The fly a kite date is a killer. A friend of mine's dad from Brooklyn dropped that hint on us once. It's free and charming.
There was this professor where I went to school who didn't just have some visible female facial hair, she had a full on, hairs of inch long stature, wispy she-goatee. If you asked other students about "the Goatee lady who's around Philosophy hall alot," they would inevitably know the professor.
Hats off. That's not just a delusional "nobody notices," the deciding not to wax equivalent of a comb-over. That's not even just a "well they can mind their own business, I'm not changing my body." That's a full on "yeah, my body totally doesn't round peg its way into any species of normal idea of what gender is all about, and a blind man's dog will tell him from across a 100 foot room, and you know what, fuck each and every one of you who gives a shit what I look like. I've got a god damned life and a job and there isn't a single logical reason why my interactions with any of you extraneous motherfuckers should be based in any way on what bizarre choices the follicles on my face are making." After having this revelation, I would angrily argue down anyone making fun of Prof. She-Goatee, and then follow up the argument by buying anyone at the bar who had been on my side a drink and offering the defiant prof a toast in her honor.
And yeah, if I was ever in a moment of heavy, weighting decisions, I'd go visit Cornelius at his pub.