No, I’m not entirely sure what that means. Or if it indicates that something is good or bad. Or even if it’s what the kids are still saying these days.
But every time I see my hair in the mirror, I do not see something that looks gender-confident, cool or organized.
I’m happy to report that the bumpectomy sites on my head are healing nicely, but the Polysporin® gobs are making an oilfield of my hair. And I didn’t plan my haircut schedule very well around the bump removal; I’m well into the fluffy phase that signals I’m overdue for a trim, but I’m not sure I should have a barber poking around my wounds with a pair of scissors or running a #1.5 guard over my stitches just yet. So I’m just left to hope that the paparazzi leave me alone until the stitches come out on Friday at 10:00 am and I can get to a haircut store to restore order on my noggin.
While the stitched-up wounds still sting a little, the bumps are definitely gone! So my staff of milliners and phrenologists can finally stop with the wringing of hands and the gnashing of teeth. I’ve also had three good runs since the surgery, and the sweat on my head hasn’t seemed to cause any healing issues. We cranked out eight miles on Saturday morning at our 9-minute-mile target marathon pace—which I am clearly not quite ready for—but then I ran four easy, breezy miles this morning ... and when I finished, my fancy new GPS-enabled running watch told me that I’d done them all at an 8:51 pace. Which is, for me, actually pretty huge. The crowd goes wild!
Plus, I’m wearing my muffin-top jeans today that usually fit only in the latter stages of marathon training. And they’re not cutting off any vital circulation. So far. In fact, they feel pretty comfortable. But I’m still leaving my shirt untucked. And I’m politely declining every request to retrieve something off a high shelf. Because I may be a tranny hot mess, but I’m not about to be a Love-Handle Larry. Whatever that means.
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