This is The Parlour, a place for intimate conversation, a real-time archive, a shared diary passed between a rotating cast of queer characters every week in an attempt to capture a kaleidoscopic view of what it’s like to be a queer person right here, right now.
I’ve only posted on Instagram four times since Halloween. One of those posts was an excerpt from a screenplay, one was a clip of me on a panel, one was an anniversary post, and only the most recent — almost a month ago — was just a picture of myself. Before this slump, the app had acted as a chronicle of my hotness. Sure, yes, and my life, but what is life other than an excuse to look hot? At least when sharing images of that life publicly.
Winter is always a difficult time for hot girls — clothing layers and weather-induced homebody behavior result in fewer occasions to dress up and be photographed. But this year was particularly challenging for me. First of all, my Instagram was hacked on Christmas and it took me several weeks to get it back. Second of all, Meta’s new discriminatory policies and embrace of AI have made it a less enjoyable place to hang out. And third and, I must admit, most importantly, I had FFS at the end of February.
This surgery impacted my posting as much beforehand as much as it did after. It was as if the decision to make some slight tweaks to my face quadrupled the visibility of those insecurities in the months leading up to it. Knowing I’d be feminizing my hairline and reducing my Adam’s Apple caused every photo I took to feel entirely hairline and Adam’s Apple.
During my consults, I was warned that afterward I might be depressed. To get surgery for facial feminization and to emerge as a swollen monster can apparently be bad for one’s mental health. But my peak swelling didn’t end up bothering me, because I looked so obviously post-op. It’s been the months after, as the incision point on my head has refused to heal, that I’ve felt depressed about having to place goopy ointment on the parts of my hairline that for so long I managed to ignore. At some point, the wounds will heal and new hair will grow where it hasn’t since I had my first puberty. For now, my hair must be pulled back and attention must be given to where it is bloody and bald.
Last month, I stopped keeping my hair out of the wounds and only used the ointment as needed. Scabs had formed and it was looking much better. I began styling my hair again and as the long winter started to thaw so did my self-esteem. I posted that previously mentioned photo calling attention to my head scars with a little joke. And then a week later I went to an event with an open bar and followed it up with a trip to Cubbyhole. I took a bathroom selfie and posted it to my story, the first time in months I saw a picture of myself I really liked.
Bar bathroom selfie as proof of life
Two days later I had a follow up appointment with my surgeon. She peeled off the scabs and told me that after all this time I had an infection. She prescribed an antibiotic and informed me that I’d have to spend the rest of Pride Month with my hair pulled back, ointment gooped on, and absolutely no hotness allowed. (Okay, that last part was just implied.)
I don’t want to be vain! But I am going to play the trans girl card here and say feeling hot helps me resist the hatred imposed on me by, you know, society. Sometimes a few Instagram likes really can improve a mood! Sometimes it’s a biological necessity to look in the mirror and think: I look good.
Something I’ve been trying to remember is that in 2021 I had an eye infection off and on for almost the entire year that made it so I couldn’t wear makeup or contacts. I felt horrible about myself. One of the ways I held onto femininity as a femme trans woman had been taken from me. And yet, post-vaccine, pre-variants my summer included one of the best app dates I’d ever had, a threesome with two women I met at bar, a hot and scandalous fling, and the beginning of my now four-year-long relationship. Over the years when I occasionally wear my glasses, my partner will look at me, face full of love, and say, “You look like you did when I fell in love with you.”
It seems the gap between feeling my best and feeling my worst isn’t as visible to other people as it is to me. So I guess all I can do is go out in the world with my bloody ointment hairline and keep doing what I need to do to heal. Assuming Mark Zuckerberg doesn’t completely sink it to the ground, Instagram will still exist next summer.
