me me me me me

sasha likes my hair – text only 

(This is a text only post as I don’t want to use a funny picture or a snarky quotation. It’s terribly self-indulgent, but, this is the internet right? I wanted to write it down before I forget)



I sometimes make bad choices. And by sometimes, I mean frequently to always. If you give me the choice between something easy and something hard that will probably be a disaster… well, I’ll take B for $300 Alex. I get bored really fast and easy means boring to me. I know, so obnoxious.

Bad choices were made yesterday involving cinnamon whisky. I realised at 5pm, having only just had the courage to shower (the water was, like, so loud…) that I was supposed to be having my hair cut in an hour. 

I whined to my friends, who told me not to be precious and get on with it. This was the correct response. I am a feral child.

New barber and I wasn’t thrilled.

1. No razor cut

2. No evening out of my neckline

3. If I say, “grade two fading to grade four”, I think that indicates I know what I’m talking about, no? I didn’t mutter, “a trim, I guess?”. This is not a two fade to four. 

Oh, and I accidentally wore a see through shirt. Yeah. Believe me, sitting in front of a mirror, staring at your hungover face and exposed flesh is bad. Sitting there while a birthday party rages outside, to the chant of “21 and past it, 21 and past it”… well. It is a certain sort of hell.

I took about three thousand selfies on the way home, to confirm my first impressions. This is a bad hair cut. I have bad hair. I like having good hair. Good hair is my thing, like other people have being reliable or knowing how to make small talk.

“This is terrible”

“I can’t leave the house again, ever”

“I’m an idiot”

“I’m an idiot with bad hair”

“I’m an idiot with bad hair and lizard eyes and OH GOD I CANT COPE”.

(I never said I wasn’t overly dramatic)

I was quietly listing everything that was wrong about me as I fumbled for my keys in the hallway of my block of flats. This took some time as a) it’s a long list and b) WHERE ARE MY BASTARD KEYS (another thing to add to the list, being disorganised).

Being trapped in my own self indulgent loathing, I didn’t see her coming. I never had a chance. A weight hit me behind the knees and I nearly fell flat on my face.

Sasha had arrived.

Sasha is six or seven years old. I don’t know her mother well because uh, it’s London and we only talk to neighbours in times of crisis. She’s friendly and always amused by her daughter, in an quietly exhausted way. I like her.

Sasha doesn’t really speak words as such, due to some challenges she has but she does chatter. She likes to rub her cheek on my knee and look up at me with an expression I can only describe as, “oh, you’re here. At last. I’ve waited so long”.

She’s done this since the first time we met, by the way. And I don’t really scream I AM CHILD FRIENDLY. But Sasha doesn’t care. She just loves.

(Sidenote, I know there is an unhelpful and damaging stereotype about people with Downs Syndrome being “angels” or somehow nicer than everyone else. I understand this is not actually helpful and reduces people to a simple charicature. I do think Sasha would be Sasha with or without Downs Syndrome. She is pure joy)

I chatted to Sasha and admired her new cornrows, kneeling down to find the candy I carry around in case I see her.

There was a noise. Actually to call that sound a noise is like saying WW2 was a little awkward, or the Pacific Ocean is a tiny bit damp. Imagine the happiest car alarm you can, turn it up… bit more… bit louder… and you’re there. Nearly.

Sasha’s mother tried to get to her first but Sasha is super quick (one of the reasons we agree she should be a pirate when she is older). Making this noise of pure, unadulterated glee, Sasha started running her hands over the back of my skull, laughing and jumping up and down.

Have you ever really seen anyone jump with joy? It’s actually hard work. Imagine having so much joy you can’t help but jump up and down. I wish that for you, you know. I wish that for me too. So much, uncontainable joy.

So I knelt there, in the hall, while Sasha scratched and played and rubbed my too-short, uneven, bad hair, jumping with delight at the sensation on her hands.

There are moments in every day – golden moments – and it’s important to hold on to those among the drama and whining and dark depressing reality of adulthood. This was beyond golden.

My haircut is not good. Fact.

My bad haircut brought actual joy to someone who has done nothing but bring me delight for two years. Fact.

I love my new haircut. Fact.

Thanks, Sasha ♥️

me me me me me · queer

drunk TED talk – how jame gumb saved my life


*That* Jame Gumb.

So my RSI is a bastard today, hence my audio experiment. Please note the following.

1. I am not a professional anything 

2. I have a stutter which makes me super anxious. Try not to mention it THANKS BABES.

3. Silence of the Lambs is DEEPLY problematic and transphobic and I wish I didn’t have such an obsession with it.

4. Trigger warnings for suicide. YAH REALLY. 

5. I do not support the wearing of women’s skin.

jame gumb, my childhood role model. PROBLEMATIC.

Clicky clicky here to listen to my dumb voice

Stats referenced in audio:

“Nearly half (48 per cent) of trans people under 26 said they had attempted suicide, and 30 per cent said they had done so in the past year, while 59 per cent said they had at least considered doing so”

Nearly half (45 per cent) of LGBT pupils – including 64 per cent of trans pupils – are bullied for being LGBT in Britain’s schools. This is down from 55 per cent of lesbian, gay and bi pupils who experienced bullying because of their sexual orientation in 2012 and 65 per cent in 2007

More than four in five trans young people have self-harmed, as have three in five lesbian, gay and bi young people who aren’t trans”


me me me me me

resting butch face donates

UPDATE – super happy that the wonderful Trussell Trust made some space for me and I was able to drop off to my local food bank.  

Hey guys, so I used to collect toiletries for a women’s charity in London, to help women and children fleeing violence.

Sadly the charity closed and I still have a lot of leftover donations. Includes soaps, shampoos, razors, lotions, sanitary products, toothbrushes, toothpaste etc etc…

Please drop me a comment if you know a London charity (please note the use of the word charity) who would accept them. I tried all the local women’s shelters yesterday and no luck. 

Thank you!

me me me me me · queer

let’s fucking do it – all right all right

As a person with a brain and eyes and an internet connection, I am a huge fan of Tracy from Even though we have utterly different skin types, I read her blog religiously. I may also make notes. Maybe. If that’s not weird.


Tracy recently wrote a post called Why I Think You Should Start A Korean Beauty Blog. Read it, dudes, it’s a fucking delight.

Starting this blog has been something I’ve talked about for months but never actually pushed the button. But now Tracy gave me tacit approval, well. Here I am.

I really love skincare. I really hate the beauty industry. Or rather, the beauty industry hates me. Either explicitly or implicitly, the message is, this is not for you. This is for real girls.

I can’t think why.

But, you know what? Fuck the beauty industry. Fuck the counter assistants who openly laugh at me, or on one memorable occasion, refer to me as “it”. As in, turning to her coworker, smirking and saying just loudly enough for me to hear, “I doubt it’s going to buy anything, watch it”.

Even online, beauty communities talk about their totes  adorbs boyfies in sheet masks, or scream, “my eyebrows make me look like a MAN!”.

The assumption is, if you’re here you want to look pretty, young and fuckable. Here are the products you can buy to make that happen!




This is possibly a terrible error. But if you’re smirking, this isn’t for you. It’s for anyone who has ever felt excluded by the “beauty industry”. It’s for the young gay boy who wants to feel pretty. The trans woman who is terrified about going for a facial. The gender non conforming person who just wants nicer skin, godfuckingdamit.

Or if you’re as straight as a ruler but fed up of the unfair standards expected of women (and increasingly men) by an industry that treats aging as an offence against nature, come the fuck in and sit down. Bar is open, first round is on you.

So thanks Tracy. This is all your fault.