Back to my story of the bittersweet experiences in my mid-teens. Dangerous times! The risk of discovery heightened by every choice I made. My first trip to go buying outer clothes and my first car drive home with my hair just set.

Chapter 15 (There was no chapter 13!)

I decided to combine two firsts, believe it or not. This is for real. I would never have done what I did in the neighbourhood where I and my family lived. Golders Green was far enough away. There was a new shopping mall, called Brent Cross, which had been built the year before. Marks & Spencer was a flagship store.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision — to combine the hairdressing with the shopping. That came after the hair salon visit, so it wasn’t as easy as it would have been — to go shopping before having my hair set in a girly style. Of course, it wasn’t. But I found a new reserve of bravado. What if complete strangers did think I was curious, a subject of laughter? What if they thought I was a ‘poof’ or worse, the new term for homosexuals, a ‘bum bandit’? Did I care? No, I decided I didn’t care. Because I wouldn’t be seen by them again, so they could laugh all they wanted.

My clothing was purposely loose and unfitting — I could be boy or girl under the shirt and loose trousers. In fact, I was girly under there — my panties were used to this! The bra was unused to such a trial but coped well, being undiscovered at the salon — at least I thought so.

There was no mistaking the femininity of my hair. It was highly-styled, I had a centre parting with a fringe and bangs curving round the cheekbones. My ears were covered now, as my hair had grown longer. The crown was back-combed high and the back shaped into my neck. Angie had gone ahead with a cut without any agreement from me. I forgave her, but this was now more of a feminine style than I’d expected. I thought I would have to wash it out immediately I got home.

That was what finally persuaded me to go to Brent Cross. It would prolong the enjoyment. I could park my little old car in the car park, the one nearest the M&S store.

Before I left he car, I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror. It looked wonderful. I opened my purse and took out the flesh-tinted lipstick. Well, no reason NOT to enjoy the moment. I ladled my lips with plenty of creamy colour that was unnoticeable from more than three yards away. OK, the counter assistant would notice but I’d only be with her for a minute, paying cash.

(Remember, these were the days when a 17/18 year old could not get one of those new-fangled credit card things. Many stores didn’t accept them anyway).

A final check in the mirror and I reached for the door handle. Soon I was across the car park and entering the mall. Uncertain exactly where the M&S store was, I sought out a store directory. Just beside an escalator, a moving staircase that went up towards the second floor).

Marks & Spencer was right beside where I was standing. On two floors. On the ground floor, there were household items, and men’s clothing amongst other things. Don’t need any of that, I thought. I need the Women’s section.

So, it was up that staircase to the array of underwear, like the other store I had bought my panties and bras.. And there, stretching away from me, beyond the shoes raking, were the skirts, the dresses, the flowing trousers, the lingerie and nightwear. I stopped as it stunned.

“Can I help you?” I was asked within a few seconds of standing still. “No no, I have to find blouses and I can see them..” I answered the helpful assistant. As I moved on, I felt her eyes drilling into the back of my neck. She knew! She saw the lipstick, for sure! Stupid boy! Why did I wear it? Stupid. Too much of a give-away. What if she called the store detective? What if she called out after me?

Of course, none of these things happened and I reached the blouses and lovely tops that girls were wearing in 1967/68. Bright colours, new fabrics, sheen and shine, ruffles and flares. Beauties!

At the end of the first display, there were further racks of much more conservative, dare I say dowdy, clothing — the sort my grandmother would wear. The first rails were much more what Mum would wear. Too old for a girl of my age……

“My age?” I said out loud. People did turn to see who had said something out into the ether…. Oh, it was that boy over there, or is it a girl? Must be… look at her hair1 I imagined them thinking. Is he a poof? Is he a bum boy? Lock up your kids!!.....

No, no, no. Nothing of the sort. Nobody paid the slightest bit of notice. But there I was, another first….. The first time I had thought of “a girl of my age”…… Jeez, this hairstyle and these surroundings, and my bra and panties…. They all made me feel soooo girly!

I needed to find fashions for girls of my own age. There! I said it again…. to myself.

“You need to find fashions for girls of your own age?” asked a stranger’s voice next to me. “Well, you’ll find them over the far side. Over there.”

I nearly had heart failure. But in a moment that person was gone. I saw the backside of a mature lady, maybe 50+, who worked for the store as a Supervisor. Not like the Dragon at my previous branch. I decided it was time to get over there, make a choice, pay and get out.

The Teens area was full of girls from a local school who were going along every row and rail, taking blouses off the hangers and hanging them in front of themselves. Many tried to accentuate the very small tits they had. I reflected that the tits I made for myself with folded socks were probably too big. I tried to keep away from these little tarts — for that’s what they were — but they wouldn’t go away. None of them noticed me in particular but I guessed if they did — and if they spotted my lipstick, all hell would break loose. Inhibitions and they did not go together.

But there I was. My hair looked better than many of theirs. Unusual, but not impossible, for a boy to wear. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad…. OK it had been styled and back-combed a bit, and the fringe and bangs surrounded my face. But I was a boy… Why was I there?

“To look for a present for a Sister”. That was why. That’s how I would explain my being there.

I reached the most promising rail with brightly coloured cotton/nylon shiny fabrics. I rustled along the rail to find the size I thought I would need….. A choice between a 36B and a 38B. How would I choose which.

“What are you looking for, sweetie?” Someone asked nearby….. Actually, I was asked….. Did I have an answer? Yes……

“I’m looking for a blouse as a present for my Sister…” I said, furiously eating what remained of the lipstick that was still on my lips.

“Oh, neat….” Said a 16 year old girl in school uniform. Pan-stick make-up and a blonde streak lining her fringe. One of many among her friends. “Here, you lot!.. This guy wants help choosing a blouse….” “What??!!! Came the collective chorus. “Heeee wants a blouse???” said another one of the girls, incredulously. She was a lovely redhead.

Within three seconds, I was surrounded by a rugby scrum of 16/17 year old girls. Something a boy of my age would have dreamed of and never once expected to have happen. “Why do you want a blouse?” said one. “Is it for you?” said another. “Cool, if it is!” exclaimed another…….. They were clearly on my case. I had been rumbled…. My face must have begun to blush…. But then, magically, I remembered… my explanation… Confidence flooded back into my veins, like another time before.

The first girl said “That’s what he said first of all…..” and the rest looked at me in a different light. “That’s cool too — if you’re buying something really fashionable for her. How old is she?” There was a need to create an imaginary Sister — and quickly…..

“Er… she’s, er… two years older than me; makes her 19. She’s at Uni. Doesn’t get to spend money on clothes hardly at all….”

Within a minute, I was faced with three blouses to choose from, out of twenty or more that had been considered by the group. The choice had been accompanied by dozens of questions directed at me, to which the answers were not listened. It had to be one of these three. I had to choose. There and then. I settled for the prettiest, girlie-most pink and white swirly-patterned blouse which, because it was made of what it was made of, would hide the bras I would want to wear under it. Layer upon layer of stuff I’m told was man-made chiffon.

Shepherding me off to the pay desk, one of the girls… the one who had said it would be cool if the blouse was for me…… sidled up and said “I do like your hair. It’s really nice. Do you wear it that way all the time?” To which I replied, “…only when I’m feeling like it". ....Not what she was expecting. I would like to see you again I thought.

--oo00oo--

Back in the car, having paid twenty pounds of my hard-earned wages for this blouse, I sat back in the driving seat. Breathless. Going over the encounter in my mind. What should I have done differently?

I thought.

And I concluded. Nothin!

I handled the attack of the clones very well!

--oo00oo--

I returned home and parked the car along the street from my home. I had to make my re-entry to the house. Like before. Quick. Quiet. Unobserved.

That nosey neighbour woman, in particular, had to be avoided. She would blow the whistle.

“Your Son looks different these days, doesn’t he? All a bit girly, I think. Is he quite normal??......” I could hear her over the back garden wall. Taunting my Mum. Well, she would do if she saw me like i was. But she didn't!

I made it. The house was quiet. But like before. I had to hid my purchases and get my hair washed. Sadly, so sadly, it had to go — this wonderful coiffure….. Nice word that. I didn’t do French at school but that word stuck! I had a coiffure. It had said so above the door of the salon. Poncey word really. Implies style and French self-admiration. Can’t stand them. Never could.

The wash-out was the same, except the curls were more difficult to flatten, to eradicate. I dried my hair off, again just before Mum walked in.

“More chemicals down your neck, Honey? You should have them do it more often — it looks nice again.”

!... should have them do it again…….

“I’m off to study Mum.” I answered, thinking of how much I wanted that blouse and my bra to get together. It would have to be tomorrow!

Chapter 16 brings us to “tomorrow” — don’t say it never comes!