Someone recently told me that they knew I was queer within minutes of meeting me, because of my hairy armpits. I felt myself swell with satisfaction; the idea that they openly advertise my queerness is strangely pleasing to me. After years of grappling with the body hair debate, I stopped shaving them earlier this year in an ‘F you’ to the patriarchy. I also just love how they disgust and repel (straight) men. Yet I would be lying if I said that ‘looking gay’ wasn’t a welcome benefit to my decision. There’s just something about subverting traditional beauty standards that is distinctly queer. My friends and I – mostly queer women – frequently joke about the ‘Lesbian Uniform’. Take a sweeping look around Kings and Pulse and you’ll find a freakishly high proportion of us with similar features. Think nose piercings, tattoos (extra points for Venus symbols or nude women), mullets, carabiners, and Doc Martens.
Why is it that these seemingly normal pieces, when combined together, form an image that we all recognise as queer? Traditional femininity is based on a heteronormative ideal of what women should look like. Soft. Hairless. Delicate. The queer community is known for challenging the norm, and fashion is no different. It’s difficult to pinpoint, but this lesbian aesthetic can be characterised by its refusal to go along with convention, favouring instead the female gaze. It is more nuanced, scattered with references that might go amiss to the untrained eye. It’s just for us. While others may overlook the 2 short nails on my dominant hand, the lesbians know better.
Traditional femininity is based on a hetereonormative ideal of what a woman should look like.
This is especially intriguing to me as I have always presented as ‘femme’ – a lesbian who appears stereotypically feminine, oftentimes indistinguishable from a straight woman. Once again, it should be noted that conventional ‘femininity’ is problematic and based on straight ideals. I therefore sometimes wonder if this presentation is a result of my not being out at home, and coming from a more traditional background. Toeing the line between visibility (for personal fulfilment) and ‘straight-passing’ (for safety) is a frustrating dilemma that will take time to play out.
Despite my pride in my identity, conspicuous queerness is an ongoing battle, and so being recognised as queer in a safe space is a muchneeded source of validation. It’s a secret language that only we can speak, and it says “I’m just like you!”. Of course not every queer woman fits this aesthetic, but I find the Lesbian Uniform amusing and quite comforting. And considering how happy they make me, I really don’t think I’ll ever shave my armpits again.