a while since my wife, Anissa, and I got out of the house, just ourselves. We often go to dinner with my mother-in-law as a quad: my wife, my son, my MIL, and myself. We make time to be in each other’s presence as often as possible, just so we can catch up and make sure that we are all in some state of balance… at least as balanced as a bunch of koo-koo folks can be. Even though I have been off work for a little over a month, my wife and I have used every moment of our time to catch up with everyone: my friends, her friends, my family, her family. We needed to make time for each other.

I missed celebrating Anissa’s birthday back in June, but I had the present ready to go: two tickets to see Kristin Key perform at the Funny Bone in Cincinnati. If you are not familiar, Kristin Key has hit some level of viral celebrity, especially amongst the women-loving-women set, for her brand of comedy. Key’s show is relatable to just about every middle-aged white lesbian I know, and if there is one sound I cherish above all else, it’s my wife’s laughter. I just wanted a night where we got to laugh together. So, date night in the wild on a rainy Friday night in Cincinnati.

Well… here’s a confession that I’m a little ashamed to give: I get stupid nervous around other lesbians. Why?? I feel like I never fit into the crowd, for some reason, as if I have reason to perform up to some stereotypical standard that I will never reach. I blame this fucked-up version of imposter’s syndrome on my young adult days, going to bars and watching other women pick up each other, and wondering if why I went home alone was because I refused to wear cargo shorts or rock the Justin Bieber haircut (circa 2002). The truth was that I was always terribly shy and reserved in those spaces, which is a testament to how I truly feel about intimacy. I’m not even talking about sexual intimacy… I’m talking about the intimacy of trust and vulnerability. The intimacy of revelation and giving of the self. Why would I give that to anyone that I had not yet confessed to ride in a UHaul with after our second date? I digress…

Anissa and I found dessert before the show, a cute little European style treat shop directly across from the club. After our gelato, the Funny Bone already had a line formed outside the door, and it was nothing but women, women, women. All the women. Anissa and I were a little overdressed - I was in an oxford and khakis (my damn uniform), and she was wearing a slinky t-shirt dress and a cardigan. Most of these women were wearing t-shirts that were indicative of Key’s comedy, including bold proclamations of belonging to the “Lesbian Army” - bold yellow print across military olive green. I had to take a breath and wonder what I had gotten the both of us into. This is exactly the kind of gathering that takes my breath away…in the form of a panic attack.

There’s a joke amongst folks in the queer community about the “hundred footer”, as in one can identify another’s sexuality or gender identity from a hundred feet out. The t-shirts would have given snipers no problems… Now, before anyone says I’m being discriminatory amongst my own kind, hear me out…

I recently went to my stylist, Renee, for my own hair cut. I told her I wanted it short on the sides… like punk-ish short. My hair has been above the ears since prom night of my junior year of high school… but likely never this short. I have my own trepidations about having a haircut like this, including whether or not my professionalism would be taken seriously because I look like that. You know… like those girls, those women. The truth is that I always have because I am one of them. It’s weird - the politics of identity being controlled by a haircut, or clothes, or profession, or anything else that says YOU MUST BEHAVE THIS WAY BECAUSE SOCIETY SAYS SO. This is something I have had to combat in my own life in many different ways, because appearances only ever tell a fraction of the story. They will never tell you about someone’s childhood, or the occupation they have, the education they possess, or the tax bracket to which they belong. It’s just a visual - a stylized visual that someone chooses to give to the world. It is not a determination of butch or femme, trans or cis, binary or non-binary. It’s just a visual.

Everyone at the Funny Bone, unless you belong to a huge group of people attending a show together, will be seated with people they don’t know. Another couple from Lexington found us, and instantly started the conversation that led me to learn about the prospect of attending an adult spelling bee (!) and opportunities for grants that could be applied to my work. A different group of women from Indiana were part of a queer women’s meet-up, one of which was wearing a t-shirt, proclaiming, “LGBTQ + Catholic + Proud.” Ladies and gentlemen, gays and theys: never say that anyone is a monolith. They will prove you wrong where you stand.

Anyway, the show was fantastic, as was the company. Kristin Key is pretty much brilliant and lovely. I learned that there is a Lesbian National Anthem. Friendships were begun and phone numbers were exchanged. To say that date night was productive…that’s an accurate statement.

On Saturday, Anissa and I rested, for Sunday was to bring us in one wild pendulum swing from lesbian comedy routines to the Butler County Fairgrounds for the garden tractor pull event.

Y’all… I laugh as I write this. My mother-in-law wasted absolutely no time whenever my family moved to Cincinnati seven years ago; she is a supervisor for the Butler County Junior Fair Board and has been deeply involved in the county and state fair circuit since her youth. My mother-in-law is a legit pageant queen: no shit, she was the Ohio Holstein Queen. I had no clue, as in zip zilch zero, that I was marrying into a farming family pedigree. So, naturally, when we arrived in Cincinnati in June 2018, my mother-in-law brought us into a social network with which I had so little experience. We were two fresh volunteers that the fair did not have prior. Into the pit we were thrown.

My mother-in-law’s dear friend, Erin, is a coordinator for all of the family and consumer science events. I have judged cake decorating, nutrition projects, any number of special interest projects, and a live event called the Bake-in. Children (sometimes) willingly learn and bake recipes under time constraints and they have to be tasted and judged by live humans. After several years of an entire day consuming refined sugar, my doctor asked me to step aside. My pancreas sighed in relief.

This did not stop us, however, from being made available to register the fine folks of Southwestern Ohio to pull a sled with their souped-up lawn mowers. In case you were wondering, that’s basically what a garden tractor is: remove the mower deck, make modifications to the engine and transmission worth no less than $5000, fill the tank with jet fuel, and watch her fly. There is a genuine need for aural protection and helmet use, as, though many adults also participate, this is largely a kid’s event. Top prize per pull? $50.

The crowd at the Butler County Fair was notably different than Friday night’s. I was wearing North Face and Nike; most of the teenage girls were wearing Ariat and Miss Me. The gentlemen were wearing t-shirts that had seen better days, as they were coated with grease and petrol from tinkering around with their Cub Cadet on steroids. T-shirts advertising local farms, tractor dealerships, the local feed store, or, of course, their tractor pulling teams. Beat-up denim and boots that have seen the business end of manual labor on a fairly regular basis. Men writing their child’s names on an injury waiver with handwriting so careful because it was usually their wives who write the kid’s name on any piece of paper.

Then, of course, you meet the middle-aged Midwestern woman. Short haircut, baggy t-shirt, comfortable pants, comfortable shoes. By all accounts a sensible and no-frills outfit for a day in the sun. Yet, by god, they would have fit in like a glove at the Funny Bone on Friday night. I have asked the question of some of the people Anissa and my mother-in-law have introduced me to: “Are they…?” Often, the answer is, “Nope. Married for 20+ years with a couple of grandkids on the way.” Not that this is a definitive answer by any stretch, but I guarantee this: If you were to ask these women directly, so many of them would identify themselves by the family they have, the occupations they have, their ability to produce according to gendered standards… much like many people do. It’s neither good nor bad, but it does beg the misunderstanding of what a man is, what a woman is, from one human to another. I’m just saying - the haircut sometimes fails.

And then the cackling hens: my mother-in-law, my wife, and myself, collecting the entry fees and paying out at the end of the event. Nobody ever really knows what to do with me, identity-wise. I’d like to keep it that way.

My wife and mother-in-law always see people that they know from their past of showing animals or competing in other projects. My only competitive entries into the fair as an adult have been in photography. It is another foreign world from where I am most comfortable, but one I have been welcomed into. It may be different if Anissa and I went telegraphing our marriage all over the fairgrounds, but my mother-in-law is usually the first to introduce me as her daughter-in-law. Her comfort gives me solace during moments like this, being around the people they know from the past that I have no part within.

However, there are other signs that let me know not to get too comfortable, like a parking spot reserved for a Homeland Security vehicle at one of the entrances… like Butler County is near some international border. Bruh.

After the tractor pull (and recovering some of my hearing), Anissa and I walked the fairgrounds to look at some of the animals being shown for the livestock auction. Gorgeous cattle, sheep, and goats that were being preened and readied for the show ring were in stall after stall, usually being prepped by the teenagers that will show them in hours. This is when the fair kids dress up - tight jeans, starched shirts, polished work boots with the occasional smudge of cow shit, hair done just so. The work is something beyond my comprehension - I know there is a standard for judging livestock…just don’t ask me what that is. I really don’t know if there is a standard for judging humanity either. We like to pretend there is, but all of those standards are just man-made rules that says _____ is superior to _____.

I think we need to start taking each other at more than face value, waiting for someone (or something - let the cow talk!) to reveal their nature as it comes to light. I can’t be that judge beyond simple decency. There are too many gray areas, and if I ever judge someone incorrectly, I want to be forgiven for such. That said, this is the one place I don’t want to be wrong. I’d rather give folks the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully, the red ribbon steer gets the same.

Folks, I have gone from wearing tank tops and shorts all summer to today, wearing dress pants for the first time in six weeks. With my short haircut. Wearing my uniform of an oxford shirt and khakis… with sneakers. Because moderation is a thing. Work is returning for me, which means I will be back in schools working full time as of August 1st. So, I might be writing more about school and school-related stuff. I am so looking forward to September and October, when I get to travel quite a bit for a lot of different reasons. Until then, I hope you are well and reading still. Let me know if there is any idea you have that could further inspire me to write.

I hope this blog finds you well. I hope you have the week you need to have, and the best weekend possible to follow.

JVB