one of my clients actually said they stalked me on social media and then proceeded to say they liked how i'm not embarrassed to wear what i want. 

what did she mean by that

Chapter Six

Avoiding Maddie wasn't just something to attempt anymore, it was a necessity.  It's been two weeks since the coffee cup incident, and I've been going strong in avoiding her. On my days off, I stay in my bedroom like a fucking hermit. On her days off, she usually still in bed by the time I come home from work, so I can quickly hide.

As much as I hate my former apartment, I am beginning to wish I hadn't left.

"Gansey." My boss, Charlotte, glances over at my station, "Your next client doesn't get here until three, we have a walk-in. Do you want her?"

"Haircut?" I ask, and she nods.

"Sure."

I'm usually fully-booked, so I don't take walk-ins as much as I used to when I first started. Still, I find it hard to say no when my boss asks me.

I glance over and happen to notice Cecily staring at me. The day after I had cut my hand, she was the only one who asked about my bandages. I feel like she watches me, and I don't know why. She rarely talks to me, but I know she's watching, listening.

I go to the front desk, and greet the walk-in, who happens to be a woman my age. She has tightly coiled 4b hair, and I have a vague idea what she's going to ask for before I even say a word to her.

"Hello, I'm Gansey, I'll be your stylist." I hate introducing myself to anyone. It feels weird, and I've never got used to it.

I stare at the girl, she's wearing black leather jacket, and dark jeans and my eyes gravitate to the several different pieces of jewelry all throughout her body. She has four separate rings on, and an accumulation of bracelets that jingle together when she moves. Her earrings are large gold hoops and lipstick, she has a deep red lip color on that only accentuates her skin tone.

My attention is suddenly glued to her, and I struggle to look away. She is tall, slender, and holds herself confidently, just like a model.

She is beautiful.

"Hi, I'm Carys." She gives me a very warm smile, and I watch her stare at my face, then my chest, then the rest of my body. 

She's trying to figure out what my gender is. I know what people do when they look at me. I never bother to answer to their confusion, it feels odd to mention it when they don't outright ask. 

I guide her to my station, and put on her cape. I ask her what she wants, and my predictions are right. 

"I miss my afro, my hair is so long it weighs it down."

Her hair definitely was on the longer side. I tried to make eye contact with her, but every time I did she was staring right back at me. Her expression is so kind that it's unnerving. She's so pretty I suddenly feel way too aware of my own appearance.

"I tried to book online. I even wanted to book with you, it said you weren't accepting new clients."

I clear my throat, "Yeah, you just so happen to come in right as I had a cancellation."

I see her comfortably lean back in the chair, "I'm lucky then. I wasn't even sure if you guys did walk-ins. I'm glad I got you."

There is a hidden meaning behind her words, but I'm too stupid to figure out what it is. I take her to the sink, wash her hair, return to the chair, and get to work.

I brush through her hair first, and I don't know why I do it, but I place two fingers on her head, steadying it. I don't need to do that, I've never done it before, but I feel as though I simply wanted an excuse to touch her. She's beautiful, and I imagine what it'd be like to have someone like her interested in someone like me.

While I'm brushing her hair, she attempts to make more conversation, "I'm going to be honest, I sort of stalk you."

I glance at her through the mirror, "Stalk me?"

"Yeah, your Instagram? I like your work. I know you don't get a lot of clients with my type of hair, but I like your look."

I frown, "My look?"

"Yeah, you just don't seem ashamed to be you, and to dress how you like to dress. To present yourself how you present yourself."

I knew what that was. An insult disguised as a compliment. I had no doubt her intentions are genuinely nice, but nice doesn't hide the fact that she thinks my attire is hideous, and that she respects that fact that I wear it daily anyway.

I bite my tongue on a response, and instead, continue to work on her hair.

"I always find myself more attracted to androgynous people."

"Androgynous." I repeat her word, and she nods.

"I do photography, I admire when people dress outside of the box of gendered specific stereotypical norms. You clearly stray from femininity, and that's exactly what I look for in models."

I look at the mirror once more, but instead of looking at her, I'm staring at myself. She things I'm trying to defy stereotypes. That couldn't be further from the truth. My hair is short like a typical man's hair, and I wear the same two button up shirts every day. I don't dress like this on purpose, I dress like this because it's the only option suitable for me. If I could pull off curled hair, pretty makeup, and girly dresses, I'd fucking wear it --but I can't. I try to embrace the femininity I was supposed to be born with and I'm instead reminded everyday, that by doing so, I'll never meet my own standards of beautiful, so I don't allow myself to try at all. Trying to be a beautiful woman is exhausting, and it hurts when deep down you know you'll never achieve the level of beauty you were always told you were supposed to have.

There wasn't a day that went by that my father didn't mention to me how I needed to be more feminine or I'll never get a boyfriend.

And now, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't look in the mirror, and take solace in the fact that I have purged all femininity from my appearance, and I will never get a boyfriend.

My goal is to not be beautiful, I spent twenty-two years of my life trying to be pretty. Now, my only goal is to be comfortable with myself. I haven't achieved that comfort yet, but I'm closer now than I ever was when I was a bleached blonde, makeup wearing, bulimic girl, who weighed herself six times a day, and would stuff her bones in an XXS vintage dress, because, 'women back then were pretty, so I have to be as small as them'.

Now, I dress like I don't exist. I might be a woman, but I dress like I'm neither male nor female, I'm just a person, going through the routine of life until they finally reach the grave. I'm just waiting to be buried, I'm not trying to look good for anyone, not even myself.

Going through the motions is specifically my goal. Whether I achieve the highest success by doing so is no longer a concern.

I cut her hair, and style it in less than an hour. Her gorgeous hair is full and bouncy and despite her opinions on me, I'm glad she trusted me with it.

She stands up, admiring her hair in the mirror with a beautiful smile. Her teeth are so white, and her cheekbones are prominent and strong. Her smile makes something in my chest stir and I catch myself smiling too.

I walk her to the front desk, where she pays, and tips me a beyond generous amount. This immediately puts a pit in my stomach, "That's way to big of a tip for a haircut."

She shrugs her shoulder, "You did good, my hair can be stubborn sometimes I'm surprised you did it so well."

Again, was that another backhanded compliment without her even realizing it? "I'm a cosmetologist, no hair should be too stubborn for me." I didn't mean it in a prideful way, but it sounded like it. 

She grins, "Then why don't you pay me back?"

I glance down at the cash I had already been holding out towards her, "Then please, take it back."

She shakes her hand, "No, not like that."

I stare at her, and she continues, "Give me your number, we can go for drinks sometime."

So she was asking me out? I feel eyes on me and I subtlety glance behind my shoulder to see Cecily and Paige staring at me. Paige had a cocky look on her face, and Cecily's eyes were narrowed like she was definitely judging me.

I hate this. 

I make a point not to talk about my sexuality at work. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, I just don't like people thinking of me like that. I may sleep around sometimes, but I don't like people knowing that I sleep around. I often feel like they judge me for it, like, how could someone like Gansey find anyone to fuck?  It's something I like to keep private.

Being the only lesbian at work doesn't help. I don't think they care too much about that, but still, I can't relate to their conversations about their boyfriends, and them knowing that I can't relate only excludes me further. 

Not wanting to cause a scene, or embarrass Carys, I take her phone, and put my number in it. 

When I give it back to her, I watch her send me a text, and then wink at me before leaving.

Despite everything, I watch her leave, still admiring how attractive she is, even after she's gone.