It’s fairly common knowledge in queer spaces that butches, myself included, love doing acts of service for those around them - “can I come and fix this for you?” or  “can I come help you move?” have been uttered by butches to countless people. For me, personally, the one that tends to get repeated is “oh yeah I can do haircuts” or “I’m actually pretty good at hair color” or, more recently as I learned how: “oh yeah, I can tailor that for you!” 

This is something noticed, and pointed out, usually lovingly, by femmes in particular; many of them find it endearing, even attractive, when we are doing these acts, and many others in the community find it endearing or generally helpful when we are the first ones to show up to help. At the same time, femmes in particular are quick to notice what it actually is: a desire to feel wanted in a space. 

Many of us butches struggle in lesbian spaces with feeling undesired as people, especially for those of us marginalized. I myself swore off dating apps long before even coming out as a woman, much less coming out as a butch; one too many times being called “exotic” by some white stranger really leaves a poor taste in your mouth. And it’s hard, as a butch, to not begin to see the same thing when you begin presenting as one in the spaces you are in; often, butches and mascs are acceptable as targets to be objectified, great for a quick fuck or protection, but not much else. And this objectification very much starts to dig into the core of your being: you feel like you don’t serve much purpose other than to be there to cook,  clean, or some other tertiary thing. And this is how that butch stoicism starts to creep in and overtake parts of yourself you thought were something else. 

I try to hold myself up as a happy, safe butch, and was always scared of falling into that cold stoicism I sometimes saw—I like being warm, and safe, and a person who is happy and helps others be happy as well. But this kind of cold, nonchalant objectification—both sexually and socially—has a way of not making you realize that your once-real happiness is also turning into a mask, changing the way you interact with the world around you, because it feels as though no-one else is capable of seeing anything else except for that slight helpfulness and whatever mask you have chosen to wear, even if that mask used to be your genuine face. 

I started to realize it was turning into a mask when I began to notice that I was asking to perform more acts of service in a way that felt like desperation to be seen. After all, if I am someone that people approach to ask if I can cut or color their hair, then I am no longer just “another butch who can help move”. I am seen a bit more specifically as “the girl who can cut and color hair!” and a piece of myself and my skillset feels far more properly seen. By trying to make ourselves unique and skilled laborers, we as butches often hope that it gives others a reason to please keep us around even if we can’t be the life of the party or sexual objects, even if we want to just be people. Haircuts, after all, are regarded by many as a time to be social, to chat with a friend, and yet I still can be moving, using my hands to serve my friends, making sure that they are taken care of. 

This applies to anything we do, not just to me offering to cut hair or help someone move: after all, each of us is a unique person with our own skillsets in carpentry, or in art, or even just cooking a simple meal; at the end of the day, we all long to be seen, and these acts of service are where we find people often see us. Often, that feeling of being seen is found particularly in femme friendships and femme love, as well as the camaraderie and trust built between butches, especially for those of us in conservative states. Those of us who are transfem, or butches of color, or living under regressive regimes often struggle with feeling unwanted and decide that the only way to deal with it is by accepting it—yeah, so what if no one wants us here? We are not less butch because we are transfem, just as how we are not less lesbian for being trans, or how we would never allow our womanhood to be taken down due to the circumstances of our birth. And yet, as butches, we feel as though the only way to feel seen and recognized as butch is by those acts of service for those around us. 

As I said in the beginning, it is a common thing to see these complaints, or feel them, and assume that these acts of service are not a good thing, or that they somehow should not be acknowledged the same way, or that we should be finding other ways to interact as butches, and I think that is the wrong message to take—after all, not only are these acts often affirming for the femmes who we are performing them for, but they are also affirming for us as butches. I would never give up offering to do acts of service for the people around me, femmes or others, even if I knew I was properly seen and loved in the community—the point here is to elaborate on, perhaps, where this culture arose from and that it is something to be nurtured further. For example, I truly do feel more seen being needed for specific acts of service than feeling as though I am simply needed as a body to fill a space. 

“Oh, these butches are so nice, they helped me move and did some repairs and all they wanted to work for was pizza and beers!”—an act of service, a time to be social not only with your friend but also with other butches who you know are in solidarity. 

“Just pay me back in pizza and beers!”—a fantastic thing to ask for in repayment, because that way your friend doesn’t have to feel guilty about you doing work for free, and you don’t have to feel guilty by asking for real payment, or anything in return. What are we really asking for, honestly? 

“Oh, you don’t have to pay me back, let’s just hang out for a bit after I’m done.”

Millie Q (she/her) is a butch woman writing out of Salt Lake City, Utah about butchness, transness, and Mormonism. Raised a Mormon, she spent a long while fixating on queer spaces as “a really good ally” before deciding to blow up her upbringing and start something of her own in transition and butchness. In between doing haircuts for friends and reading whatever she gets her hands on, Millie can be found writing at her Substack.