Most women nowadays cut their hair and feel liberated afterward, but the women I knew wouldn't dare to do so unless it was to tear off someone else's.

A favorite pastime of the boys in town was to surround a lone ant on the street, shine the reflection of a magnifying glass, and watch it burn to death; the women simply did that with other women.

Letting your hair down was immodest and made you a loose woman. The long of it is my femininity. I take my time on a warm, hazy morning to sit in a chair in my backyard and let my body soak the sun. I would put my hair over the chair and watch it drip onto the folds of the grass until it darkens.

I wear my garter belt to hold up my nude stockings underneath my favorite white dress. I comb through my black curly hair and leave it down to dry, but I'm not loose. I had a husband.

But I still walked with my eyes on the ground. I know of mostly peeping toms who saw me through keyholes and pocket telescopes. But when I was safe and alone, I would waltz with the silhouette on the wall by the fire with clips in my hair.

Eventually, I listened and cropped my hair, curled it even more, and dyed it red. I was more dangerous than World War II. Many men offered lighters for my cigarette even though I never asked for one. It was intimidating, but I accepted anyway. I figured if I shone a lantern on my problems and my sexuality, people would respect that at least I didn't try to hide my sins.

Not that it helped. I've never felt more humiliated, scorned, hated, exposed, objectified, and torn apart in my life when they stripped me and cut me and my hair as the men watched, so I left.

And if I could tell you my name, I would, but I can't. So here's the short of it. I like to dress up, but I don't. But life has gotten better since I stopped asking for trouble. And I still walk with my eyes on the ground.