Dear Lourdes: The Ignominy of Androgyny

Herein, our hapless heroine submits her real questions to an imaginary advice columnist, who dispenses preternaturally personalized pearls of wisdom.

Dear Lourdes,

I have a problem that I haven't seen in your column before. I'm a girl, but that fact isn't always readily apparent to the general public. Homeless people and store clerks mistakenly address me as "sir." Small children wander up to me on the street and ask whether I'm a girl or a boy. Elderly women approach me and exclaim, "What a handsome young man you are!" (I concede that this last example appeals to the little bit of vanity I have left; it seems better to be thought of as a good-looking boy than a homely girl.)

Just this weekend, while I was an enjoying an afternoon walk in my neighborhood, some nearby teenage boys pointed, laughed and yelled, "What's your gender?" All this while I was wearing a form-fitting pink sweater. Not to mention a bra with all of the uplift technology that $50 at Victoria's Secret can buy. What's a girl to do?

I will admit to having a square jaw and a boyish figure. And my hair is neither here nor there with regard to length and style, so it's not really tipping the scales in favor of the feminine. All the same, when I look in the mirror I definitely see a girl---an average-looking girl most days, perhaps able to pass for cute every fortnight or so. Not hot, but identifiably female. It's upsetting to me that my fellow man (and woman, but especially man) may not be reaching the same verdict.

Lourdes, how can I fix this? If you'll pardon the pun, it's really kind of a drag.

Signed,
Unisexy in the U.S.A.

Dear Unisexy,

Ay, mija, where to begin? Maybe we can start by having you take off your pants---namely, those Banana Republic khakis that you've been wearing to work. Every. Single. Day. You do own skirts, don't you? How will the fellas know you've got great gams if you don't show them off once in a while? I know it's chilly in the city, but bite the bullet already and pretend that it's summer. While you're at it, blow some dough at those vintage shops in the Haight and see if you can't beef up your dress selection. Who needs C-cups and junk in the trunk when you've got old school charm?

About the hair: it's time to let go of the 'fro. Actually, that time came and went a couple of years ago, but your Lola is willing to work with people whenever they're ready. I know you've enjoyed the freedom of a wash-and-go 'do. And you've still got a lot of trust issues stemming from that unfortunate 6th-grade Jheri Curl. Hell, every appointment you've ever had in a black hair salon involved fear and pain and at least four hours of your life that you'll never get back, most of it spent waiting. But real women take charge of their hair. If you look like someone who has at least attempted to beat his/her hair into submission, most people will give you the benefit of the doubt on that second X chromosome. Seriously--do some research, make a decision, take the plunge. You probably won't regret it, but even if you do, the wonderful world of wigs awaits.

Next, get thee to the nearest Sephora. Putting on a little makeup places you decisively in the Land of the Ladies. So what if all those pretty girls in black give you the heebie-jeebies, or the vast array of offerings is overwhelming? Take some baby steps. Go with a friend and buy a lipstick or some eyeshadow.

You don't have to do everything all at once. And I'm sure you've got your own self-improvement projects that you could add to my suggestions. Change is good. Of course, you could leave everything as is, and continue to fly the flag for the "looks shouldn't matter" movement. But as my friend Dr. Phil might say, "How's that workin' out for ya?" Not so much, eh? Maybe I'll bump into you at my next eyebrow waxing appointment.

Vaya con Dios,
Lourdes