Tilda Swinton has long been one of my favorite actors and style icons. She’s tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. I am none of those things and perhaps that is why she so utterly mesmerizes me. Sometimes she can look almost otherworldly. And she always has fabulous hair. So, earlier this year, I decided to try and copy her hairstyle. Hey, be kind, it has been a shitty year so far, and I needed a diversion from the end of democracy.

In January, I showed my hairdresser, Kelly, a picture of Swinton and shared my hair goals with her. I adore Kelly and I have been seeing her for longer than I can remember. I think of her as a dear friend who happens to also cut my hair. Kelly looked at the photo on my phone and said cheerfully, “I think your hair would look great like that.” Everyone needs a Kelly in their life.

She told me it would be a process and would entail growing out the top of my hair longer than I’ve been accustomed to. So, Kelly went to work, and I was surprisingly pleased with the results. In fact, I was feeling pretty cool about my new hair. My dear wife really liked it, but only a couple of friends noticed. Still, I had a little Tilda swagger that gave me a much-needed lift.

That’s how it started. Now, I’ll tell you how it’s going. I’ve been called “sir” twice in the past month. This is really nothing new for me. That’s happened throughout most of my adult life – since I cut my long hair off in the mid 80’s. I’m going to be honest – it stings. And I just don’t get it. Yes, I’m a gold star lesbian, but I’ve never purchased men’s clothing – I mean, I don’t even own a flannel shirt. And I always carry a purse – not a Velcro wallet stuffed in my back pocket. I may not present particularly feminine by classic definition, but I move through the world that way. That is who I am, so it is a very unpleasant experience to be identified otherwise.

It happened recently when I was leaving a shoe store. A teenaged boy was walking out ahead of me and held the door for an older man coming in who looked at me and said loudly, “After you, sir.” I could feel the familiar rush of embarrassment and the hot tears that fill my eyes but never quite fall as I made a quick dash to my car. I was not in a great mood that day anyway and my reserves were low, and I just sat in my car and cried. Okay, I might have also visualized saying “fuck off” to the guy who called me sir.

On the drive home I started thinking about my trans friends – many of the female ones who are far more feminine than me. And I wondered how horrible it must be to be deliberately and forcefully misgendered by the government of your own country. The trans community was the low hanging fruit for Trump and the MAGAs during last year’s election. About 1% of Americans identify as transgender – approximately 2.3 million people – and Republicans spent $215 million on anti-trans ads. Manufacturing fear is expensive, but effective.

Imagine having to misgender yourself on a passport application for fear of being denied approval. And that’s just one of the hideous ramifications of Trump’s assault on trans Americans. People will lie and people will die. But at least Nancy Mace won’t have to worry about getting raped when she pees in a Capitol restroom.

Perspective is a good thing, so I’ve given myself a reset on how to react when I’m called sir, because it will most certainly happen again. I’m going to try and not go to a dark place. I know who I am and most days, I like that person. I’m the kind of person who smiles and holds the door for strangers. And besides, I have fabulous hair.