No Running, No Splashing, No Bombing, No Petting

Well I did it. Today I went swimming.

Its been a strange brew of the rekindled feelings. There was a mix of the nerves and excitement that came with my first steps out in public as Jenny, a pinch of self satisfaction from clearing my hurdle, a soupcon of embarrassment for making such a fuss, and a good dollop of school days nostalgia.

The nerves and excitement are obvious from my previous post and thankfully the nerves didn't last long. The municipal baths were at the grandly named Fenton Manor Leisure Centre. (Fenton is the one town of Stoke that Arnold Bennet missed out in his Annie of Five Towns. I cant ever recall it having a manor though). It had definitely been tarted up from the last time I visited, about 8 years ago. The main difference is that it now has a new shared sex changing room with dozens of private cubicles, each with a token operated locker. This was very different from my time at Cheadle Swiming Baths when I was at school, where we all sat on wooden slatted benches and as a chubby awkward boy I found the whole naked except for speedos changing room experience a real ordeal. Especially being such a gender confused boy. In those days, clothes and effects used to be stowed in small plastic baskets and handed over to an attendant behind the desk. Each basket had a number and I always forgot mine and had  to wait back till everyone else had reclaimed their belongings thereby extending the ordeal.

Well back in the now, I changed in my roomy,warm cubicle and stuffed all my clothes into the locker. Once out, I took one last look in the changing room mirror, tummy sucked in and boobs thrust out I strode straight into the pool area. This changing room led straight out to poolside, without that shallow sheep dip of cold, disinfected water that was a feature of my boyhood swimming pool.

The pool was relatively busy, mainly with the kids. The tricky bit was always going to be poolside, but I remembered that confidence is the biggest disguise so I strode with a purpose. I gingerly made my way down the pool ladder to the sanctuary of the water. Once I had found a lane devoid of child obstacles, after a brief bout of water treading I struck out to do some meaningful swimming.

As I slowly crawled through the water my mind wandered. All the trimmings aside, this was just like that pool of old. There was the same diving platform with a permanent "Temporarily Out Of Use" sign. The same stern lifeguards with their whistles and frowns of authority. That same stinging chlorine flavoured water (man has come along way in the 30+  years since my first swim, what with the internet, mobile phones et al, but we have never found an odourless, stingingless, tasteless substitute for Chlorine) and of course that same sign listing the most serious of swimming pool crimes. Sadly, "No Petting" seems to have vanished from the Do Nots. I guess that's the permissive society for you.

After a hour I was flagging so it was time to get out. That signaled  reemergence of my nerves. How had my makeup fared from the experience? Would I emerge from the pool with that telltale and unflattering stubble shadow. There was absolutely no way to know so I just had to braced myself. I clambered inelegantly out of the water and scurried back to the changing room and stood in front of the full range mirror. I was delighted to see that my cover stick and foundation cover had pretty much survived (Boots No7  Quick Cover in dark and Maybelene Superstay foundation in Cameo). The only problem was that I hadn't used waterproof mascara so standing there, wet through, hair  bedraggled and blackened eyes, I looked like a cross between an Elephant Seal, Meatloaf and a Panda. However most important of all I still looked relatively womanly (I hope).

As I sat drying off in my cubicle, the self satisfaction I mentioned kicked in. I know it sounds smug, but I was really pleased with myself. Although, swimming is a relatively mundane everyday activity, it was the one thing I had avoided since transitioning. Now I've done it, there is no area of my life that I compromise through being transgendered. This was the very last, small missing jigsaw piece of my public Transitioning. So if I ever get round to finishing the Becoming Jen post thread this could be the full stop.

Swimming Against The Tide

Well I suppose the title could be a good metaphor for most of my life, but this post is about more prosaic matters.

I have crumbled in the face of much urging and rejoined a local Slimming World Club (its not a typo slimming as in diet club). I first joined the club the same time last year for about 3 months and did pretty well. However my arrogance kicked in and I thought I could do without the club and save myself five quid a week, but I have just spent this year deluding myself that I was on a diet plan and pretty much failing. So now I am back on the diet club wagon. Me and an old friend Heather went along last Wednesday. Now before I used to just do the weigh in and then go, but Heather rightly wanted to stay for the meeting that followed. The meeting was taken by a tiredly chirpy lady called Vicky and involved her reading out the results of each member to either applause if they had lost, and brief sympathetic silence if they had put weight on, before they were probed softly about this week on the diet and how they were going to continue or improve the next. Each comment passed was complemented by knowing nods and mummers of agreement from around the room. Anyway whatever was said worked because I left the room enthused at the challenge ahead. I do have another motivating factor in that I will need to get down to a target weight of around 16 stone before I can have that crucial rewiring surgery, I need

I started to think that if I was going to make real progress towards my target then I need to add some meaningful exercise to my diet. The one form of exercise that I has worked for me in the past is swimming. Now going to the swimming baths is almost the Holy Grail of post transition passing. For 99.87% (always a stickler for accuracy) of my life now I don't really pay any thought to my gender identity or even worry if I pass or not (I have worked out that I now pass totally at a minimum distance of 7 m), but passing in public in a swimming costume!! well that will need some thought planning and a smidgen of courage. However once I had started to think about it I would have been disappointed to bottle out. So....yesterday I went out and bought my first ever swimming cossie. It was a struggle to find one as there are few shops that stock my size and most of the swim wear has been put back in the stock room to make room for Christmas party frocks. My new Costume is black (always a plus) fairly low cut with black and white print straps that go across the neckline. I have, after much deliberation included the pic right. Now my real worries on wearing a swimming costume in public are 7 fold:

1. Clingy swimsuit material is never going to make me look anything but lumpy.
2. Have my hormones given me some sort of passable shape
3. Without a bra pushing my boobs up will they just disappear compared to my tummy.
4. Any unwanted unsightly overlooked hairiness
5. Can I find any makeup cover that can survive the dipping
6. Duh duh duhhhh...Can what's left of my, shall we say, frontal furniture, be at all noticeable.
7. I think 7 fold has a better ring than 6

Well I decided I needed some advice so yesterday afternoon I went around my closest friends and made them view a brief Miss World style Swimwear Round. Thankfully the general response is that I looked okish. In fact I looked kinda like a normal overweight woman, which although is not flattering in itself, is the look I was going for. Although from the pic on the right this swimsuit make me look miserable! The important thing is, that it was felt I be able to pass. To be honest I was surprised at the results. I have never really looked at my shape post hormones but my figure definitely has a degree of femininity about it. My fat deposits have tended to go south, and I would definitely be described as pear shaped (Actually more like a bag of pears shaped), but it is defiantly more female than male. The biggest concern was that the costume flattened my boobs, so I am debating whether I can secrete some form of bra support underneath. All that taken in I have committed myself to visiting the pool this week, and am genuinely excited at the prospect.

Goodbye Blackberry Day

* A short reply sent from a handheld blackberry thingy *----- Original Message -----From: Harvey, JennyTo: 'jenny.2000@hotmail.co.uk' Sent: Wed Sep 17 00:49:17 2008Subject: Goodbye blackberry day

I now have a new toy in my collection. In their wisdom unison have provided be with a blackberry smartphone thingy, so today I am practicing my mobile emailing skills or "Blogging on The Go"

7.30 am. Sitting on the car park of the north staffs hotel killing 20 minutes before my train. Even after 3 years of full time womanhood I still can't accurately gauge how long it will take me to get ready in the morning. 3 still swing between being annoyingly early and very annoyingly late for morning appointments.

7.53 am sitting in my reserved seat in the last carriage of the train. On the plus side there is nobody shoehorned next to me. Its not that I don't relish company but I always feel sorry for the poor sod who is stuck on with my left shoulder an inch from their nose for 200 miles. Mind you its not as bad as when I walk down a plane to the frightened stares of 'I hope she's not next to me' . Second plus is that I am travelling backwards which I always feel is safer in the event of a head on crash! On the downside this carriage has the resigned despondent air of a Lehman Brothers (or insert latest banking giant to go bust) staff party . 2 hours so its headphones on for an episode of the genius ''down the line '' and remember I am from a military background

9.45 am walking from euston I have discovered that walking and emailing at the same time is both diffiklut and <screech of brakes> dangerous.

10 am Sitting in meeting room just found out that the meeting is not until 11 am. Clearly the secret of my success is not attention to detail!I am debating whether it is rude and bad form for me to have half an hours power nap (snooze)1 pm meeting done and dusted. Sadly snooze never happened due to others arrival. I have rescheduled snooze for the train journey home

1.35 pm the train has just left (thankfully with me on it )I have just scoffed an oversize cheeseburger and managed an incredible feat of self justification and downright delusion that it is in fact fits in with my diet.

2.17 rooting through my handbag I have just realised I am carrying 3 separate camera devices. My own mobile (5 mega pixels) by blackberry (2 mp) and my camera (10 mp). Modern living is clearly mad! I have a ridiculous 17 mp at my disposal, but the sadly photographic skill of a blind chimp with an inner ear balance problem.

2.45 pm I am now feeling very dizzy. This is because I set myself the pointless challenge of photographing myself through a camera, a camera phone, a Blackberry and a mirror. This proved more difficult than first envisaged due to an insufficient number of hands and a train that wouldn't keep still. As you can see (when I upload pic) the fruits of my endeavour are very poor to say the least, but there is a blurry bit of me showing.

4.30 pm On vickys sofa. Taking a hours break before returning to the office. Dizzy head has now been replaced by a stress headache caused by the night to come. Indulged in some dog fighting (literal not aviatory) with the part canine part Graboid from the film Tremors that is Spartacus, Vicky's dog.

6 pm back in office 'preparing' for monthly branch meeting. This is my ritual battering on behalf of our members. As usual my preparations involve frantic last minute photocopying. Just realised my carefully applied makeup of 12 hours ago was now looking tired (absolutely knackered more like) so some last minute plastering takes place.

10pm home on sofa trying to eat a diet kebab while gammo vainly tries to nick the 'meat '. All that lies between me and a degree of sanity is 500 pages of documents for a hearing that I am representing at tomorrow. I should probably get a good nights sleep but my head is still spinning from my meeting so I am going to indulge in some Wentworth Miller therapy, and watch the last 2 episodes of Prison Break.

* A short reply sent from a handheld blackberry thingy *

The Silence Of The Kittens

A survey of the subject of my posts that have elicited the most comments on average, has produced the following.

SUBJECT	AVERAGE No COMMENTS
My Transgender Struggle	10 (sadly also my shoe size)
Cute Cats and Kittens	92
Dating Disasters	68
Trade Union Stuff	1 (and that was me)
Fun With Physics	6.626 x 10(-34) or h
Blogging on Blogging	3
Moaning about Rail Travel	20 (minutes late)
The Mighty Stoke City FC	3-2 (vs The Villa)
vck43e6t2t26tttttttttttttttt	3332www (kitten on laptop)

On this basis I should now concentrate solely on dating and cats (please note the important and). However, since my dating and cat owning history still stand at 1 apiece this may amount to a very short and dull blog (obvious self joke to be inserted at readers discretion). Well today's post will be cat based anyway

Well this weekend I am menagerie sitting for Victoria, who has so wisely chosen to go camping in North Devon during the rainiest late August since records began (don't know if its true but you get the point).

Well I have just completed the morning roll call.

Duncan Rabbit & Dave Guinea pig, check; Spartacus the huge and stupid puppy, check; Mildred and indeterminate no of kittens (5 is best guess), check. As yet unnamed bathroom based spider, check.

So far so good. However there is one downside to sharing a house with such a menagerie and that is the incessant noise. I have just spent all night sleeping in the same room with the whole feline contingent of the household who have all insisted on mewing constantly or in the case of Mildred purring loudly. Some of the kittens are also getting more confident so when I awoke I had the 3 bravest perched on various parts of my body. They also seem to be multiplying. There are supposed to be 5 but I swear at one stage there were double that. I am begining to think that Mildred has actually mated with a Tribble. All said, the kittens are still annoyingly, achingly cute it's hard to stay mad at them for long. They are each developing different characteristics the 2 biggest and darkest are the leaders and will venture as far as the front door at the bottom of the stairs. The next 2 in size and courage generally take station half way up the stairs. I think these may be cleverest of the bunch and the smallest and timidest will usually stay at the top of the stairs with mother Mildred. My biggest fear this weekend is avoiding any squashage either underfoot or rolling in bed. So far I have thankfully avoided this....so far.

A failed attempt by the kitten clan to recreate the Bohemian Rhapsody video

Join My Campaign

Save The Mildred Five. Don't let the kittens be parted!

Further Adventures In Internet Dating (well almost)

Well I am now well and truly ensconced in 2 dating sites. Smooch and TV Chix (always the hedge better). My results so far are mixed (if by mixed you mean poor and very poor).

Well after a week on Smooch I have had a few emails. My demographic appears to be the 50 year old, bald, married, male bus driver. Still, I shouldn't judge and at least they didn't abuse me! (see below) However today, I got a mail from a very good looking indeed local man, which I just had to reply to. He has a Wentworth Miller (see Prison Break, and left ) quality about him, which is fine by me. The only problem is that he appears to want to be my slave! Now I am all for a man who is attentive, and I do need my guttering sorting (oooo er etc..) but I am not sure I am cut out as a dominatrix! I really have trouble asking for someone to make me a coffee and if someone treads on my foot then I will apologise. Still, the offer is tempting, perhaps as my Slave I could order him to make all the decisions.

As for TV Chix well I have had about the same number of responses. This time just fewer bus drivers. It is with a pragmatic heart that I have joined this site, the title puts me off a bit, but its no good me moaning that I want a nice straight good looking guy to accept and date me as a woman, when I clearly lack some of the required apparatus for the time being! So, hence the aforementioned hedge betting, and anyway I shouldn't be so close minded. It is on this site that I have found an old acquaintance. He is a really nice guy from Birmingham who I chatted to about 3 years ago and very nearly met before. It was down to my utter lack of self confidence in my utter size that I did not meet him, and to my shame I disappeared off line to him without explanation.

Now, he is really lovely, and says all the right things and is very non creepy. However there is a sticking point. Since last talking he has got married. Now of course I don't wish to date, or meet a married man, the 3 Hughs excepted ( I've added Grant to Jackman and Laurie). He does tell me that his wife is Bisexual and encourages him to meet other T-Girls but to be honest this is not the romantic ideal that I am looking for, so I guess I need to keep looking for that Mr Right...ish.

Biggot Watch Update.

Further to my post below. The troops are rallying against the appalling transphobic idiot Iaco (see previous post comments) Great thanks for all the kind support, and particular honours for going above and beyond, go to Penny and Vicky. Penny (offa her blog), has taken the time and trouble to post a profile and snare the poor unsuspecting idiot, who we now know as Andrew, for the purpose of some form of humiliation. My best friend, Vicky (offa her head!), who was already on the site, was contacted by him and has responded in a more direct action style She has put him on the spot saying he has abused her friend. He has at this time denied this, but she is going to confront him with his email as proof. it will be interesting to see his response.

I must admit I may be sharing a little too much, but what the heck this is a blog after all. Next time if feeling more inclined I may even share the tale of my only date as Jenny so far, that happened about 2 years ago...well maybe I may

Internet Hating

I decided to dip my toe in the murky world of the Internet Dating site. I have waited long enough for either of the 2 Hughs (Jackman or Laurie) to come knocking on my door, soaked through in the pouring rain asking if they could dry off in my front room (I may be getting slightly carried away here). Anyway its seems unlikely that they will be passing by Stoke any day soon, so I turned to the interweb thingy. I had one overwhelming criterion in choosing as site and that was it had to be free.

My first attempt was on the massive behemoth of a site called Plenty Of Fish. This is a site on which few of my friends have made some successful contacts (and a few less so). The tricky thing for someone in my position is how to compose a profile that balances my wish to come across as a normal heterosexual woman and the need to make my gender situation clear (ish). I plumped for a user name of jenny now, and in my description referred to the fact that I had been living as a woman for over 3 years. Apart from that I hoped to come across as regular girl. Well after painstakingly crafting a profile such to ensnare the most eligible men of the nation, the site failed to accept my registration. After 5 more frustrating attempts I still haven't managed to post a profile. I was really disappointed because this seemed such an accepting site and I know other girls like myself have profiles there. I'm still not sure why I can't get on. It's either because there is something about my laptop not compatible with their software or I choose to believe I am obviously so gorgeous that it is felt I will unbalance the site!

So I turned to another free site called Smooch. I posted a very similar profile and used the pic of this blog. This was last night and on awakening I checked to see if it had produced any responses. Ooooo... 2 messages in my box. One was sadly from the sites admin welcoming me. The other looked more hopeful from someone in Stafford only about half an hour away. I opened his male and looked down for his message, my first.

_______________________________________________

From : Iaco

To : jenny now

We don't want any faggots on this site

__________________________________________

Great!! Literally hate email! I was gutted. Its been ages since I last received any real gender hate and that was when some kids spat at me about 3 years ago. Just when I started to feel part of the the human race as a whole, someone comes along to say get back in your box! Well I have reported the "gentleman" involved, but I must admit it has put me off the whole project somewhat. However I think I will give the dating game a little more time. You never know I guess. My last option failing this is to join a site I have been on before called TV Chix, which as its name suggests is aimed at T girls and admirers. I know my ideal is to be part of a regular dating site, but perhaps I need a dose of realism.

Adendum : I am sitting round my parents finishing this post and have just had my dinner. Now if the following isn't proof behold that the universe wants to put me in its place, my mum has just served up....Faggots !!!

Miss Gammo Speng & the Confused Home Worker

I've been working from home today, as I have a disciplinary case of 500 pages to work through.

Good things about working from home : Flexible hours, More comfortable chair, Phone not constantly ringing, Olympics on radio, Pizza delivery for lunch, Very relaxed dress code, Makeup free day, Petrol about £20/Gallon

Bad things about working from home : Distractions when Olympics get exciting, Cat want's to sit on my keyboard, Answering door to Pizza Boy without makeup (me not him). Absence of conversation (Cat very poor at this), I'm still in Stoke-on-Trent

 

Speaking of my cat Gammo Speng (see previous), It seems that in keeping with my own historical gender confusion, he is not actually a he, err I mean she is not a he. I had relied on Vicky's "expert" cat husbandry advice that Gammo was a male. I had never bothered to confirm this, but waking up with the Gammo's nether region 2 inches from my face has meant a degree of gender re-evaluation. I am currently deciding whether Gammo would benefit from a kitten companion. In fact it would be a younger sibling as her mother, Mildred is nursing a new brood of kitties. They are  officially so sweeeeet!!

 

Olympic Dreams

I'm so bloody tired and its all the fault of the Olympics. How is an obsessive sports nerd supposed to get any decent sleep when they keep pushing their stuff at me all through the night? These incessant dealers of the "Opium of the Masses" have left me with the glazed and vacant expression of a long time, dependant user. I have tried to give up sports watching but to be honest I'm obsessed and will always get dragged back in. To be honest if Paint Drying was an Olympic event, I would probably watch it, glued to the multi camera coverage of the coverage.

I do think there is some fundamental unfairness in the choice of events for the Olympic cannon. In Boxing and Judo for instance, there are numerous weight classes. This is of course because a Heavyweight Boxer would clearly thrash a Lightweight, as essentially the Heavyweight is the more powerful fighter. Why then do we not have the 100m sprint in different weight categories. As a self proclaimed fat bird, there is no way I could race a skinny fit runner, but, put me alongside a bunch of similarly sized competitors and I'm sure I could give it a good go. This extra event scheduled just before the now renamed 100m lightweight sprint would have the added benefit of making the worlds fastest look even better. We could even extend this theme to other events such as the Gymnastics. Just imagine the tension and excitement as the Super Heavyweight class gymnasts desperately struggling to cling on to the Rings apparatus, arms stretched taught in the vain hope of completing just one pull up, or gamely trying to clamber onto the Beam only to just wobble off the other side.

As the next host nation I think we are entitled to introduce new exhibition events, so in London 2012 we would have the opportunity to implement my idea. As the first British Olympics for 64 years there are also other events we could introduce. For example, Darts, Snooker or even Synchronised Blogging, where pairs of competitors have to Post at speed on the same subject and are judged on Synchronisation (managing to have exactly matching views), Technical Ability (spelling) and Artistic Merit (Lying). As mad as this sounds lest not forget that until recently there was an event of Solo Synchronised Swimming.

Anyway, I better finish because the BBC is pushing some Grade A Paula Radcliffe Marathon Running.

By the way, is it just me that every time they show the Olympic Breakfast programme I start thinking of visiting a Little Chef ?

Back On The Blog

I haven't posted now for over a week. A record abstinence, mainly due to a crumbling state of mind. The last week or so has been one of the worst in my memory although my memory is not always to be relied upon. The problem is that there were no real specific events or issues that made this such a weekus horibillus. I just found that the creeping anxiety coupled with a sprinkling of depressive behaviour that had been building over the past couple of months, came to a head, that had to be lanced.

For someone who works for a Mental Health Trust I have always been hopeless with dealing with my own mental health choosing to bury my head under my duvet rather than taking some sensible steps. But no more. I am determined not to let myself get in such a state again and I am going to tackle some of the underlying problems, one of which is a crippling low self esteem. I must admit my friends have been fab and I have no idea why they have tolerated my my moods and regular tears. It has been suggested the hormone medication could be a cause but I think my mixed up hormones perhaps exacerbate my feelings rather than drive them although they are definitely behind my lachrymal tendencies.

Anyhow, I have definitely turned some sort of corner and vow to get back on the blogging horse. I will leave you with a pic of my favourite scary tree which I have christened Geoff !

Hilary's dash

I had the sad task of attending the funeral of a dear Trade Union colleague today.


Hilary Smith was not only a passionate Trade Unionist who resolutely stuck up for her colleagues, but she was a friend who was so helpful and supportive on my transition.


I guess I'm not conventionaly religious, I am torn over whether not to believe in any greater power or to believe in all of the religions in order to hedge my bets! However its at time like these that the framework religion provides comes into its own.


At the service this poem was read out and it just gave me a prod of well needed perspective given my recent whinging state of mind (see last post). It does become bigger and readable if you click on it.

Chasing Tails

Ive spent the weekend Dogsitting. Actually to be exact Dog, Rabbit, Guinea pig, Cat and 5 Kitten sitting. To be honest the non canine contingent pretty much look after themselves save for feeding and watering. Spartacus the dog on the other hand is a rapidly growing puppy of indeterminate stock but determined energy. In fact I swear he is growing before my eyes. I have the honour of these duties as my friend is attending The World Street Dancing championships at The Winter Gardens, Blackpool (why is in street dancers never seem to dance in an actual street).

So here I am trying to keep Sparky amused. Despite all my efforts to train him through play, all he seems to want to do is to chase his tail. He does this with such relish he makes a dervish look like a mime. He attacks his tail clearly regarding it as a separate being in itself, that needs hunting to destruction. He tends to spin anticlockwise making me surmise he is a Left Hand drive dog,

As I sit here outside in the fading light my mind is drifting into that, to be avoided at all costs, pass time of soul searching. I usually avoid deep thinking at all costs. This has resulted in a, not very Eco friendly habit of filling every moment of my life with noise. Always armed with telly, radio or mp3 any solitary moment of silence can be filled with distraction thereby averting this sort of self destructive, self pitying, self flagellation. Just like Sparky thoughts whirl around trying to catch each other with an inevitable and ultimate failure. The tail I'm trying to grab is some long term purpose to my life, a reason to get up each morning. At the moment that goal is tantalisingly out of reach. When I was married I had that goal, each and every day. . The marriage was never exactly idyllic, but we had some wonderfully contented years. Yes it's true that living as a man was a compromise, but while the marriage trundled on it was a worthwhile compromise. Now, at last I'm not compromising my life any more, living comfortably as a woman (As comfortable as you can be in tight fitting heels!). However the price to pay is a realisation that I may never have that purpose and meaning that an immediate family of my own would give. Gosh this is desperate self pitying guff, which is sadly typical of my last couple of months. Every time I get like this, I make yet another lunge to grab my tail and pull myself out of the low and get a grip. The grip however is all to fleeting and I'm soon whirling again.

Lets put an end to it for now, "Come Here Spartacus, fetch this metaphor!"

Becoming Jen (Part 21) Hair Apparently

It’s been a while since I got on with this drawn out tale. For those of you still waiting, thanks. For those of you utterly bored, sorry, I’m sure it will soon be over.

8 months passed. I was by now relatively relaxed and cool about my life. Then came my hair!....All the while I had been wearing my wig I had been growing my hair underneath. I had now come to the tipping point. It was difficult to keep my hair under my wig. Time for a hair cut. Vicky had a good friend, Debbie, who readers may be familiar with by now. Debs had previously trained as a hairdresser and Vicky suggested she come round and have a go at my mop. So one Wednesday after work I drove over to her house, with that by now well rehearsed to mix of excitement and fear.

Now I’m sure your thinking what’s so scary about a haircut. Well, oddly for someone who has transitioned (I like the Blairspeak term, Gender Modernisation) I am generally uncomfortable with change. I had a real love hate relationship with my wig. On the downside it had become slightly shabby, it didn’t always stay in place and was a neurotic’s nightmare in the wind. On the plus side it had become part of my disguise. It was my comforter, my one barrier against the world. I know this sounds a bit melodramatic, but that cheap wig I’d worn for over 3 years had become a crutch. I had bought my brown bob over the internet and had it delivered to work. These were closeted days, so safety came first. Donning the wig for the first time hidden away in our office after hours, I looked in the mirror and believed. If that wig had not looked good I might have stayed hidden for ever. My success of rug was a triumph of luck over cash. I just chose the cheapest non drag queen looking thatch. That turned out to be a brown bob, with red highlights. That damn thing served me well. I briefly toyed with other models, such as the shoulder length curly, but I always came back to old faithful.

So as I walked up Vicky’s garden path, all I needed was a good excuse to turn on my heels and scarper. I had to go through with it Vicky and Debs were waiting for me. I had met Debs briefly in my previous incarnation, but I didn’t recognise her and she certainly didn’t recognise me. Taking my wig off in front of them both was quite a moment. Up to then absolutely no one had seen me without it since I’d gone full time, and Vix hadn’t seen me wigless since I’d first come out to her. So with a minor flourish off it came. It felt unsettling to be without my furry friend of so many years but Debs was soon working her magic, snipping, teasing, fluffing, combing, while Vix and I shared gossip. After almost half an hour she was done. She had blow dried and styled it, but I had no idea what it looked like as they had both cruelly denied me mirror privileges! Now it was unveiling time. I was nervous. Of course I would say I loved it even if I didn’t. I am just like that, but I really wanted it to be genuine sincerity not the faked kind.

I stood and turned to the wall mirror. I stood in stunned silence for a second or ten. The transformation was total, I looked so different and more feminine than I ever expected, and more to the point it was all me pure 100% Jen. Well except for my “uncle bens” (see previous!), but that’s just splitting hairs. Just like the first time I saw myself dressed and made up, I couldn’t hold back a few tears. I did soon pull myself together and thanked Debs with genuine sincere gratitude. She had styled my hair into a shoulder length bob, keeping a fringe that helped to hide my Neanderthal looking forehead and she had flicked the sides just away from my face. I loved it. Being the eternal pessimist I hadn’t really expected my own hair to be up to the job. I had thought that I would probably be in wigs for the rest of my life. Those thoughts had all gone. My plan, if I could call it that was to slowly start to selectively dispense with my wig, picking and choosing occasions. Well from that day on I have never worn my wigs at all. This is not to say things were going to be simple. I was going to have to learn how to do my hair! Up to then all I had done was to slick it back and stuff it under the wig. I had no idea how to do it all myself. Debs gave me some tips, but I wasn’t confident my innate clumsiness would be up to it.

As delighted I was with my new hair I was still very nervous about stepping out in public without the safety net of my wig. Wearing that wig had given me at the same time security, confidence and an easy, quick fit no “bad hair day” hairdo. I awoke the next day ready for a Saturday shop, with a knot of apprehension in my stomach. I gave myself an extra hour to allow for inevitable screw ups. I tried to follow Debs lead and copy her style, which to a pleasing extent I was successful. Stepping out of the front door in my own hair for the first time in so long felt just like those first steps out as a woman all over again. I made no rational sense to feel like this, my hair looked very passable but rationality and trangenderism do not good bed sisters make. Anyway I spent that morning affecting that same first time out behaviour. Constantly looking back at people to see if they were talking about me and. subconsciously trying to shrink into the background (which never works and makes you look shifty). Thankfully by the end of the day I had got my confidence back and was walking taller and starting to relish the freedom and satisfaction of dispensing with the artificiality and disguise of my wig. Only those “uncle bens” to go now.

I still count myself lucky that at forty, I have a decent head of hair. Other girls like me are not so lucky and have lost hair before they transitioned. I also think the hormones have helped maintain a good Barnet. I have to thank Debs so much for that first chop. She has done my hair ever since.