I look like a boy
This was the conclusion I came to yesterday morning as I went to check out of my hotel. I was riding the elevator down to the lobby, and it stopped at the second floor, where a couple of maids were waiting with a laundry cart. It would have been a bit cramped with the three of us and the cart, so the one maid says to the other maid (who can’t see me): “We can’t go. There’s a gentleman there.” And turns to look back at me, and pauses, and suddenly says “I mean a lady! Sorry!” And the elevator doors close.
If I still had my long, curly locks, this would not have troubled me at all. I would have called it an odd slip of the tongue and not thought anything more about it. But my hair is short now. Really short. And apparently a woman in Cheyenne thinks I look like a boy.
My features are reasonably feminine. Certainly more so than my brother’s. (We used to look a lot alike when he was younger, but the hulking man-child turns more into man than child every time I see him. If this keeps up, his chin and brow will thicken into Neanderthal proportions.)
I am short. If I’m a boy, then I probably have a Napoleon complex. (Bonaparte, not Dynamite.)
I am petite. I’m not Laulau, but I’m also not one of those hippos from Fantasia. And even if I’m wearing a loose comfortable pair of jeans and a hoodie, I think that I still have more curves than a boy!
Probably I should have been wearing makeup. (First thing in the morning, in a random hotel, in the middle of a three day road trip. Right.) Or maybe I should start dressing like Eleka. Or Arwen.