foiled (part I)

It had been about two years since I shaved my head.

I was curious about what it would feel like to have hair again, so I bought a long, dirty blonde wig. The hair, styled with bangs and scattered with platinum blonde highlights, was wavy and dynamic. It captured how my lifelong hairstyle might’ve looked on its best day. I put it on, not knowing where to fasten the pins since I had no hair for them to grasp onto, and looked in the mirror. Instant, full-body friction. I sighed, feeling uncomfortable and confused, and said, “I feel like I’m in drag?”

After that, I continued trying on wig after wig - short, long, blonde, silver, brunette, pink, wavy, straight - searching for…something. At last, I felt it. Euphoria. The long, ombre, pink and brunette wig was the exact hair I would have loved as a kid, listening to emo and punk music in the half of the parking lot the girls were allowed to play in at recess.

Honestly, I thought I had arrived. I thought I had finally found the truest version of myself; after a long and arduous journey, I had summited my personal mountain of femininity and was ready to plant my flag.

unnatural (2007)

c. wade, age 15

The forest,
stale and cragged,
stifles me,
hindering my ambitions.

I stumble through
the dense vegetation
attempting to pursue
previously failed goals.

Though these paths
should be familiar,
I fail to recall
the right one to take.

The trees,
made of stiff bark,
seem to threaten me,
and I start running.

My eyes close,
and for a minute,
I am flying.

This ends quickly.

An unearthed root
steps in my path,
and I fall,
slivering my face
on broken twigs.

The paths are
deceiving,
and in their
trickery,
they mock me.

They laugh,
their branches
seemingly
pointing out
my insecurities.

And then,
I see a break
in the cover of
the menacing trees.

This sight,
in contrast
of my path
was familiar;
I’d been there
many a time.

A mountain
towers over me.

The journey before
lost in time.

A deep breath
that grasps
the inner core
of my body
steadies me,
and I begin
to climb.

A ceaseless
stream
of sunlight
radiates above.

The handholds,
though close
in reach,
are far,
far away in sight.

My hand gropes
for a familiar grip,
to anchor
what seem to be
the last pieces
of my strength.

I use all of my ability
to cajole the earth
into reluctant
cooperation.

It abides,
propelling me upwards,
completing my journey.

Success.

I now know I was attempting to play with my own personal archetype of femininity - the one I had curated, costumed, and performed for decades - one last time. What I didn’t realize was that this archetype was a blueprint. It was a stock character.