“You’ll look like a boy,” my mother tells me. The implication is that I will be uglier than I already am: pimpled, greasy, in sore need of braces. “Your face isn’t the right shape.”
I notice no one ever tells boys these things, giving them haircuts. I am a spindly, pointy little creature – a bag of wire hangers, as my father says – hiding behind a long curtain of dark brown hair. It is consistently a rat’s nest of knots and dingy-looking oil. I have a muddy look about me, a certain dullness. At nearly thirteen, the average observer tends to guess my age around nine; my slim hips and small, vestigial-looking breasts might almost give me a chance at androgyny, if I didn’t have ten inches of pure and unadulterated nonsense growing out of my scalp. I am the only girl in my grade who takes no pride in her appearance. Perhaps if they had to contend with the face in my mirror every morning, they wouldn’t either.
“What do you want to cut your hair for, anyway?”
There is no telling my mother that in spite of the topographic map of flaws which comprises my face, I have kissed a girl. I look for women like me on television, in books, and I find them, but they cut handsome figures, short of hair, strong of jaw. I am weak and flowery in comparison. I want that kind of strength, that thing called butch which seems to elude me.
“It gets in the way.”
My mother huffs, irritable. “It’ll look greasier the shorter it gets. All that oil will stay on the top of your head.” She gestures to my limp, ugly strings. I flush. “You could have such pretty hair if you took care of it. There’s no reason to chop it all off.”
Here she strikes a sore spot. She knows I crave some kind of beauty, some meager peer approval. To say I don’t want pretty hair, no matter the length, would be a baldfaced lie. I try to say it anyway. She rolls her eyes.
“You can cut it to your shoulders,” she says decisively, “but that’s it. And we’ll get you layers, that’ll look nice.”
I mumble thanks, and three days later come home from the salon looking like a young man’s senior yearbook photo from 1975. It looks horrible, but I take a grainy, yellowish webcam photo anyway, an autistic’s poor approximation of an enthusiastic smile pasted on my face.
Seven years later, I find myself in another salon. I have forgone the lumpy, monochromatic, slightly feminine clothing of my childhood for men’s work shirts and polished leather boots, and I look good, but my hair is the longest it has ever been. I almost feel a kind of pride in having generated so much dead protein.
“So what kind of cut were you thinking of?” the stylist asks.
My mother and I fought about this until the very second I got into the car to leave. She insists upon me leaving some kind of long, wavy bit at the top of my head, enough perhaps to sweep girlishly over one eye. I want it off. “Don’t do anything too drastic,” she warned me as I stepped out the door.
The picture I bring with me has no such extraneous length. Short on all sides, a little longer on top. All-purpose, utilitarian, not a trace of anything lacy or lissome. The stylist nods and gets to work, shows me the ways to make it as masculine as possible. She sweeps it back handsomely with men’s gel and pomade and when I leave I have never felt better in my entire life.
My mother’s horrified shock is temporary, but my father approves. “You feel good, kid?” he asks.
“What should a United States senator, or any citizen, do if the president is a liar?” Sen. Bernie Sanders mused in March.
The media, elected officials, even Trump’s spokespeople have all struggled to reckon with a chronically dissembling commander in chief. Some have opted not to call Trump’s false claims “lies” at all. “Without the ability to peer into Donald Trump’s head,” an NPR reporter reasoned, “I can’t tell you what his intent was."
But, as Sanders went on to say, "Does ignoring this reality benefit the American people?"
We don’t think so: Donald Trump is a shameless, brazen, baldfaced liar. He steals credit, describes the average as superlative, invents history and spins conspiracy theories. Trump even lies about the weather. Here, broken down by subject, is a selected list of Trump’s lies in office:
Although the boys of the Civilian Conservation Corps spent most of their time working hard on building projects throughout the Park, they did find some time to have fun! This photograph, taken between 1934 and 1936, shows two of the young men from NP-3 (Baldface), one of the ten CCC camps that operated in Shenandoah National Park. Here they pose with “Nellie”, the camp mascot, in front of a large Easter basket of dyed eggs, which they delivered to children of the mountain residents that still lived near the camps.
More dinosaur concepts! I’ve decided Sealights is gonna be melanistic, and shadowed by superstition wherever she goes. Poor girl.
Some centrosaurs who are a big part of Sealights life–Shoot is her adopted momma, Glaciertusk is King of the Herd and Shoot’s son, Baldface is an aggressive old hind, and Whistler is Sealights’ closest friend.
And then an unfinished painting of some silly troodontids who thought raiding an hesperonychus nest was a smart idea. I’m not gonna finish it but I thought it was corny.
Rough-around-the-edges and stolid detective Chell, who clawed her way through the ranks via her persistence, keen attention to detail, and, perhaps most valued by forensics, steel-stomach. Fits the loose-cannon trope to a T, breaking more laws than she follows when she gets her heart set on a case. The sergeant always exasperatedly pardons her because he knows her chaotic approach is always towed by an undercurrent of good intentions.
Sergeant Cave Johnson. I don’t even know how to expand on this. Can you honestly imagine JK Simmons’s voice not muffled by a half-chewed cigar as he growls about those goddamned media parasites swarming the parking lot?
Forensic technician Rattmann. More colloquially known as ‘one of the lab geeks’ around the precinct. His background in physics makes him a veritable rewind button at crime scenes–– with the barest details, he can weave a clinical reimagining of what went down, painting a gruesome picture with the deduced velocity and angles of impact, given the blood splatter patterns. Usually sits alone at lunch. Doubles up as the APD’s sketch artist.
Officer Rick. Always calls ‘shotgun!’ during patrol duties. Has obviously been socially spoon-fed the cliches of sexy, fast-paced crime dramas, and tries to emulate them by dropping corny, deadpan-delivery one-liners whenever he arrives at a crime scene. To his credit, his heart’s in the force, but his brain is practically concussing itself trying to think of a clever pun about that grocery store robbery. Um, convenience stores… convenience… ‘something something inconvenience.’ Yeah that’s good… shit, he tripped over the police tape.
Deputy Wheatley, a veteran paper-pusher. Is the third-tier back-up plan should none of the other officers be available to dispatch. He definitely has good intentions, but his track record is paved with too many instances of getting lost during emergency dispatches and ruining crime scenes after remembering that funny little thing his gag reflex did whenever he saw blood–– namely, kick in. His confinement to his desk is a favor to everyone–– colleague and civilian. Nothing deserves to openly carry a gun less than a hothead who got his rocks off to his own sense of authority.
Craig, the sullen records management officer who always looked at you as though he just caught a scent of something offensive. Surreptitiously lives for the personal tours through the evidence lockers, which usually involve a tortuous amount of detours in order for him to fully and appropriately showcase his own knowledge. He will, however, act as though he’s doing you a personal favor, one that he’s only just barely sparing time for in his all-too-busy life. A twitch of his eye. A practiced huff. Four hours of him anthologizing Aperture’s history of legal infractions. Alphabetically.
Space is the fast-talking intern-turned-emergency dispatcher, whose blindingly sunny disposition manages to place callers at relative ease. Both a comfort and an annoyance in the dour-faced world of law enforcement. More often than not shuffled out to deal with the media, as his limited knowledge of the actual goings-on and baldfaced cheeriness presents the best face to the outside world. (NOTE: Wheatley was the one formerly saddled with this chore, as he had a remarkable penchant for talking a lot without actually saying anything. He was promptly replaced after they realized a sudden role-reversal with him hounding the press. Loving the attention, he baited the journalists with “I really shouldn’t tell you this buuuut” scoops about the latest case. He was subsequently furious when they misspelled his name in the article.)
GLaDOS–– the title of the faceless criminal organization that’s been plaguing the city of Aperture. No one knows who’s in charge, or where they’re based. Those who carry out most operations tend to be transient employees–– namely because they simply don’t live past the missions. One of the most renown instances was a sloppy bank robbery. The perp was visibly anxious as they held up the teller, taking hostages and spitting threats, only to be easily negotiated into custody. Chell couldn’t help but be unsettled at how easily they had given up and, glaring them down across an interview table, brought this up. Why did they surrender themselves so quickly? Why go through all the trouble if they weren’t committed in the first place? They’re still shaken. These aren’t the usual nerves of a guilty conscience–– they look physically ill. “The bank… wasn’t the MO.” Then what was? “Showing you what She’s capable of.” Cue person-to-android reveal. The personality construct’s identity is wiped as it’s assimilated into Caroline’s digital hive mind. Whatever semblance of a humanoid shape it retained contorts as weaponry begins sprouting from its flanks. After a chase that tears apart the interrogation wing, Chell manages to put it out of commission with a frequency jammer. A cat-and-mouse relationship between Chell and Caroline (the mastermind behind GLaDOS) ensues. Gradually revealed to be an organization composed of those radically against the moral/social boundaries placed on scientific pursuit.
ALTERNATIVE STORYLINE FOR DOUG (courtesy of @ask-the-mistakeorb!): somehow managed to get himself entangled in GLaDOS. He wants out, but to explicitly do so would be suicide. He takes on a guise as an anonymous informant to the APD, tipping off Chell with the hopes that she could free him as he couldn’t free himself.
Yo, are you not supportive of the ace community? I follow you and I love it but you reblogged a thing about aphobia not being a thing and well... it is and going by most of your posts I guess I would have assumed you would have believed that. No hate, just possible disappointment in one of my favorite bloggers.
nah ace people are fine, it’s just when they do homophobic shit that i side-eye them (just like i’d do the same for straight folks), and they’ve got an unfortunate track record of being publicly homophobic, like i’ve seen posts (and i reblogged at least one within the past week) where an ace person says, in only slightly paraphrased terms, that they can understand homophobia but they can’t understand aphobia, which is just baldfaced homophobia
like ace folks? totally cool. ace awareness? i’m all for it! serophobia? that’s where you lose me
There’s a ton of problematic shit surrounding her, especially at first, the zooms onto her pant leg and the Gang calling her a guy and the referring to her by a slur constantly. And she should be played by an actual trans woman. But most of this is done from the Gang’s point of view, completely outside of Carmen herself, and we know by now that the Gang is a group of gross ridiculous people whose views shouldn’t be trusted.