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You Go, Gays


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On a Deadline

THE "RENO." The "'88 Sinéad." The "expatriate bobbe-severe." The accessorial tail.

What do you think when you see these 'dos on women? You think, "She likes to make it with the ladies." When you're somewhere you suspect other lady-makers may frequent--say, Whole Foods, or your Catholic all-girls high school reunion--you appreciate these 'dos for making their presence obvious. After all, you may only be in town overnight.

But as lesbian culture veers closer to the mainstream--as we're more likely to be out at work, and clothed at camp--can tonsorial absorption be far behind? Will sporting a "Rosie" or a "Hillary" be so commonplace that we will no longer be able to spot each other?

No. It is certain that lesbian hair will survive the firestorm of assimilation, just as surely as the glossy cockroach will survive nuclear war. Why? Your hair, or lack thereof, is the barometer of your very chick diggin' soul; sometimes your hair knows you're a lesbian before you do. And more to the point, your hair can perform the hypnotic ritual of homosexual magnetism, even when you're too drunk to make significant eye contact. We need the hair. It's our ID, our ear tag, our computerized chip surgically imbedded in the tender flesh of our neck. And while it is recommended that one's first lesbian haircut be performed by a drunken friend (mat knife optional), in extreme cases you can just go anywhere and get a bad haircut.

Yeah, they're stereotypical looks. But if they cut 20 minutes off the chase, I say, plug in the shaver.