[image description: a white, freckled person in a blue-check buttoned shirt over a grey T-shirt, hir

[image description: a white, freckled person in a blue-check buttoned shirt over a grey T-shirt, hir head tilted, showing off a dark blond haircut that’s short on the back and sides and a little longer in the fringe, the fringe swept to the viewer’s left. Ze has thin eyebrows and dark grey-ish eyes, and ze wears a bead ring pendant on a blue cord around hir neck in trans pride colours. Ze sits in front of a lemon wall bearing a display of squishy plushes and Disney Tsum Tsum plush; above hir head rests a white shelf bearing the spines of many Tamora Pierce books.]From the right angle, you don’t actually know that the new swept-to-the-side fringe I have is covering up a bald spot the size of a twenty-cent piece.(That’s where the cyst was: right in the centre of my head, about a centimetre above the clump of swept hair. My GP assures me that follicle regrowth takes between one and three months, and I’m only a little past the first month, but I’m impatient. There’s one single strand starting to come back and the rest is all nah, not yet.)Considering what the hairdresser was working with, I can’t fault her. I prefer my hair with less fringe, but if I’d known that she’d pull this one off, I wouldn’t have delayed getting it cut–something that bothers me in terms of dysphoria and autism because I can’t stand hair over my ears. It’s one of those things where it shouldn’t be bothering me that much and I know it could easily have been so much worse, but I’ve realised that while I don’t care too much about looking whatever “attractive” is, I do feel this social pressure to hide my scars/cysts/lumps/dermatitis. And having a bald spot right at the front was distressing me, hence my keeping my hair long for longer than I could stand./p>(Although we’re going to try for another biopsy in the hope we can figure out what’s causing said dermatitis, so I’m going to have to not manage it so we can do a biopsy in full flare and avoid the “well, it’s inflamed but we don’t know why” result the first time around. The biopsy isn’t fun, but having my hand look like dragon scale, along with the discomfort, for the days preceding it is going to be the worst bit. It’s fun to touch for stimming, but it’s less fun to live with in all other respects.)Yes, my body is easier to live with when I possess a sufficient level of fuck Western ableist social norms about appearance, but it’s also nice when my hairdresser can just give me a fringe, you know?Also, while I have no fucking idea what to do with my face in photos, ever (thanks, autism), balancing my iPad on my knee and cropping out the bottom makes a good angle for looking like I’ve a flatter chest. The whole I really don’t know facial expressions thing always makes me awkward about taking photos, but at least that’s good to know.(So I don’t care about being “attractive” but I do care about my appearance when it comes to being scaly, showing my bald spots and lacking allistic, neurotypical facial expressions. Ableism.)Anyway, long story short, I am very glad that my favourite hairdresser was free when I went to my usual walk-in salon. -- source link

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