I Must Suppress the Tomboy in Me with such short, short hair

Today, I learned that if I don't want to be viewed as a lesbian with short, butch hair, I should not attach my metal water bottle to a belt loop on my jeans by a carrabeaner. My hands were full, so I thought it made sense to exploit the carrabeaner -- never thinking sexual preference could be indicated by a haircut and a carrabeaner.

Admittedly, I should have picked a loop back more toward my butt rather than two loops from my belt buckle. With the bottle positioned on my upper left thigh not far from my zipper area, it did give me a semblance of a swagger. Okay, it practically swung between my legs -- but hey, my hands were full. I guess it was more Rosie O'Donnell of me than Audrey Hepburn, but I was being practical.

Anyway, I found out from the guy running lights for my friend's play that with my short, short hair and my water bottle striking my thigh, as I entered the theatre, he pegged me to be a lesbian. When I was explaining my faded henna tattoo and remarked that "barely there" hair makes people think I'm either punk or gay, he told me he had thought gay -- with the water bottle. I immediately unhooked the carrabeaner from my belt loop.

At least I no longer seem to strike people as a chemo patient, but with my henna almost completely faded, I'm not that convincing as a billboard either.

Tonight I just used a hand mirror to inspect the back of my head. You can almost make it out the henna tattoo if you know you are looking for: "NEED A CHANGE? HEAD DOWN TO NEW ZEALAND" The website address has completely vanished.

If you don't know what you're looking for, my head CLOSE UP reads: ".. EED .. A.. AGE? HEAD DOWN . . . ZEALAND"

In the meantime, studying my head in the hand mirror, you can easily see three scars on top of my head where hair isn't really growing. That's from the cat who jumped on top of my head when I was about three and came between the cat and my boxer. Fortunately, I don't remember the blood and the stitches from that cranial cat attack. Next time someone refuses to accept I had my head shaved for a trip to New Zealand, maybe I'll blame it on a cat claw dancing on my head when I was three.