In 1998, I sat in a stylist’s chair clutching a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow’s iconic pixie cut from the movie Sliding Doors. You might remember the film—its story split in two: in one version, Paltrow’s character catches the subway just in time and discovers her boyfriend cheating on her, leading her to cut her hair short and begin anew; in the other, she misses the subway, keeps her long hair, and holds on to her illusions.
My stylist warned me upfront: while she could give me the haircut, it wouldn’t look quite like Gwyneth’s because I simply didn’t have her hair. But I went for it anyway. She was right—it didn’t quite match, but it was a new look.
Since then, every haircut has carried with it a secret hope that a new me will emerge. And yet, the next day, I always realize: it’s still me. Just with a haircut. A little different, but fundamentally the same. A lesson I’ve learned the hard way: you can change, improve, try new things, but you remain you—perhaps with highlights, a new job, or a bolder lip color.
Last year, I ended my longest relationship yet, a four-year romance with a NYC police officer. I had lived alone for 25 years, fiercely guarding my independence. From the start, I told him I’d never lived with a man and had no plans to start now. But he believed love would eventually change me, that lives would merge gradually and inevitably. The truth? I was still me… just with a boyfriend. Eventually, I called it off, maybe later than I should have.
People say you can’t just “flip a switch” and decide to be gay. Fair enough. I hadn’t suddenly changed; I’d long harbored feelings for women—kissing a best friend in college, crushing on a folk singer in my twenties, even sleeping with some bored, bisexual wives in my thirties. But I’d always chalked these up to exceptions, feverish blips in a predominantly heterosexual life.
After all, I’d dated men all my life without question, and no one else questioned it either. That’s how identity settles in: when there’s no contrary evidence, you just keep believing what you’ve always believed. Even the women I found appealing seemed to reinforce my straightness—because, in my confused mind, I was attracted to women who looked like men. Yeah, that’s not what it means.
About a month after my breakup, and curiously just a week after I officiated a friend’s gay wedding, I switched my dating app preferences to women. Just to see.
Most profiles left me cold—until I saw her: a woman with a bleached pixie cut and a streak of blue hair falling over her eyes. She looked less like a woman and more like a nymph or fairy, the kind who might lure you into a forest and keep you as a lover beneath an ancient elm for a hundred years.
We matched. I warned her I was probably the last person she should meet. I wasn’t gay, and I’d just ended a long relationship.
“If I were one of your friends,” I wrote, “I’d tell you to run.”
Still, we met for coffee. Then brunch. I felt like I was interviewing for a job I wasn’t qualified for. Our first shy kiss on the corner of 72nd and Broadway left me trembling all the way home.
“Do you like her?” my friend asked. “Do you want to date her or go shopping with her?”
I didn’t know. Part of me thought no lesbian on earth would take me seriously. How could they? I had decades of men to explain.
The blue fairy texted the next day: “I was thinking of your hair. I like it.”
“Why don’t I come over tonight?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “Should I make dinner?”
“Let’s skip dinner,” she said.
Panic texted to my friends: “She’s coming over in an hour, and we’re NOT having dinner. ALL CAPS. NO DINNER.”
“You’ll be fine!” they encouraged. “Have fun!”
At 6 p.m., I answered the door, shaking a dirty martini like my life depended on it. Sitting beside her on the couch, it felt like I was about to jump off a cliff.
And then she kissed me.
I’ll resist the urge to overstate, but it felt like surfacing from ten leagues beneath the sea—as if I’d never breathed before and would never get enough air.
The next day was April 8, the day of a solar eclipse. Though Manhattan wasn’t in totality’s path, the light dimmed as if a dimmer switch had been turned down, colors flattening to sepia. My friend Kim and I took turns peeking at the sun through flimsy glasses.
“So, this is happening,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. I had never felt a more absolute yes.
As the sun returned to full brightness, nothing looked quite the same.
Coming out wasn’t like revealing a long-held secret. It was more like discovering a unicorn in my kitchen—unbelievable, confusing, and something I wanted to shout about to everyone I knew.
I think I had it easy compared to many late-in-life lesbians. When I told my friends I was dating women, it was like showing up with bangs—unexpected but not earth-shattering. The main thing was that I liked her.
People often tried to give me an out: “Maybe you’re not gay, just in love with this person.” But I didn’t want protection from my truth. Saying “maybe you just like this omelet” misses the point.
No, I like eggs. Period.
I fell hard for the blue fairy, shocking myself and everyone else. I was no longer aloof or commitment-phobic. I wanted to be her girlfriend—right now. When she mentioned moving to Brooklyn, I was inconsolable.
I was different with her than I’d ever been with a man—gentle, accommodating, treating her like glass. I told her she was the only one for me, and I believed it.
Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I wasn’t commitment-phobic—I was just gay. Embracing this new identity should fix everything.
But underneath, the old insecurities emerged in new forms. What if I wasn’t “gay enough”? What if I was only gay because of her? Gay by association?
Within a few months, red flags appeared. The blue fairy revealed herself as a master manipulator. By July, accusations flew, fights erupted, and our whirlwind romance ended as quickly as it had begun. It was the most painful breakup I’d ever endured.
My lifelong fear was that relationships with men would erase me. Now, I feared that losing this relationship would erase the “gay me.”
It took time, but I learned that I could and would remain gay without her. What I was mourning was not a person but the loss of something I never could lose—myself.
I didn’t need a girlfriend to be gay. I didn’t have to change. I was still me… just with a new sexual identity.
A year later, I’m still here, still gay, same hair, new day.
Happy Pride Month.
