Experiences live with us for ever. It’s only when you write tracing back your earlier days that you feel what you felt then.

I felt lonely.

Chapter 9

I didn’t know that the bus would take me through the door into a whole new world that lives with me today. I was indeed Sweet 16 and never been kissed, sitting there on the bus heading for an appointment with who I couldn’t say in a place that would either prolong my dreams or shatter them.

I was indeed lonely. Sure I had mates at school. I played games with them in the school yard. Never was I a tough one. There were plenty of guys who were aggressive and loud and rather not the kind I wanted to hang out with. But then, I wasn’t that clever, so I didn’t want to be associated with the geeks and swots who would pass all their exams with ease and go on to rule the fucking world. Why couldn’t people just be normal, middle-of-the-road guys like me?

Normal… hold on! Was I normal…? not on your life. Riding a bus, wearing female underwear, going to get my hair shampooed and set in a girly fashion. Was I really doing this. In the middle of the day. In broad daylight. I looked about me in the bus.

Several older people, going to spend their pensions. Several men going to work in trades — builders and plumbers, roughed up clothes, unshaven. Eeeeyuk. I never wanted to be unshaven. I was having to shave once a week and hated it. (Still do). I wasn’t very good at it and always seemed to leave straggly hairs in places or cut myself and bleed. Eeeeyuk. Did I not like shaving. Fuck it. girls don’t shave. What luck to be born a girl!

Luckily, the shave had been clear and close the day before and didn’t need repeating the day of the bus trip. I had smoothed some of Mum’s moisturiser over the skin before leaving the house, carefully replacing the top and putting the bottle exactly where it had been placed.

I knew the place where I had to go, only vaguely. The phone book had told me where the salon was. On the main road into the centre of this suburb. I began to get anxious that I would miss the right stop. I nearly left the bus twice before I needed to.

Then I saw it, the salon with the name I forgot, out of the window. Request the stop… ring the bell. I did so and got off with a couple of other people. One was a teenage girl. She was taller than me, but not by much. Her skirt was up high on her thighs. (A “fan belt” we called those). She had a magnificent mane of light auburn hair that fell across her shoulder in a sleek curtain. I thought instantly of the red-haired girl in Jersey.

This was an omen. An instruction, I thought. I had to go through with this whole idea. No turning back. The redhead stopped to cross the road. Towards the salon side of the busy street. The redhead in Jersey had her hair set on larger rollers because her hair was set in a straight style with a fringe or bangs to frame her face. She was a beauty.

She walked past the salon and out of my life for ever.

I, on the other hand, walked past the salon, peered inside and walked on. In the fleeting glimpse, I saw that it was already quite busy. There were probably six styling stations in front of mirrors. There was a bank of dome-shaped dryers along the facing wall. All behind a glitzy glass reception desk where a quite-tarty, very Jewish mature lady — probably a hundred years old I thought, was sitting. She had a blonde beehive. With curls rolled at the back.

That was all I could see. The stylists were there but I couldn’t see them in detail. In a moment, I was past the salon’s door and outside a little café next door. I was early for the appointment, by at least 15 minutes. I had time to reconsider. But then, I didn’t really. The decision had been made for me. By the redhead. On the bus. By the redhead, in Jersey. I was going in. I really was. But a Coke would steady my nerves — or give me a shot of caffeine to hype my senses!

I took strength from the thought that, if my bully-boy Brother could see me now, or rather see me in an hour’s time, I wouldn’t care. What he would think did not matter to me in the slightest. Equally, my Father’s opinion would be negative but would not sway me from my decision. My Mum, on the other hand, I wasn’t sure about. Would she be appalled and horrified? Or would she gather me up and say that she loved me anyway, whatever I wanted to be? I didn’t know. The one who did matter and who I wouldn’t want to see me, was my elder Brother. His opinion would matter. He would probably be the same as Mum would be. Appalled or supportive? I would want his agreement, if not his complete understanding.

How could he, or Mum understand what I didn’t even understand myself? I was a boy with a part of me feeling he wanted to be a girl sometimes. I began to feel, as countless people since have said, that transvestites are different from transgender people. I wasn’t a girl “trapped in the wrong body”. I didn’t want to have a husband and settle down for life. I wanted girlfriends and a wife one day.

Time was coming, I knew it. I had to get up, walk out of the café and into the next-door shop and say “Hello, I have an appointment…” So, I did. No giving in to the temptation to walk past just once more… and then run away!

“You….. have an appointment?” said the Beehive. I gave the name I had given on the phone. Same letter to start the surname, but not the same name. I mean, who knows how I could be traced if I gave them a real name?? “Come this way, you’re stylist will be Angela….” (This was in the days before names like Jasmine, Juliette, or Jemima were common in salons everywhere — sorry girls with “J” names!) Angela was a nice homely Jewish girl with tightly-curled dark red hair that wasn’t much longer than mine. Well, the curls hid whatever length of hair she had.

I was conscious that my underwear was tightening around me… or was it? No, I was just aware of it in this heightened atmosphere. I had equally nice undies as Angela, I had no doubt. I studied her face, as another woman might. Not a stunner. “Hello, I’m Angela….” she said, a gown put around me “ Sit here and lay back, and Rachel will shampoo you”. I’ll see you in a minute or two.

It was amazing…. I had said almost nothing except my “name” and to confirm my appointment. And yet, here I was, for the first time in my life, I was lying back at the washbasin in a female hairdressing salon, about to have a roller set and styling. I nearly nearly …. Well, I thought I might cum in my lovely panties. There was a sudden sexual charge in my head. Talk about mixed up — my emotions were all over the place.

Now, with a gown on I laid back. I was trapped. Nothing I could do. I couldn’t run out without making a scene. Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to do that? No, not such a scene. So, I was trapped. I felt the eyes of other women (other??) boring into my being from their mirrors, or from their dryer positions behind me. I could feel the collective… “Who the hell…?” question… the “What is he doing….?”

It was obvious, I was a He in a sea of Shes.

When my wash was done, Angela took me to her station and pulled the trolley with rollers piled upon it towards me. It was then, for the first time, that I was able to relax and enjoy what was to come. The initial shock had worn off. I was in there, and I would relish every roller going in.

“How would you want your hair today?” asked Angela.

“…… er…. um… however you think best..”

Space doesn’t allow me to write more detail of the next hour, but when I was released from under the domed dryer where I had been locked, I was placed at the mirror in the styling position nearest the door and reception desk. I sat there with rollers tight all over my head, apart from the back.

The Beehive came to check me out. She smiled knowingly in the mirror. What did she know? “Had a stand-off with your Father?” she enquired. Not knowing if she was being sarcastic, or merely saying what she had read into the situation, I smiled and said “yes, for sure!” meaning it was so, so true. “Well, we’ll show him. You have enough here to make a good impression…. Ange’s very good with the styling.” End of conversation.

Back came Angela, who proceeded to unwind every roller with care, leaving each beautiful springy curl as a separate roll as they cooled. Then, ouch! The back-combing began.

— oo00oo —

I have thought many times since, many hundreds of times, how much of a defining moment this was in my life. Never having been able to pass as a woman — well at least in company — this was as close as I could ever have been to a truly female experience. I have been shopping many times for both outer- and under-wear, happily browsing and not caring for other’s thoughts. I’ve had may hair done since, though not for some years. I have coloured my hair. I have had full make-up and make-overs. I have spent whole days in Changeaway salons. But my secret has been guarded. Especially since my marriage.

But going home, on that bus, with my underwear on, and my hair set in curls, I was in a kind of unrepeatable heaven.

And still, I was lonely. Perhaps I still am.

— oo00oo —

When I got home, the reality that Mum would be home within an hour dawned upon me. I dressed in some more clothes, ill-fitting though Mum’s clothes were, and I put on my make-up.

OK, I still looked like a boy who was dressing up as a girl. But the hair was the transforming extra aspect that I had dreamed of… and it was worth every penny of that week’s wages to have this look. I would r-live that day a thousand times before writing this today.

Chapter 10 brings an end to “never been kissed”.