I’m shaking as I type this. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed. And I’m a little nervous about the confrontation I just had.

Background: My hair is growing back, but it’s in a really awkward stage. It’s no longer “Oh, look how cute! Little hair!” And it’s not long enough to do anything with. It’s just…there. I’ve overcompensated lately by dressing more girly than normal – dresses or skirts, soft colors, scarves, makeup, jewelry – things that scream “GIRL!” Or so I thought.

I was standing in line at the sandwich place in the food court of the Union. It was pretty busy, but I was hungry and sometimes this place has a decent sandwich. I stood there in my jeans (rolled at the ankles to expose cute black flats) and white t-shirt with a ballerina in a mixed-medium lace skirt. I wore red lipstick. I carried a bright pink purse and checked Facebook on my phone covered in a bright pink and gray case. A pink Fitbit on one wrist, and a delicate purple stone and silver ring on the other hand.

Do I look like a fucking man?!

I placed my order at the counter, and then the student worker called, “Next!”

The older man behind me said, “Did you get this man’s order?” and pointed in my direction. At this point I was looking directly at him.

“You mean HER order?” the student worker corrected.

“Yeah, his order,” the guy said again. Then looked me in the eye and said, “Oh, HER’S…” It was a condescending, sing-songy tone.

He patronizingly patted my left shoulder twice. I looked away.

I was seething. My eyes started to get liquidy (not tears, but I tend to leak from the eyes when very angry). Do I say something? Do I let it go? I played a couple of scenarios in my head, a few things I’d like to say. The kind of things you think about but you know you won’t really say aloud.

I was stuck. This guy was an older white man, dressed in a suit coat and tie. I work at a university, and dress code is usually pretty casual, except for administrators (most of whom are older white men). Do I dare jeopardize myself, and possibly my job, by saying something?

I started to shake.

I grabbed a drink from the cooler and made my way to the cashier. After paying her, I realized the guy was behind me. And I realized that I was really pissed.

“Hey,” I said, looking him right in the eye. “You called me a man back there. Referred to me as a ‘him.’”

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking. Your hair…” he said, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” I pointed to my head. “This is called breast cancer. Six months of chemo, 17 radiation treatments, and surgery. I’m a women, god-dammit, regardless of what my appearance might suggest.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he said again, looking down.

“Just do me a favor. Maybe you should LOOK next time. Really look.”

I turned and walked away, out of the Union, back to my building, into the elevator, and to my office.

I don’t know who that dude was, and know what? I’m not sure I’d change a thing if I DID know who he was.

Now, I’m going to enjoy my lunch before my next class.