Day Three in Costa Rica

Since 2006, I’ve dyed at least part of my hair pink, usually a few locks near my face. The dye comes in a kit from L’oreal and doesn’t require bleaching beforehand ““ brush it on, wait thirty minutes, and wash it off. Voila, cartoon-bright streaks among the (once-prematurely) graying strands.

The first time I dyed it, I was about to head off to my first Wiscon ““ a large feminist science fiction convention held yearly in Madison, Wisconsin. As I’ve found the case at sf conventions since then, I wasn’t the only person there with an odd hair color; I glimpsed rainbows of pink, blue, and green. And I realized it was becoming. Complete strangers would lean over and whisper, “I like your hair,” including two flight attendants on the way home.

After the con the color faded, softer and softer, until finally, when I went to get a haircut, the hairdresser was cutting away dusty rose tips. I looked in the mirror and saw a middle-aged woman with a short, practical cut.

I bought a new kit on the way home and re-pinked my hair that afternoon.

Since then it’s become a ritual following each haircut. I go in and see it trimmed away until only the faintest hint of color remains. Sometimes I take advantage of this time to do my shopping in sedater department stores like Macy’s or Nordstroms, excursions that I think of as “passing for surburban.” Then I go home and re-dye my hair. I’m always a little self-conscious those first few days of screaming fuchsia, when I have to sleep with a towel over the pillow to keep the pink from leaving traces on the pillowcase. I try to time these days to coincide with a science fiction convention or some similar event.

I use that as an excuse when people ask me why I dye it. “I’m a sci-fi writer and it helps fans identify me at cons,” I say. That’s the partial truth. It’s part of my brand. But it’s also more than that.

Sometimes people interpret it for me. When my mother was recovering from surgery for colon cancer one year, I visited the hospital every day and used the valet parking they provided. “I know why your hair’s pink,” the elderly valet confided to me one day as he took the keys from me. “Are you a survivor or is it a relative?” I realized that he thought I was part of the flood of pink that month against cancer. I couldn’t bear to disillusion him, so I said something to him about my mother, and he went on to tell me about the women in his life who had struggled with cancer.

That’s another reason why I dye it pink. People talk to me. There’s something about the color that draws them to ask about it or say that they like it. The only person I’ve ever found who disapproved outright was a relative’s girlfriend. She didn’t last. My hair color has.

But more than that, the pink forces me to talk to people as well. I’ve habitually toed the line between introvert and extrovert, depending on which Meyer Briggs results you look at, and I like the fact that the pink pushes me outside myself, makes me be socially brave in a way I’ve sometimes retreated from.

The pink’s a favorite with people. I tried purple one year, a vibrant, almost fluorescent purple that required bleaching the hair beforehand, a painful process I will never repeat. Some nuance of the purple made it seem more confrontational, less welcoming than the pink. Fewer people came up to say something about it, although I was startled at one point when a man behind me began stroking it. “I couldn’t resist the color,” he said.

I have been advised to avoid blue. “It ages one,” a friend said, although I’ve admired the turquoise shading of Camille Alexa, a fellow speculative fiction writer, at several cons.

I worry that L’oreal will stop making this particular brand. I’ve got five boxes of it stockpiled under my sink. I figure I’ll commit to the color until the year or two that the boxes represent are past. After all, who knows what advances in hair color may have been made by then?

It took a while for my mother to get used to it. Finally one day, when we were coming out of a store, she chuckled. “Did you see that man?” she said. “He smiled at your hair. I guess anything that makes people smile is okay.”

And I agree. If I’m making people smile, I’m doing something right.

I’m lucky to live in Seattle, where hair is often not its natural shade. I’ve found when I visit the East Coast, particularly in the southern areas, people are not quite as welcoming of the color. They’re more likely to surreptitiously (or so they think) point it out to each other. I haven’t traveled abroad with it yet.

And I’m lucky to work at home as a writer, with no boss to object to the pink. More than once someone has wistfully said, “They would never let me do that at work.” That seems a shame to me, much like seeing the trainers at my gym wearing work-mandated band-aids over tattoos lest they shock the sensibilities of the patrons.

The hair color also lets people spot me in a society where being a middle-aged woman is often a cloak of invisibility. Sometimes that’s unwelcome. I’d rather fade into the crowd, which is much harder to do when pink-topped. That’s why I love sf conventions so much, why they feel like coming home to my spiritual tribe. At Penguicon I rubbed elbows with a woman whose wheelchair was tricked out like a Victorian mechanical contraption, complete with sporadic puffs of steam, a strapping young gentleman costumed as Thor, and a woman whose baby was dressed up as a miniature robot, complete with blinking lights. Indeed, at Norwescon, a local convention that’s particularly costume heavy, I look positively sedate.

It’s strange that I engage in this particular cosmetic practice. I’ve always resisted make-up. I put it on and, despite the best teachings of my mother the former Mary Kay representative, I see a clown-faced stranger in the mirror. The pink hair allows me to feel like I’ve managed some effort to dress up. Combine it with the right shirt, and people assume I’ve carefully color-coordinated outfit and hair.

But I cringe, just a faint recoil, when I look at those shirts in my closet: the crisp peppermint striped or hibiscus and butterfly printed shirts gleaned from the local Talbots outlet. Because here’s a secret: I’m not particularly fond of pink. I was never a Barbie girl. I like deep purples, turquoise, and emeralds.

In fact, I resent the way pink’s been mandated for little girls. I worry that I’m doing this to make myself less threatening to men, that I’m saying, “Look! I’m a feminist, but a fluffy pink harmless one.”

But I tell myself to stop over-thinking it. It’s a color, not a lifestyle. I embrace my pink and claim it. Which adds another dimension to it for me: it’s ironic statement as well as fashion one. It says I don’t give a damn about what other people consider age-appropriate. “This is me,” my hair says. And I look damn good in pink, or so I think.

Or maybe that’s just ego talking, an overly healthy one bolstered by all those strangers telling me they like my hair.

Happy Pride Month! I wanted to put together a list of some of my F&SF stories featuring queer characters that I particularly love.

“Every Breath a Question, Every Heartbeat an Answer” is a story that appeared this year in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, set in a hospital for war veterans, involving a lesbian centaur coming to terms with loss and the enigmatic ace paladin who seems to promise an answer to the question haunting her. Like many of my stories and the Tabat Quarter, it’s set in the world of Tabat, where intelligent magical creatures are beginning to question the roles society has allotted them.

“Hoofsore and Weary” precedes “Every Breath a Question” but features one of the previous story’s main characters, involved in the journey that will later bring her to the war hospital. It appeared in the anthology of military fantasy Shattered Shields, edited by Jennifer Brozek and Bryan Thomas Schmidt.

“Rappacini’s Crow” is set in the steampunk world of my Altered America stories and has a trans protagonist who must figure out how to escape not just a malignant crow, but its owner as well. It appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

“How Joyful the Work” appeared in Predators in Petticoats, edited by Emily Leverett and Margaret S. Mcgraw. This theme anthology of 25 original stories focused on “fearsome feminine power”. I chose the figure of Penelope from Homer’s Odyssey, because I’ve always found her an intriguing figure. In this story, told from the POV of a household maid, instead of weaving tapestries, she creates clockwork contraptions.

“Preferences’ was recently reprinted in a special cyberpunk issue of The London Reader but originally appeared in Chasing Shadows, an anthology edited by David Brin and Stephen Potts, stories based on Brin’s book The Transparent World. It’s a short piece about data privacy, and reflects some of my experience working in that industry.

“The Threadbare Magician” is urban fantasy featuring a gay magician and his attempt to evade a particular doom. Seattle denizens will recognize references to a multitude of landmarks, including the Value Village store in Redmond, and you may be surprised what a simple trailer park on the East Side can hold. It originally appeared in Genius Loci, edited by Jaym Gates; you can find the audio version on Podcastle here.

“Call and Answer, Plant and Harvest” is set in the city of Serendib, a location that has for some reason supplied a number of very short pieces set on its streets, including “The Subtler Art” and “The Owlkit, the Candymaker, the Beekeeper, and the Brewer”. This appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies; it was originally written for an anthology but the editor was anti-Chaos Mage. 😉 Luckily editor Scott Andrews was not.

“Elsewhere, Within, Elsewhen” was originally written for Beyond the Sun, an anthology edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt. It features a protagonist trying to come to terms with his husband’s betrayal, on an alien world that presents him with an extraordinary way to escape it.

“Ms. Liberty Gets a Haircut” originally appeared in Strange Horizons but has been reprinted in multiple anthologies. It’s my favorite of all my superhero stories.

Bigfoot, reprinted on my site here, originally appeared in a feminist fiction issue of literary magazine 13th Moon and features a newly appeared Bigfoot and the reporter covering that appearance.

Want more? My Tabat series features the charismatic Bella Kanto, a bisexual gladiator who finds herself thrust into schemes to overthrow the government — and very structure — of the city she fights for, Tabat.