Straight to Gay: How a Stroke turned one man Gay

by Chris Birch

  ‘Just move your head to the side,’ I asked politely.

  I pulled a section of wet hair down and then carefully snipped at the ends, taking care to make sure each strand was even.

  ‘How are you today?’ I asked and looked up at the mirror to see my client’s reflection.

  ‘Well, not great…’ she started.

  I prepared myself to hear about whatever ailment she was suffering from. In the year and a half I had been training as a hairdresser the most surprising thing I had learnt was that people told their hairdresser everything. Their deepest secrets, their marital problems, any serious illnesses they might have, everything down to what they had for tea the night before. It was like being an honorary counsellor but sometimes it worked both ways and I would find myself opening up too.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked with genuine concern.

  ‘Well, my next door neighbor had a stroke and she’s not very well. I just hope she gets better,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Well, I had a stroke a few years back and I’m right as rain now,’ I said in an attempt to cheer her up.

  ‘Did you? But you’re so young,’ she said.

  I nodded and clipped another section of her hair up.

  ‘But you can walk and talk fine. Didn’t it make you any different?’ she asked.

  I was more focused on cutting her hair than the conversation, so it was easier to tell her the truth that think of a guarded answer.

  ‘Ha, well, a few changes, main one is I’m gay now,’ I said with a laugh.

  I carried on cutting her hair, when I looked up in the mirror she stared back at me, her eyes wide. Having lived with what had happened for so long it no longer seemed unusual to me, I forgot that other people might be surprised.

  ‘No, really?’ she said.

  I laughed at how fascinated she was then noticed that the other hairdressers were looking over at me too.

  ‘What’s that Chris?’ Margaret, a stylist, called over, she had frozen still, her scissors were in her hand, slightly open, where she had been cutting hair.

  I looked to my side and realised all eyes in the salon were on me.

  ‘You haven’t always been gay?’ a lady over by the sinks asked.

  I shook my head and laughed at how shocked everyone was.

  ‘No, I was engaged to a woman before I had the stroke,’ I explained and turned myself back to the lady in my chair.

  ‘So, anyway, my point is, your neighbour might have changed in some ways but they could be totally fine,’ I said and got back to cutting her hair.

  But the usual buzz of conversation in the salon had fallen into a quiet hush, when I looked up everyone was still looking at me, waiting for me to tell them more.

  ‘How did you know you were gay?’ Linda, another stylist, asked.

  ‘Well, I didn’t fancy women anymore, I fancied men,’ I said, plainly.

  It didn’t sound that strange to me.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the lady having her hair washed suddenly piped up. I was grateful to hear someone else speak.

  ‘I read in a magazine about a lady who had a stroke and then spoke in a French accent,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ Margaret said.

  I stayed silent and the conversation started to flow again, I thought nothing of it but I had unwittingly opened a door that I would never be able to close.

  For the next two weeks every time someone new came into the salon the same conversation would inevitably happen.

  ‘Oh Chris, you HAVE to tell them about what happened to you,’ one of the stylists would say.

  The first, second and third time it happened I thought it was funny but it began to feel like I was running off the same rehearsed script. But it wasn’t just me who was repeating themselves, everyone I told said the same thing.

  ‘Wow, you should tell your story in a magazine,’ they would coo.

  I needed to get a bit more practical experience for my course so put a post on my Facebook wall and asked if anyone wanted a free haircut. The next day I got a message back from a girl called Terri. I recognised her face and when I clicked on her profile noticed we had gone to the same school; the longer I stared at her photographs and repeated her name, the more familiar she became. I sent Terri a message and she said she was free the next day for me to come and cut her hair. It wasn’t until I was sat on the bus, on the way to her house, that I considered that I might not be the person that Terri was expecting. Sure enough, moments after she welcomed me into her house and she addressed the elephant in the room.

  ‘So Chris, I’ve gotta ask, how did you end up being a hairdresser?’ she said, with a grin, I hadn’t even had a chance to take my scissors out of their case.

  ‘Well..’ I started and considered how much, or, how little I should tell her,

  ‘I was made redundant at the bank and decided to try something new’.

  Terri shook her head and I steadied it in my hands.

  ‘You’re going to have to keep your head still,’ I said with a smile and then clipped up her hair.

  ‘I just never imagined you as a hairdresser, you’re just, you’re so...different,’ she said, as if she were in awe.

  I rolled my eyes, it was no use, I had to tell her.

  ‘Well, I had a stroke and it’s sort of made me quite different,’ I explained.

  As Terri listened, wide-eyed, I ran through the last few years of my life as if it were the plot of a film I had just seen, when I got to the dramatic finale she was spellbound.

  ‘I don’t believe it, really? Gay?’ she repeated several times and shook her head.

  I simply nodded, ‘it’s true’.

  Taking her hair in my hand I carried on with my cut and hoped the conversation would move on but Terri was still mulling over what I had told her.

  ‘It’s such a big change, you never would have thought you were gay at school,’ she said.

  ‘Well I wasn’t then,’ I said.

  ‘You should tell your story in a magazine,’ she suggested.

  I smiled sweetly and distracted her with questions about what she had been up to since school. But once again, I was struck by how interested people were with what had happened to me.

  It was well documented that strokes could change people’s personalities, changing their sexuality didn’t seem like a huge leap to me. But everyone else seemed to think it was fascinating.

  ‘People keep saying I should get my story published,’ I told Jack, that night, as we made dinner.

  ‘Why not? We can probably get some spare cash to get a new carpet,’ he suggested before passing me a knife and fork.

  I imagined sharing my story with the wider world and their reaction.

  ‘Who would want to read it?’ I said as we sat at the table.

  Jack looked at me like it was obvious.

  ‘Everyone!’ he said before tucking into dinner.

  ‘The same thing might have happened to someone else,’ he said, between mouthfuls.

  I lowered my fork and stared at Jack.

  ‘What?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, that there might be other people, the same as me,’ I said.

  Suddenly, the idea of sharing my story seemed a lot more attractive. I realised there could be other people who had suffered a stroke, become gay and never understood what had happened to them. Reading my story might help them make sense of it and realise they aren’t alone. They would understand, I thought. Jack and my family supported me but none of them could truly grasp what I had been through. Perhaps, meeting someone who did understand might be the final step for me to move past what had happened.

  So, that night, I searched on my computer to find a magazine that might be interested in speaking to me. I came across a journalist, Isabelle Loynes, who specialised in writing real-life stories in magazines and newspapers. Without giving it a second thought I sent her an email with a simple sentence, I had a stroke and it made me gay. I clicked send, went to bed and completely fo
rgot all about it.

  The next day, at the salon, I got a call from Isabelle.

  ‘Your story sounds amazing Chris,’ she said, excitedly.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘There is going to be a lot of interest in you,’ she explained.

  Later that evening we spoke again and I went over the last six years of my life, since the stroke, in detail. The next day, Isabelle called to give me an update.

  ‘Good news, we’ve got a newspaper and a magazine that want to publish your story,’ she said.

  I gulped, it’s really happening, I thought.

  Before I agreed to do the article I wanted to check whether my dad was happy for me to publish my story.

  ‘Dad, I’m going to do an article about what’s happened to me in a newspaper, is that okay?’ I asked and then nervously waited for his reply.

  ‘You do what you want to do,’ Dad said casually.

  It sounded like good advice, so I took it.

  The next day, I found myself in the middle of a photoshoot, for the newspaper, at the salon. As the photographer barked orders at me two of our regular clients, who were having their haircut, tried to stifle their giggles.

  ‘Okay, can you hold a hairdryer in one hand and then sort of give me a triumphant look,’ the photographer directed me.

  ‘Erm, ok-ay,’ I said and tried to work out what he meant. I settled for an awkward smile and the camera started to flash at me.

  ‘Well I never, a celebrity has been cutting my hair all this time,’ one of the ladies in the chairs quipped.

  ‘Do you want to take my picture,’ another lady laughed, as she posed with a hairbrush.

  The last time a photographer had wanted to take my picture was after I had won an award, when I was a teenager. Back then I was mortified by the attention but now I was sort of enjoying it.

  ‘Well, that was an experience,’ I sighed when we had finished.

  ‘Are you going to be famous then?’ one of the older ladies asked.

  ‘No,’ I said and waved the photographer goodbye, ‘I’m just doing an article about my stroke, I’m sure no-one will read it.’

  A week later I was in the hair salon and the phone rang, when I answered it there was an excitable voice on the other end.

  ‘Have you seen the paper this morning?’ they said.

  ‘Erm, who is this?’ I asked and wondered if they had the wrong number.

  ‘It’s Barbara, you cut my hair last week …. you’re in the newspaper Chris .. there’s a big picture of you,’ she was speaking so quickly I struggled to make sense of what she was saying.

  I rushed to the shop to buy a copy of the paper and on the walk back to the salon, quickly flicked through the pages until I landed on a double-page spread, with a huge picture of me staring back.

  A Stroke Made Me Gay, the headline read.

  A 19-stone rugby player ditched his fiancée and became a hairdresser after suffering a stroke and waking up gay, it read underneath.

  I rushed back to the salon so I could read the whole thing. When I walked in everyone crowded around the article and asked me questions as I silently scanned the page.

  I kept staring at the picture of me and the headline, it was like he was someone else, it didn’t feel like it was me. Underneath the picture of me in the salon was a photograph I had given them from before the stroke. It was me at nineteen, chubby, badly dressed and drunk, it looked like two completely different people. It was surreal seeing my life laid out in a newspaper. No-one will read it, I told myself.

  But five minutes later my phone started to beep with messages from old friends. I can’t believe what’s happened to you, one said. You definitely weren’t gay before, another wrote. Every message I got was positive.

  By lunchtime the salon phone was ringing constantly with media people who wanted to speak to me, Radio Cardiff, Manchester, London and countless newspapers and magazines wanted to feature my story. It was like a huge whirlwind of attention, the eyes of the world were being directed to a small hair salon in South Wales.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ became my standard response as I struggled to take in all the offers I was getting.

  That night when I went upstairs to our flat I was glad to shut the door behind me and forget about the outside world. Safe in our little home, I was relieved to be alone with Jack.

  ‘I didn’t realise there would be so much interest,’ I said honestly, as Jack read the

  newspaper article for the first time.

  He gave me a smile.

  ‘Well you are a pretty interesting guy’ Jack said with a chuckle.

  ‘There’s a lot of people who want to speak to me,’ I admitted, able to be vulnerable now I was alone with Jack.

  ‘You’re never going to get this moment again,’ Jack said.

  I wanted to share my story so I could find other people who’ve been through the same thing, I thought, the more I tell my story, the more likely I am to do that.

  The next day, when the radio presenters called again I agreed to do the interviews. They wanted to speak to me that moment, so I locked myself in the staff toilet at work and hoped they wouldn’t hear the dripping tap and echo.

  ‘So, Chris, you woke up gay, tell us about it?’ a loud booming voice bellowed down the line.

  ‘Well, I didn’t wake up gay’, I laughed, ‘it took a few months’.

  ‘How did your family react,’ he quickly followed up.

  ‘Erm, well, half my family isn’t speaking to me so I guess you could say badly,’ I said, with a nervous laugh.

  Ten minutes later I had another radio interview where they asked the exact same questions and I tried to give slightly different answers. Afterwards, I put the phone back in my pocket, walked back into the salon, welcomed a client into a seat and started cutting her hair. Life carried on as normal, just with a few unusual elements to my day.

  That weekend Dad popped over to visit me at my flat and I showed him the newspaper article.

  ‘Oh right,’ Dad said, he took the paper from my hands and then had a read.

  I scanned his face for some kind of emotion, worried he might not approve. Then his forehead creased into a frown. Shit, I thought, he’s annoyed with me.

  ‘Says here you get botox, why on earth do you want to do that for? Sticking poison in your face...it’s not right,’ Dad said and then shook his head at me.

  I laughed at his confused expression.

  ‘Anyway, well done on the article,’ he said and folded the newspaper back up.

  It was a relief to know my Dad was still behind me, even if he didn’t totally approve of my beauty regime!

  The following day I was sweeping hair up from the salon floor when an old lady came in and walked towards me.

  ‘Are you Chris Birch?’ she asked.

  She was a dear lady, dressed in a plaid skirt with a pale blue shirt, her grey hair in perfect short curls. She must want an appointment, I thought.

  ‘I am,’ I smiled and stopped sweeping to talk to her.

  She smiled and gestured for me to come forward, when I did, she grabbed my arm and leant towards me.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you,’ she said sweetly.

  She was so close that I could smell her perfume. I wasn’t sure what to say back.

  ‘I saw the article in the paper and I’ve travelled for three hours on the bus today to come and tell you that I think you are great,’ she said and squeezed my shoulder.

  She had travelled all that way to see me? I thought, utterly speechless.

  ‘It takes a lot for someone to come out to the world and be honest, you should be proud of yourself,’ she grinned.

  ‘Wow, thank you, that’s really kind,’ I said, taken aback.

  Before I could say anything else she had marched back out of the salon towards the bus stop, no doubt to start her three hour journey back home.

  ‘One of your fans hay?’ Lisa, who worked in the salon, joked.


  ‘I suppose so,’ I shrugged, happy that my story had made a difference to someone.

  As the girls laughed and then got back to work I realised something. She was probably the same age as my Nan, I thought. If complete strangers can be proud of me then why can’t my own family?

  She wouldn’t be the last member of the public to comment on my story as

  started to get recognised when I was out. One week we were doing our food shopping and as usual I was trying to sneak unhealthy things in the trolley whilst Jack tried to take them out.

  “Do you think we need all those tubs of ice-cream Chris?” Jack scolded.

  As I started to plead my case for why we needed ice-cream, a middle-aged man caught my eye as he pushed his trolley past me.

  “I know you mate, don’t I?” he smiled and pointed at me.

  I quickly racked my brains, have I cut his hair at the salon? Did he live on our street? Then, as has often happened before, I wondered if he was someone I had met from before the stroke who I no longer remembered. Just go along with it, I decided, maybe speaking to him will trigger a memory and I will remember who he is.

  “Oh hiya,” I replied with a laid back wave.

  The man came closer and leaned in towards me.

  “I think it’s very brave what you’ve done,” he said in a whisper.

  I wondered what I had ever done that was brave. I looked down at the tub of caramel swirl in my hand and then looked at him blankly.

  “I read the article about you, I just wanted to say well done,” he said and then turned and walked down another aisle.

  Who would have thought? little Chris Birch from Bargoed being recognised in the

  street, I thought.

  It was taking a lot longer for the fuss around the article to die down then I had first thought. People were fascinated by my story and I was contacted by an Australian news company who wanted to interview me.

  ‘We could arrange for you to visit a studio in the UK and we will do a live link up,’ they explained.

  I hadn’t appeared on the tv before but I didn’t see how it could be that different to doing a radio interview. Christmas was only a few weeks away and the day they wanted me on the programme was the same day as our work Christmas party. I had been the one who had planned it, I couldn’t miss out on being there. So, the Australian company agreed to pay for me and my coworkers to travel in a Limo, stocked with champagne, to the BBC Wales, studios. I could do my interview and then we could all go on to the bar we had booked for our party. In theory, it was a great way to kill two birds with one stone. In reality, I arrived at the BBC studios half cut, having drunk champagne in the limo on an empty stomach. When I sat down in a swivel chair to have my interview I felt myself spinning around as the questions were fired at me.