People are mean.

I have short hair.

I used to have thick, long, frizzy brown hair that weighed about 30 pounds. Just like my height, it was always a target for loving jabs. Those jokes never bothered me, they even gave me two long-standing nicknames; Schlinz Boofonts and Big Bird (trademarked by Mike Davidson.)

When I was twenty-two I studied abroad in Florence, Italy. I look back at it with only fond memories. Four months spent in a beautiful, historical and relaxing country alleviated a lot of the depression I was feeling while at Syracuse. A completely foreign environment was aesthetically and mentally stimulating. I used all of my senses to soak up the language and culture. My goal was to depart in December as an honorary Italian. And what better way to jump start the transformation than chop off all my hair?

After all, every Italian girl was doing it. Choppy, spiky, sophisticated short hair crowned the olive skinned natural beauties from various regions of Italy. If I couldn't afford the Miss Sixty jeans or the knee high black leather boots, a hair cut was in order. On a train ride to Isola D'Elba I was feeling particularly bold and declared to my female contingent of travel companions, "I'm chopping it off!" Theresa, Nika and Margot were completely supportive and even pushy about my decision to buzz it. Liz and Deb were wide eyed and hesitant about supporting such a rash decision. After returning from our trip to Elba I promptly chopped my hair, telling the multi-lingual hairdresser, "Cut as much off as you can without making it look stupid." Her English was very good because my hair looked fabulous and I felt the most beautiful I ever remember feeling.

That feeling ended when I returned to America. Instead of having Italian professors at my school tell me how wonderful I looked, instead of having my host mom whisper "Bellisima" instead of garnering stares and compliments from foreign friends and fellow Americans I was asked "Why" and called "Dyke-y" and stared at.

While at Syracuse people stared at me in line at the post office and whispered. In Charleston a homeless man told me to pour Miracle Grow atop my head and children audibly whispered to their parents, "Is that a boy or a girl?" In Berkeley, a city that is supposed to be so liberal, I've received some of the worst and most cutting insults. From a parked car, a loud shout, "DAMN IS THAT A MAN?" and the worst today. . .

For about five uncomfortable and excruciating minutes I was followed by three thugs. While wishing my grandfather a happy 80th birthday I heard yelling behind me. I was engrossed in my conversation, which switched over to a two-way call with my parents. Suddenly I realized they were yelling at me, just a girl walking down the street, inoffensively and modestly.
"Dyke, I bet your girlfriend has got a bigger booty than you."
"Dyke I bet your girlfriend would make out with my girlfriend."
"Dyke I wanna see your titties."
"Dyke, lick my girlfriend's pussy."
"Dyke" "Dyke." "Dyke."
I tried to ignore it. All I wanted to do was talk to my parents, walk to the BART, get to a museum and de-stress from my recent broken heart. How embarrassing to walk down the street and have everyone else hear you being verbally abused? How embarrassing to have your parents hear you being assaulted? How awful to feel so helpless and so undeserving?

I like my hair short. Maybe one day I'll grow out it, right now I don't have the patience. Frankly, I don't have much desire. But the comments hurt. People going out of their way to make someone feel so horrible? To yell so loudly and so ignorantly and so emphatically? So offensively! I'm not a lesbian and the comments still cut so deep.

I ducked into a bookstore and tried not to blubber on the phone to my parents, telling them I couldn't decipher what the three guys were saying. Fearing continued harassment I busied myself in the bookstore, upset that three guys ruined my day, made me feel unsafe and unable to continue to my destination.

How can someone go out of their way to yell at someone they have never met, who never even looked their way, and make them feel so violated? And how can someone so publicly slander someone without being reprimanded by a bystander on the street? How was I so helpless? Why wasn't I strong enough to turn to them and tell them to stop? To tell them to 'Fuck off'? To tell them anything to stop?

So next time I just want to step outside to take a walk, do I hang my head and avoid any confrontation? Or do I walk proudly and stand up for myself? Unfortunately, I think the latter would be accompanied by tears. Even more unfortunate is that this will probably happen again.
What do I do? I just have short hair. I didn't do deserve what happened today.