Replay: Femininity Hangs
Genderfluidity and My Wig
In honor of having just performed this piece at Hot People Read Poetry’s MAKE IT WORK cipher, I am re-releasing this text to the many new eyes on the blog. Thank you for being here.
Originally posted June 6th, 2025
For the past few months, I’ve decided to wear a bright, reddish-purple wig because I am too tired to do my natural hair and also my natural hair is currently at that length that makes people act extra anti-Black, and I just don’t have the patience for it as I attempt to rebuild my life for the sixth time in five years without having another emotional break that I can’t afford.
I found my wig on a rainy trip to a beauty supply in Flatbush. I walked into the shop, striding toward the back, leaving the bell chiming behind me. I stood, still, in front of all of my options, deciding who I wanted to be for the time being.
As if it was waiting for me, my wig sits about belly button height, directly in front of me, and it’s on sale for $25, which feels like Divine Intervention. As long as the lace is big enough for my big ass head, it’s perfect. I pay the woman working the wig counter a dollar for two caps, and take a moment to sit down, remove my bandana and start adjusting the wig on my head. It takes a second before I go ”Oh, yes”. This is who I’ll be for now.
I don’t know how blending a lace front works, and I don’t want to. I don’t strive for a seamless femininity. My femininity hangs. My femininity is easy to remove, (one of the most satisfying things about femininity is the take down. Washing off the concealer, carefully removing your eyelashes, shaved legs on clean sheets, if that’s your thing) in case I change my mind, and I know I will.
Seamless Femininity includes hairlessness, strict shape, unshakeable illusion, perkiness.
I am hairy, I lack form, my secrets poke, and my tits are saggy.
When Blackness and Femininity intersect, the pressure to assimilate becomes that much more vital (wc). As I have said before, in our popular culture, Black Femmes simply are not. We don’t exist, especially if we don’t blend as seamlessly as possible into the White Woman’s World. Beyond race, there lies the implications of age, God forbid your body show proof that you’ve survived. There’s colorism, God forbid you and your Ancestors so obviously know the Sun. I rebuke this, and I feel beautiful.
About five years ago, my journey through gender was kick-started by living with exclusively other queer people for the first time in my life. It should come as no surprise that being around people who were choosing their own path led me to questions about mine. It started with my name. In the late summer of 2020, the first iteration of the Jupiter you know today was born in Atlanta, Georgia. This Jupiter began their tour of masculinity, and attempted to learn what that meant for about two years before abandoning gender altogether, momentarily. I learned I didn’t like it. There’s something so derivative about masculinity as it currently stands, this can and will change, but I am impatient, and I refuse to pioneer in that arena.
With my delve into artistry came my hunger for expanded self-expression, like the Jupiterian that I am. During my masculinity excursion, I found myself limited, especially if I wanted to be seen as the nonbinary I am, because, for some reason, AFAB non-binary = masculine. This I am more comfortable challenging. It started with a small makeup haul after wearing absolutely no makeup for two or three years, which taught me to love my face and gave me the foundation to feel confident in adding some embellishment. I bought concealer, brushes, BB cream, mascara, and blush, just to start.
I think I just got tired of thinking I’m too good for pink. I actually fucking love pink. I love to shop. I love being bitchy and getting what I want because of it. I love gossip. I love getting things for free, and I love making men and mascs do things for me. I love being a baby Dominatrix. I love the protection and the fact that there are plenty of people who literally would not recognize me if it weren’t for my hair of the moment. Femininity is a cloak, whether that cloak manifests as a full face of makeup or a burqa, it serves to protect where masculinity makes itself vulnerable to prove its strength, and I am definitely growing to have a preference.
What I Read This Week
Las Saigantes dir. Jean-Pierre Bokolo