140. Old gold: Size matters
Tall girl, misgendered.
Dear Reader,
I hadn’t thought that it was possible for me to feel any taller than the 6ft-plus I already am, but my drastic haircut last week – the result of my first visit to a hair salon since 20191, during which I lost my long locks in favour of a short and unintendedly bristly2 coiffeur – makes me feel as if my head has shot up even further from my shoulders.
In between ordering a desperate selection of high-necked jumpers and experimenting with wearing all of the hats that I own – sometimes more than one at a time – in an effort to conceal both long neck and bristles, I’ve mined some old gold from my Substack archive about my looming stature to share with you for my Saturday post this week.
If you’ve met me more recently than two summers ago when I’d first published ‘Size matters’, I hope you enjoy the read. If you’re reading it for a second time, I hope that it will still bring a smile to your face.
As always, thank you so much for reading.
With love,
Rebecca 🦒
Size matters – tall girl, misgendered
Standing at just over 6ft tall and with strapping shoulders I am often mistaken for a feller.
As a child I was a paradox: both tall for my age and a remarkably late developer. Teenagers outside my own group of girls would often mistake me for a brother of one of them. ‘What’s a boy doing here?’
It’s not just my height, though, that will pitch me clean into the ‘boy’ camp.
Reader, I am built like a Lego brick. Not for me the sweeping neck and sleek chesspiece shoulders of Cluedo’s Miss Scarlett: I am blocky and angular, with broader shoulders than I’ve seen on anyone except my own dad. Have a look at Antony Gormley’s striking ‘Angel of the North’ sculpture and laugh with me when I tell you what my husband calls me.
‘Angel of the South’. Yes, really.
#funnynotfunny
I have lost count of the number of times I have been addressed in shops as ‘Sir….. MADAM!’ In a queue for the Ladies in a German shopping centre I was admonished with the words ‘Aber SIE gehören doch DAhin!’ (But YOU belong over THERE!) delivered by a somebody’s-favourite-grandmother type. To her credit, after a closer look both at me and my Union Jack lapel badge, she swiftly apologised, adding the words ‘Ah, Briteeesh!’, as if that explained everything.
I felt embarrassed. Being identified as someone in the wrong queue felt like the end of the world. Still in my early twenties I hadn’t yet grown into myself. I wasn’t used to this big, square body of mine. So I shrank. Shrank away from crowds, from queues, from shopping centres altogether. I even tried to shrink my tall frame into a wannabe smaller one – but this being impossible it meant I just became stooped and hunched and round-shouldered and uncomfortable.
And then – years later – I received a compliment that changed my mind. Someone said something lovely to me about my broad-shouldered frame. Arriving at a smart birthday party wearing a halterneck dress I’d felt instantly self-conscious and reached for a borrowed pashmina to cover my shoulders.
‘Don’t you dare cover up that beautiful back! Let those shoulders show!’ These words from the birthday girl herself hit me. ‘Cover up’? Is that what I’d been doing? Yes, I’d been hiding. Hiding my shoulders. Hiding my height. Hiding myself.
And why, when there was nothing at all I could do about my size, shape or shoulders? I needed to own this. So now I do just that.
Reader, I’m still tall. But now I rock it.
Drying my hands at a pub washbasin recently I was asked by a lady ‘Am I in the wrong one?’ as she came through the door marked ‘Ladies’ behind me. I turned round. ‘No, I’m just very tall’, I replied, with my widest smile.
Feeling that I looked like a man to other people was something I used to find frustrating. But I mind it much less now I’m more comfortable in my own skin, and especially when it gets me a free drink.
How did I get one of those? With the simple reply of ‘Well, hello!’ in my girliest voice in response to the barman’s greeting of ‘Afternoon, gents!’ to me and my husband. Now that made up for a frustration or two.
Cheers!
Love,
Rebecca
📚 Reading 📚
📚 I thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful post by
of in which she explores her own relationship with short hair. Reader, you’ll love it!
📚 Regular readers of ‘Dear Reader, I’m Lost' will be no strangers to my ongoing light-hearted letter-writing project with fellow Brit Terry Freedman of Eclecticism: Reflections on literature, writing and life. It’s my turn to reply to him on Wednesday, and you can find the archive of our chortlesome correspondence here.
Here’s his most recent letter to me, which I know you’ll enjoy:
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In the five years in between, Jim has trimmed my hair twice.
Why does hair age like this? My baby hair was soft as a kitten’s cheeks… so why is my ‘pushing fifty’ hair more like a hedgehog’s?
On reflection, please don’t answer this.
No one is unkinder than our own inner voice - although some of the eejits you cite here are a close second!! After years of feeling bad about my own appearance, an artsy friend shared that famous Edith Sitwell quote: *If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?* and it made me think differently. You on the other hand look fabulous and I loved reading about your triumphant evolution. Such a joyous ending too! xo
Love it. We call them swimmer's shoulders and it's true - halternecks and bare backs are brilliant for those so blessed!
As for 6 feet tall, so what! You can always see over the crowd and from one who is shrinking as each minute passes, I say - 'Own it!' To which I would also add, 'Bigtime!!!!'