A Kind of Justice by Renee James Page B

couldn’t possibly know anything about sex.
    â€œIt looks . . . fine.” I almost said “okay,” which is what it is, but that would be an insult to Lisa’s genius.
    â€œPardon me,” says Lisa. “You’re a hairdresser, right?” As in, what could a stupid hairdresser know about marketing?
    â€œCorrect,” I answer.
    Danni fills in the group on my former career and circulates a copy of the latest promotional flyer for my salon. It’s boilerplate, too. I’m not a creative genius.
    â€œNot bad,” says Lisa. “The sight line doesn’t lead into the copy, and you could do more with the photo, but not bad.”
    I smile.
    Danni follows up with me. “Bobbi, it sounded like you had something more to say.”
    If Cecelia were here she would jab me in the ribs and remind me to shut up. As combative as she can be, she gives these twits a lot of space in the interest of connecting our generations. Alas, Cecelia isn’t here and Lisa’s arrogance has gotten under my skin. Plus, I don’t need this committee in my life right now, not with a failing salon and a loved one in severe emotional plight, a nasty cop breathing down my neck, and a social life so meager I have to pay a hooker to get laid.
    â€œI just think we might talk about the strategy of having a Top 50 theme here. It’s going to offend 90 percent of the people in the top 500. Plus if you’ve ever seen a botched list like this, they can be very damaging to the credibility of the sponsor. Do we feel like we have the expertise to pick the fifty most influential transwomen in America? Do we know who all the influential transwomen are?”
    Lisa’s face flushes. She is irritated by me in the same way a rich tourist is irritated by the supplications of a street person. Amazing that as timid and cowardly as I am, I somehow manage to set off people like this.
    â€œDo you have a better theme?” she snaps. “Does anyone like Bobbi’s idea better than mine?”
    She looks around the table, a glare on her face, daring anyone to contradict her.
    â€œWe like the Top 50 theme a lot. Thank you for doing it,” says one of the toadies. Several heads nod in agreement. Lisa glowers at me, demanding capitulation. I avoid a stare-down by writing a note on my pad. It’s my resignation, addressed to Danni.
    â€œOkay then,” Lisa says. “Looks like we have a plan.” She babbles on about the agenda for the next meeting, then Danni closes.
    After the meeting two of Lisa’s friends confront me. “So you hired Jalela, huh?” one says.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy did you make her apply at other places?” The question is ahostile one. “Do you have a problem hiring transwomen?” As it happens, I had her apply at other salons so she could learn how to do it, so she wouldn’t be dependent on the largesse of other transpeople all her life. I also helped her write a resume and coached her on how to answer the standard interview questions. Not that any of this is any business of the vacuous princess confronting me.
    â€œI hired her and you didn’t,” I say pointedly. My decades of testosterone-driven male living give me the urge to add
you fucking moron
to my statement, but I don’t. “If you want to make hiring decisions, get your own business. That’s what I did.”
    I didn’t swear once.
    I brush past them to catch up to Danni before she leaves. This committee is an ugly reminder of what it would have been like to go through high school as an unattractive girl. The quality of my life will go up several notches when I rid myself of this association.
    Danni tries to talk me out of resigning. We have to learn to work together, she insists. I agree but I tell her I’m not the right person to bridge the gap, that an hour with those kids was enough to make me wish I was a man again. A gross exaggeration, but it makes a