There’s been a lot of discussion about stereotyping in the online comment thread of The Collegian’s Kayne and Donda West opinion piece. Single black mothers may be among the most stereotyped people today, but we single white females have our problems, too.

Take, for instance, a comment made by one of my classmates.

“Oh, so you’re a lesbian.”

I responded negatively to the statement, explaining that carrying a Swiss army knife, forgetting to shave my legs and not actively seeking a boyfriend do not make me a lesbian.

It’s an assumption people have been making about me for a long time. I can’t help it; I have always been a tomboy.

I was raised a country kid. I’d rather wear jeans and scuffed cowboy boots than short skirts and stiletto heels. HTML comes more naturally to me than girl talk does. Mascara makes my eyes water.

In fact, I had never worn makeup before college. When I joined the Fresno State women’s equestrian team, my coach had to teach me how to put on makeup for shows.

But after my coworker’s recent question about my sexuality, I decided something had to change.

It started with my hair. Upon learning of my plans to have my hair styled, a friend remarked with surprise that such a thing would make me look feminine. Horror of horrors!

Nevertheless, I coughed up the money to have a real hairstylist chop off a foot and a half of my unwieldy ponytail. (Yes, I did donate it to Locks of Love.) Said hairstylist remarked that I would like the cut because it is easy to take care of.

Supposedly.

A couple of weeks after the slightly traumatic event, I got out the blowdryer, a round brush and my nerve.

I proceeded to successfully dry out my contact lenses, pull out more hair than I knew I possessed and blow the bathroom’s circuit breakers. My hair looked barely different than it does when I let it air dry.

Not to be defeated, I decided to try the curling iron that had belonged to my grandmother. She was a beautician all her life. Surely some of that talent had to be hereditary.

I stared at the ConAir logo on the 25-year-old plastic box as if trying to intimidate it. It was wasted effort. Even after I defeated the box’s stiff latches, the mystic implement inside of it refused to heat.

Such a disheartening beginning could not make me concede, however. I am a woman on a mission. I simply need to start smaller.

My cell phone had been in dire need of retirement for several months. So I replaced it with a shiny pink one — and promptly installed a Raiders of the Lost Ark ring tone.

Shortly thereafter, I attended a semi-formal scholarship dinner. I wore a skirt and heels the entire day, changing only briefly into my Nike gear to work out. I even remembered to shave my legs.

Maybe next time I will break out the makeup. If there’s room in my purse for it.

That Swiss army knife takes up a lot of space in there, after all.