How we look works differently because there are mirrors everywhere.  When you look in the mirror do you see yourself looking back?  Or is there something unexpected?  Something that seems just a little bit off?

When I first went to therapy around gender identity it seemed to be the final admission that, yes, I am trans.  I had heard about body dysphoria, the disconnection with your body that often comes with being trans.  Parts of your body don’t fit with your internal image of yourself.  Growing up I had it drilled into me to love my body, and I didn’t want to give that up.  I promised myself that I would do anything that I could do to prevent body dysphoria from overcoming me.

As I became more aware of how I wanted people to think of me, interact with me, and see me, I doubted that anyone could see in me what I saw in myself.  Every time that I looked in the mirror there was something discordant.  Like hearing a recording of my voice—it was definitively me staring back, but there was something different, something that wasn’t right.  I tried to ignore it, to think about something else whenever it entered my mind.  Though I managed not to think about it much, it felt disturbing when I did—and I avoided mirrors.

Then one day I found some old pictures of myself.  The photos made me realize something.  If I showed that them to someone who didn’t know me, they probably wouldn’t be able to tell my gender.  Looking at it with the assumption that I was a boy, that picture looked like a boy.  Looking at it with the assumption that I was a girl, that picture looked like a girl.  It was then that I realized that assumptions mean everything.

I started taking more pictures of myself.  Self-photography became a fixation.  I’d wear different outfits and try to show as many different sides of myself as possible.  My favorite part was looking at the pictures afterward.  It comforted me to know that from a certain angle, in certain clothes, with a certain expression, I could get a snapshot of the image that I see inside of myself.  And with those pictures that I could reinterpret my own appearance, and I found the courage to pass.

For about a year or so body dysphoria wasn’t a real issue for me.  But a more specific concern about my body was growing.  Something that I couldn’t just hide with the right camera angle: body and facial hair.  Friends tried to convince me that it wasn’t a problem.  “There are lots of women with facial hair too,” they would say.  But the amount of hair I had was more than enough to be a clear sign of my biological sex, and I did not want that.  I tried not to become obsessed with shaving, but it seemed to happen anyway.  I wouldn’t leave the house if I had visible stubble.

But every now and then I would push myself a little bit, especially when I was on trips out of town and away from anyone who knew me.  I’d skip shaving for a bit and see how I felt.  One time, last summer, I took it farther than I had before and didn’t shave for two weeks.  My facial hair doesn't grow all that fast, and the hair didn’t bother me for the first four days or so. But after that I began to get nervous.  I don't want anyone, even strangers, to see me. It itched; it felt uncomfortable, both physically and emotionally. I pushed myself to the edge my comfort to try to reinterpret my facial hair.  I would tell myself that it still isn't all that visible; if I were in femme mode, I might still pass.

As the end of the two weeks of being unshaven neared, I avoided everyone that I could and felt embarrassed when people did see me. Yet, I saw myself all of the time. I became obsessed with my appearance, checking it many times a day. But for the most part, I just tried to make it through the day by focusing on other things and trying to forget I had facial hair.  It was the most I had ever let my facial hair grow out my entire life.

Soon I would need to stop, but I wanted to find something that I could get out of this strife before it ended. And that’s when I came up with the idea of the photo shoot.

For the photo shoot I got dressed up in one of my more masculine outfits, putting on everything that I wear when I’m dressing up for something important, like a drag show. Then I went and did the unthinkable, I ran mascara through my stubble. Even after two weeks, it still wasn’t all that visible, and might not get picked up in the pictures. Yet, as much as it went against every fiber of common sense to make my stubble more visible, there was something soothing about the fact I was using an old drag king trick to do it. It reminded me that this was all a performance, and somehow made me feel more in control.

During the photo shoot I was very focused on the process and didn’t let myself think about what it all meant.  Just get it set up, get the pictures, and get done with it.  Afterwards there were more pictures that I wanted to take, more angles I wanted to explore.  But I couldn’t wait another day.  I shaved immediately.  And thoroughly.  And I felt a great weight lifted off my shoulders.

Afterwards, a friend asked my why I did it.  I didn’t really know.  I told her that it was something I found very difficult to do, and that’s why I did it.  Having gone through the whole experience my insecurities have not disappeared, but I am more comfortable around them.  And I know that it was all worth it when I show the pictures to friends and hear, “Oh my god!  You look just like a drag king!”

See some of the photos from that photo shoot: Stubble, the pictures