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.