From Bi to Bye

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1Why did waking up have to be so difficult?

I got out of bed this morning and felt like death. I stayed up way too late the night before watching a show about cute animals. Death was confirmed when I looked in the mirror. My hair was floppy and twisted out of shape. Dark circles under my eyes made me look sleep deprived. At least I still had good bone structure…right?

Okay, okay. It really wasn’t that bad. But we’re our own worst critics, right? Especially when we purposefully stay up too late watching documentaries about animals online. After a few moments of careful consideration, I decided maybe my face wasn’t as bad as I initially thought. Maybe I needed to spend less time on i********: comparing myself to others.

Soon I had to face off with my classmates. I was taking a full course load of summer courses, to try and finish my degree in English literature earlier (I had to drop a couple, and so I needed to play catch up now). Compared to me, all most of my classmates were gorgeous. Well, maybe not all of them. Some looked as though they had just crawled out of a swamp and hadn’t learned about personal hygiene yet. But there were a few women I was transfixed by.

One of them was a couple years older than me. Her hair seemed to always be a perfect combination of curly and silky. Once, during a break between classes, I had asked her how she managed to make her hair look so great. She looked a bit confused as she said, “I just shampoo and condition it.” I vaguely remember laughing nervously and saying, “Oh really?” before returning to my seat. As much as I liked to tell myself that “no woman actually looks like that in real life,” some people really did. They didn’t spend hours on hair and makeup. They just rolled out of bed in the morning, showered, blow dried their hair, and away they went, looking beautiful. Cue Beyoncé’s Flawless.

After that realization, I briefly thought about digging a hole in the ground and burying myself with leaves out in the quad. I hated her with her perfect hair. In fact, I hated her so much I couldn’t stop staring at the back of her head…. the freckles on her neck…the way she passed her perfectly manicured fingers through her hair…

Meanwhile, there’s me. At least within an hour or so I would look vaguely human. Thank God for makeup.

Beyond school today, I needed to finish my pitch for my introductory advice column. I was interning at an online magazine called L’amoureuse. It was a mix of fashion, beauty product reviews, YouTube videos, and dating advice. It was also recognized as one of Canada’s top online magazines. Given that I lived in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I was a prime candidate for their internship program and lived just a few minutes away from their headquarters. I was in charge of the latter. I know, I know. It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? They chose the least qualified person to write that section for them, all because I knew how to lie really well. During my interview, I told them that I was this care-free, cool girl that had loads of experience with bisexual dating.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth. I was bisexual, that much was true, but I wasn’t much of a free spirit. It was difficult enough to get one person to like me, let alone multiple people. I had a few experiences with going on dates with women, but none that led to anything remotely interesting. Almost all of my experiences came from reading smutty fanfictions and watching a lot of television.

Of course, the editor hadn’t hired me solely based on my level of dating experience. That would’ve probably been inappropriate. Besides, I’m not sure editors are even allowed to ask those kinds of questions. I had just been so nervous about the interview that I blurted it out. And she had seemed pleased. Why wouldn’t she be? I had offered up that information willingly. And now I sorely regretted it.

The truth was the entire internship was a misunderstanding. When I had applied to be an intern for their magazine, I had mentioned that I had taken a journalism class. Somehow, they thought I meant that I had an entire journalism degree. I didn’t really bother to correct them until after they hired me, and by then they just laughed awkwardly and said it was fine, since I had passed all the practical writing and editing tests already anyway. But the real lie was the one I told during the interview.

We had done the interview over video call. The woman interviewing me was Georgina, the editor of L’amoureuse. She had perfect complexion, white-blonde hair, and seemed to always be wearing something fashionable. I had a feeling she even slept in eighty dollar dresses. She flashed me one of her winning smiles. “We here at L’amoureuse like to write about things that young women can relate to, whether it be clothing, dating, or even feminism. Right now, we’re looking for a fresh new perspective for our dating column. What could you offer us that another applicant can’t?”

I remember panicking internally, but instead of letting it show, I just said, “That’s a good question.” The silence that followed was less awkward. She sat there, waiting patiently for my response. I was internally screaming. I really, really wanted the internship, but I was absolutely clueless when it came to dating. And yet, if I didn’t pitch something truly original, the opportunity would slip through my fingers.

“Well, one unique perspective I have is that I’m bisexual. I’ve had some pretty crazy experiences. My friends always tell me I should write it all down. Maybe a column would be the right place to do that. Omitting details, of course.”

“Wow!” She leaned forward. “What kind of experiences?”

“For example, I’ve dated at least a dozen men and women.”

“A dozen each?” she asked. I swear to God, there was a twinkle in her eye at that moment. “Wow. You must have a lot of stories.”

“Oh, I do.”

I didn’t. But so far, the ruse had worked.

I checked my phone. No new notifications. I opened one of many dating apps I had installed. I flipped through photos of seemingly charming men and women. I paused on a photo of a man with long hair. I had always had a thing for dudes with long hair (possibly because they reminded me of women?)

“Self-employed,” his profile read. Well, that’s not a deal-breaker by any means. Especially considering I was a student with no real career prospects. I had no right to judge people based on their employment status. “Apolitical,” his profile continued. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, that was a definite no from me. Self-employed was fine, but apolitical, too? To me that just screamed “I really don’t care about anyone but myself.” Very few people on this planet have the privilege of being truly “apolitical.”

I continued swiping. Most of the women had long hair, golden skin, and beautiful smiles. And yet their poses at parties somehow screamed “I’m straight!” so I trusted my intuition. Obviously, we all had to start somewhere. And some people do genuinely start off as “bi-curious” before developing real feelings for women. But I was so past that phase, and so past being treated like some kind of amusing experiment.

I dropped my head onto the bathroom sink and moaned. Who was I kidding? Maybe I should just accept a life of loneliness to avoid the horror of being known.

My phone went off. It was my best friend Kristen calling.

Kristen and I had met online through blogging. She lives in Norway, where she was working on her Ph.D. in religion. Her thesis was on the persecution of witches, I think? It was all a little over my head. But as a dedicated Humanities student, I admired her work.

Her intelligence wasn’t the only reason I admired her. There were many reasons I loved her, but the main reason was that she always had interesting perspectives. Her life seemed so different from mine—and more exciting, to boot. Even her accent was way cool. She also had killer style, wearing spiked chokers and getting nose piercings, and all that stuff I was too scared to do.

My phone was still ringing. I answered the video call and moaned. “Today has barely started yet and it already sucks.”

“Is this a new morning ritual of yours?” she asked.

“I look disgusting,” I said. “I regret opening my eyes this morning.”

“That’s not true! You just look…tired.”

“I look like death incarnate.”

She cleared her throat. “Why don’t you make yourself a chai latte? That usually seems to cheer you up.”

I perked up. “Perfect! I’ll at least be distracted by my two black eyes by the wonderfully cinnamon flavor.”

“You know, I’ve only ever heard of people craving real caffeine. Like coffee.” She laughed. “You’re an anomaly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.” I sighed. “Can I call you right back? I was in the middle of a pep talk with myself.”

“A pep talk or a tear-down? You don’t seem too confident.”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

“You got it, darling.”

Returned once again to wallow in the privacy of my own bathroom, I met my eyes in the mirror. “Okay, Lilian. Listen up. You need to pluck those eyebrows, put on some tanning lotion, moisturizer, apply makeup, curl your damn hair, and face the day.” My assertiveness faded almost instantly. “Why is being beautiful so fricking hard?”

I made a decision then: I was going to leave the house without any makeup on for the first time in probably eight years. I was going to do it, and be confident, like the Feminist Goddess that I really was. But I also hoped nobody saw me. Especially not anyone cute. Maybe I could put on my cloak and pull the hood down low over my face like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings?

No. Why did I need to hide? It was just my face, after all. I had been teased pretty relentlessly as a kid for being “ugly.” My mom used to say to me, “Never mind what they think. Who cares?” I agreed and looked forward to the day when I could hold my head high and tell them where to stick it.

But now I was nineteen years old, and to my great misfortune, the criticism about my appearance still cut me. Apparently to the point where I couldn’t walk outside and allow perfect strangers to witness how horrible I looked. I mean, to be fair, it was as much for their sake as mine; I didn’t really want people dropping dead from horror because they looked on my zombie-esque face. But then again, that might be a bit too self-centered of me. Maybe nobody would notice. Maybe they’d think I was some kind of Amazonian warrior queen, who had shrugged off the burden of beauty products and men’s bullshit.

I called Kristen back, attempting to exude confidence. She looked me up and down—or at least as much as she could through my phone’s screen. “You’re going out like that?”

“Kris! That’s not very feminist of you.”

She pursed his lips. “No, I think it’s just honesty. I’d hope you’d say the same to me if I looked bedraggled.”

“I am not bedraggled! Who even says that anyway?”

She shrugged. “I’m trying out new words.”

“Yeah, well, your added vocabulary hasn’t made you much nicer, you know.”

“You don’t pay me to be nice.”

“I…don’t pay you at all.”

“Exactly. By the way, I’m just teasing you about the makeup. You don’t need to wear it.”

I sighed in defeat. “I’ll go put on some concealer and eyeliner.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll help you look a bit livelier.”

“I’ll do it, but I’m not happy about it!” I exclaimed, opening my makeup bag. I was happy with it. I didn’t want to go out with makeup anyway.

“Mhmmm. If you say so.”

* * * *

A few hours later, I stood outside campus, waiting for the bus. I looked around eagerly, hoping to spot her. I called her Goth Girl. Obviously, but that wasn’t her real name. I didn’t know her age or her major in school, but I knew that she was beautiful. And judging by her aesthetic and the pins on her backpack, we had a lot of similar interests. She always wore black clothes and a spiked headband. Sometimes, she even wore spiked boots. Really hardcore. She was super pale. She probably wore white foundation to achieve that look (God, was I already analyzing her like one of the beauty and fashion writers?).