©2002 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

I had a strange feeling of anxiety, almost panic, as I walked through the door of the beauty parlor. It was strange, I’d been here dozens of times before and felt perfectly comfortable, but this time something felt different. It was one of those odd sorts of feelings you get sometimes, you know the kind where things just seem somehow unreal but you don’t know why.

Everything seemed normal enough as I sat reading a magazine, waiting for my usual hairdresser, Sally. After about ten minutes or so she came around the corner of the counter into the reception area, smiling that winning smile of hers. Somehow she always had a way of making all of her clients feel special, which was probably one of the reasons why she was so popular and why it seemed to be getting harder and harder to get an appointment with her.

“How are you doing, Laura.”

The way she’d say this everytime I came into the shop wasn’t like it was with most people. You know, how friends and co-workers and others that you run into always ask you how you are, but don’t really want to know, especially if you’re feeling down. She really meant it.

“I’m doing okay. How about you,” I said automatically.

She didn’t answer right away, but instead just looked at me quizzically for a moment or two.

“That’s strange, you don’t look okay.”

I shrugged and tried to laugh it off.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, forcing a smile, “I guess I’m just feeling a little out of sorts today.”

She smiled again. “Well, I can’t promise to solve the world’s problems, but sometimes a new do will do wonders.”

We both laughed. The reserve I’d been feeling, if not broken, was at least lessened.

“Well, let’s get started,” she said, motioning me to follow her to her station.

I noticed a number of new photographs around the edge of the mirror as I sat down and Sally adjusted the apron on me. Most of them were of Sally in a wedding dress standing next to her handsome tuxedoed boyfriend, now husband, Brad. I recognized him from the times I’d seen him come into the shop before, to pick Sally up after work or to take her to lunch.

“Oh, you’ve brought in your wedding pictures!” My mood was picking up now.

“Yes, I just got some extra prints from the photographer.”

“You and he look so happy. How was the honeymoon?”

“It was great. Hawaii is so beautiful in September.”

“I’m glad you had a good time.”

“Thank you. So,” she said, changing the subject, “are we doing a trim before we start work on your perm.”

“Oh, just a little shaping, maybe. Just hit the split ends, but don’t cut too much. I like the length, basically, I just want to bring this dead perm back to life.”

Sally laughed again. “Okay. Why don’t you follow me back to the sink so we can give your hair a rinse before we start.”

She led me back toward the row of basins that lined the back of the shop, sat me down in a chair, and then leaning my head back began to rinse my hair. I always hated this part. No matter how I’d hold my head, I always seemed to get water in my ears.

I heard Sally say something, but couldn’t make it out over the roar of the spray and the water flowing past my ears. I liked Sally a great deal, but I never could figure out why she and the other beauticians I’ve had always talk to you when you can’t hear or can’t answer. It’s sort of like when you go to the dentist and he starts asking you things when your mouth is full of instruments.

At last she was done, and turned off the water.

“I’m sorry, Sally,” I said as she was towelling my head dry, “I know you were talking to me while you were rinsing my hair, but I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying.”

“Oh, it was nothing very important. I was just saying that somehow the receptionist double- booked me this afternoon, so I hope you don’t mind if I work on someone else as well while I’m doing your perm.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Good.”

She led me back to her station and we began to get started. There is nothing as obnoxious as the smell of the chemicals they use in perms. But sooner done sooner over, and the results were well worth it. I kept meaning to ask Sally about the new “natural perms” I’d been hearing about, the ones that don’t use such noxious chemicals, but I kept forgetting to do so till now.

“Sally,”

“Uhm?” She had her mouth full of bobby pins.

“What do you think of the new “natural perms.”

“Oh, they’re okay. I’ve only tried them on clients a couple of times. I’ve noticed, though, that the perms don’t seem to last as long. Do you want to try it next time? I can make a notation on your card.

“Well, no. Let’s wait till they get the kinks out of the technology. Maybe later.”

She smiled.

Then just as she was putting me under the drier I heard the receptionist call her from the front of the shop.

“Oh, dear, there’s my 1:30”

After a few minutes I heard her come back and glanced to my left side casually as I heard her seat another woman at the hair dryer beside me. For a moment I was startled; it looked like..., but I couldn't be sure, for Sally was standing between us now, fussing with my rollers, checking how the perm solution was doing.

But then the woman spoke.

“How are things going with you and that gorgeous new husband of yours, Sally”.

I knew that voice.

Sally's reply was lost on me as I fought to control the panic that hearing that voice again had stirred up.

I always knew that one day I would run into Catherine. I had rehearsed again and again how I would handle it, what I'd say; but now that it was really happening, I just didn't know what to do.

As if from a distance I heard Sally speaking once more.

“I've often wondered if you two ladies knew each other or were related since you have the same last name, but I've never had you both in the shop at the same time to ask before.”

The phone at the front of the shop began to ring.

“Well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted while I get that. The receptionist just went out to lunch.”

As my shield left I prayed that Catherine wouldn't recognize me. She looked at me curiously, as if trying to place me, but apparently she couldn't.
“Hi, she said, “My name's Catherine, and you're...”

“I hesitated a moment before answering.

“I'm Laura”

“Actually Miller is my ex-husband's name”, she went on, “I've been divorced for almost two years.”

“So have I.”

“Really!”

I could feel her looking at me curiously, trying to place me; I didn’t even have to look over at her, I could just tell.

I fought to control the magazine shaking in my hands as she began to talk about her ex-husband, and the terrible thing he'd done that she could never forgive.

“I won't even let my son and daughter go near ...him, now.”

I heard Sally hang up the phone, feeling grateful as she crossed the shop and stood between us once more.

“Well how are you two getting along”

Not waiting for a reply, she began to fumble in a box on the counter behind us.

“Darn, I'm out of #2 rollers. I'll go get some from one of the other stations. I'll be right back.”

I'd been thinking about my own life during the last two years, while Catherine had been talking. Before the surgery, I’d been required to go through more than two years of preparation.

I could still remember the nights of waking up in a cold sweat as the heavy doses of hormones I had begun taking began to reform my body chemistry. And the months and the pain of electrolysis–feeling like being stung repeatedly by a swarm of hornets as each facial hair was electrocuted and ripped from my face.

I remembered too the day I came home ill from work, and heard the rhythmic banging and squeeking coming from the bedroom, a sound I associated with my wife and I alone. I opened the door and found her making love with the neighbor from next door that I thought was a friend of mine. I left the room without saying a word. They never even knew I was there.

I remember running down into the basement, into the recording studio that I had just built, all the way accompanied by that sad and pervasive rhythm. I went into the soundproof recording room and shut the double set of doors. At last I could no longer hear that sound, and they could not hear me. I began to scream and scream until my throat was raw.

I remembered the separation and divorce that had traumatized me so much that I soon lost my job, my friends, and the house that I’d worked so hard to remodel.

Even with all the careful planning I had done, I had lost my wife, my home, and my job, all within six months. Had those years of physical and emotional pain and readjustment been worth it? And the weeks of pain recovering from SRS, and the later cosmetic and plastic surgeries?

I felt the tears burning down my cheeks as Catherine’s voice brought me back to the present. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the other side of the beauty shop. I looked exactly like I had always hoped that I might. But was it really worth it?

“You were saying you’ve been divorced for two years as well.”

“Y-yes”

Hearing the tone in my voice Catherine turned to look at me more closely.
“Don't I know you from somewhere dear.”

She was giving me that curious look of hers, the one I remembered so well, still trying to place me.

Finally I just couldn't stand it anymore.

I turned to face her and said quaveringly, “You should, d-dear”–how strange to say that word again–”I am your ex... I was your husband....once.”

I didn’t even wait for a reply. I just glanced over at her once, at her mouth working silently like a trout, as I got up from the chair, tears running down my face, and ran from the shop, still wearing that ridiculous apron and my hair in curlers and stinking like a coroner’s lab. Somewhere behind me I heard Sally calling after me, but I didn’t go back, and have never been back since.

Was it a rite of passage? Did I fail? Was I a coward? I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is that I just want to forget and somehow go on with my life. I know that in some people’s eyes I’ll never really be a woman no matter what I do. No amount of surgery could ever do that. There will always be differences. I suppose I’ll always be a little nervous every time I go to the doctor, afraid that he’ll find out. But I can never be a man again either. Must I always live in the past, afraid of who I may run into someday? Always between two worlds, like Mohammed’s coffin, and never a part of either?. Oh hell, I’ve done it to myself again; here come the goddamn tears again.