On Wigs, a rant

[tay-en-pointe.livejournal.com]

I hate wigs.
I hate them on me. They make my head get a fever and they make my mascara run.
Now, I will be the first to admit that my first exploration into my feminity came in the guise of me gacking from time to time my mom's wigs. She had a ton of them. I'd sneak into her closet, and put them on. They didnt make me hot and sweaty, but then again, I was 8 years old.
And I think there is a great virtue to wigs, to being able to change oneself for one night, or try out a different style or color without having to face the day after some emotional despondency drove you to cut off thick and luscious locks of hair you'd been nurturing for years.
Its fun to roleplay. Its fun to say, I want to be a blonde bimbo slut for tonite, and get my pussy split so wide I walk like Alan Ladd for a week (I chose Alan Ladd cuz he was much shorter than John Wayne, more womanly in stature).
(Alan Ladd woulda made a much hotter tranny than the Duke.)
But, do me a favor. Please. Dont buy a wig and tell me that, as a male, if you are one, that it makes you feel more feminine. That it makes you all hot and horny in that lonely private chatroom sort of way.
And dont tell me that you're more a girl because you read Teen Magazine, finally getting in touch with your younger feminine side, the one you've had to repress for so many years. Or Cosmo. Or Elle. That some inner part of you feels suddenly liberated by doing the fucking Quizzes. Yes, we all love a good meme. But take it for what it is, dammit. And grow the fuck up.
Cuz the women I hang out with, and talk with, empath with and sympath with.... they think those quizzes in Cosmo are lame. And they can only think that in a theoretical way: Cuz they haven't wasted their god given time on earth doing the damn things.

I bought a wig once. It was a wierd experience. It was a bob cut, a style I'd always admired on others. I put it on in the shop. The woman who ran the place looked like my Aunt Florence, who looked like a man as far back as I can remember. She asked me if I was "a Performer." I preened at her words. I bought the damn thing, and then rushed home to try it on with some Martha Stewart line type thing I'd hacked from a rack in WalMart.
I did my makeup, and fixed my wig, and I looked in the full length mirror. I looked good. but...
Something wasnt right. I went to the mirror over the sink in my bathroom, and looked at my head shot.
I looked like a fucking chimpanzee.
See, I dont have the jawline for a bob. In fact, I have the absolute antithesis of the Bob jawline. The woman who sold me that fucking wig was a charlatan. She'd ask Charleton Heston if he was a "performer", and of course, he'd feel good about himself, because he is, so he wouldnt be lying when he said yes. But his wig would look like shit on his sagging old gun-cleaning face. And he'd just grin.
But then, he does have Alzheimer's.

I was born lucky, somewhere around 5 foot seven or eight, with small hands and feet, minimal adam's apple, minimal male monkey protruberence of the forehead. Darwin says that this protruberence exists because, evolutionarily, males being the hunter/gatherers, thicker headed males were more likely to survive and spread the gene.
Actually, I've never read too much Darwin He's a boring old ponce, but if he didnt say it, he should have.
I think what pisses me off sometimes, and I dont mean this to sound overwhelmingly self-righteous is that, as sttatus_quo said to me in a convo tonite, "There is, to me, a certain segment of CDs and TSs that apply a very testosterone-like agressiveness toward embracing their feminine side... that always puts me off. As if the feminine self is something to be achieved rather than revealed."
I couldnt agree more.
I gotta admit, I hate being around insecure males who find some personal get me off satisfaction in trying to dress like Brittany Fucking Spears.
Its an imposition of their "conception" of being a woman, without actually being a woman.
In my opinion, men in all things are driven to overcompensate.
Next time you pull up to a stoplight, and there is a Ferrari pulsating in the lane next to yours, look over at the driver.
And tell me I'm wrong.