We'd Like to Help You Learn to Help Yourself
By Angela Rasch
(inspired by the Aria Nova image)

“Plastic. . .,” My sister said in an accusatory tone.

We sat in the living room of the Hinsdale, Illinois house we had inherited from our parents -- enjoying Sunday morning mimosas. Citrus and champagne tainted the air.

“Plastic?” I teased. “Is that a reference to that sixties’ movie with Dustin Hoffman, Katherine Ross, and Anne Bancroft?”

“The Graduate?” She shook her head.

“Here’s a fun fact,” I observed. “I watched a documentary on Netflix about The Graduate. Anne Bancroft played the cougar and Katherine Ross was the sweet young student. Bancroft was thirty-six then and played a woman ten years older than her real age. Ross was twenty-seven and her role was almost ten years younger than her age. Hollywood magic!”

Kayle gave me a look that nixed my attempt to change the subject. “Plastic. . .,” she intoned again. “Ryan, you asked me why you’re feeling bored and unfulfilled. You’re managing our charitable foundation, which should keep you so busy you don’t have time for to feel listless. The unease you’re experiencing seems to have a lot to do with your choice of females.”

“What does that have to do with ‘plastic?’” I did tell Kayla that I need to make some changes in my life. I thought. After our parents died four years ago, she’s slid into a maternal role with me, even though she’s only eighteen months older.

I can’t complain. She has my back – all the time. Even though I bought the lottery ticket, we share our wealth equally.

“We are who we hang with,” she explained. “When you go on Match you always pick the same kind of girl.”

“You found your fiancée, Josh, on Match,” I argued.

“Match doesn’t cause bad decisions -- but does little to prevent them,” she warned.

“But . . . ‘Plastic?’” Our couch is creating ridges on those skinny, bare legs sticking out of my shorts. Kayla and I haven’t bothered to move out of our childhood home. The couch, with its corduroy upholstery, reflects Mom’s taste. “By ‘plastic’ do you mean the women I hook up with want to use my credit cards.”

She laughed. “You don’t let them, do you?”

“Only in an emergency,” I clarified.

“That’s good. Golddiggers are bad, bad. Our attorneys have warned you,” she continued. “By ‘plastic,’ I mean your women are materialistic. They’re attractive but lack any sort of depth whatsoever.”

“Not fairs!” I shook my head.

She persisted. “Totally ‘fairs.’ I’d say they’re all Barbies, but that wouldn’t be ‘fairs’ to Mattel. Every single one of your women could be Margot Robbie’s sister.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I think Margot Robbie is ‘hottttt,’” she conceded. “The problem is that most girls who look like her are high maintenance and diabolically preppy.”

“You’re a ten,” I said truthfully. Kayla is sexy -- but I feel creepy even thinking about it.

She softened. “Thanks . . . you’re not so bad yourself.”

“If you want to be happy for the rest of your life,” I sang to lighten the mood, “never make a pretty woman your wife. So, from my personal point of view -- get an ugly girl to marry you.”

Kayla tossed one of Mom’s floral, tufted throw pillows at me. “That’s song exemplifies ‘horribility.’”

I laughed. “My singing is ‘horrible’ – but the song has its merits. You’re trying to say the same thing -- that there’s something wrong with dating beautiful women.”

“What makes you think the women you’ve been dating are ‘beautiful?’”

“My eyes don’t deceive.”

She grinned. “Do you realize that half the girls you date trowel on enough foundation to make their heads an eighth inch bigger?”

“They do leave a lot of make-up on my pillowcases,” I admitted.

She smirked. “You like them with platinum blonde hair and big red lips.”

I nodded. “Who doesn’t? Scientific studies have been conducted that prove men prefer blondes.”

“Maybe that’s why Jennifer Lawrence went back to blonde after a short trip to the dark side?” Once again, Kayla smirked while she toyed with her long auburn hair. “Only about six percent of women are natural blondes. Yet, about one-third of women bleach their hair blonde.”

“Are you sure?” I do see blondes all over.

She nodded. “If you saw your average date without her face painted and her hair colored, you would be shocked.”

“What’s your point?”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover. And – you can’t find the right person using what you think is sexy as search criteria.”

I felt a huge frown clouding my face. “What do you know about what I think?”

“It’s obvious by the results. When you’re viewing profiles on Match, you have a distinct shopping list. You want a girl with wide hips and a narrow waist. They have to feature plump, kissable lips, captivating eyes, gorgeous long tresses, and physical symmetry. Preferably she comes dressed in red -- or a little black dress.”

I slowly nodded. “That sounds about right.”

“When you meet her,” Kayla added, “you check her out for a higher-pitched voice. The cherry on top is perfume with the right pheromones embedded.”

“You’re so wrong. I want a woman with a pleasing personality.”

Kayla giggled. “If her voice has light tones, you’ll assume she has a wonderful personality.”

“Okay . . . you might be right. I’m picky. I want to date that two percent of the female population that fits the ‘shopping list’ you just described.”

“That’s the freaking hilarious part,” Kayla said. “You actually believe only about two percent of females can meet your standards.”

I brightened. “You said only about six percent are true blondes. I’m taking that six percent and estimating that about a third have all the other traits you mentioned.”

“You’re forgetting all the bleach-blondes. Look . . . I’m not saying that beautiful women make bad mates. They often do. What I’m saying is that your priorities need to be examined.”

“Wouldn’t it be just as silly to only date unattractive women?”

“I agree, but you seem to be missing the point. Let’s try this from another angle,” Kayla suggested, with the annoyed patience of a true big sister. “When you were in high school, what were your goals?”

“My top goal was to be the number one singles player on the tennis team. Not being big or muscular, it seemed like tennis suited me. It allowed me to maximize my athleticism and overall quickness. The second main goal was to save enough money to buy a car.”

“And, now you have eight.” She giggled.

“All the rest of my goals involved finding a job that would provide a good income. I worked to get a 3.80 GPA. I wanted to be admitted by the college of my choice, find a career, and then build a resume.”

“And then, surprise – surprise. Income is no longer a consideration.” She finished her mimosa.

We never drink more than one glass. Alcohol isn’t going to take over our lives.

She sighed. “And now that we’ve taken two years off from college to travel and you’re a wise twenty-two-year-old, what are your goals?”

“Self-discovery,” I suggested. “I need to find my core values and live a life with purpose. Obviously, I want to find my bliss. I’m learning my strengths and weaknesses. Cooking great meals is a skill I’d like to really get into.”

“You’re already a good cook,” she admitted. “Better than me.”

“Thanks, but I can be so much better. My most important goal is building a lasting relationship with someone who can help me reach my other goals.”

“Ha! That brings me back to our topic du jour.” She eyed me for a moment. “You think you’re lucky, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“And, you should think you’re lucky. When Mom and Dad had their auto accident, we were suddenly on our own. You were eighteen, and I was twenty. We weren’t totally helpless, but it was fortunate for us that Mom and Dad had those life insurance policies. We inherited nearly $six million.”

“It could have been much worse.”

“And then you played Powerball, and we won a $72 million cash payout.”

I smiled. “We have options most people only dream about.”

“We need to exercise some of those options to convince you to restructure your search for a mate. I want to challenge your luck and make a bet with you.”

I laughed. “Luck is my superpower.”

“You have many superpowers -- just waiting for you to find them.”

Undiscovered superpowers? “Me? Hardly.”

“Okay . . . I’ll bet you that I can change a person you don’t think is beautiful to look like a girl you would select on Match.”

“Like My Fair Lady?” I asked.

She nodded. “But. . .without all the misogynistic crap.”

“Where are you going to find this Eliza Doolittle? I haven’t seen many young ladies lately selling flowers in the gutter.”

“I’ve already got someone selected who will be perfect.”

“Who? It’s going to be tricky for you to tell one of your friends that she isn’t beautiful . . . and keep her as a friend. Your friends have major inflated egos about their looks.” I chuckled.

“Not all my friends think they’re gorgeous. For instance, you’ve told me many times that when you look in the mirror, you aren’t happy with what you see.”

I bit my lip. “Let’s just say I don’t have an attractive aura. I’m no one’s dream date.”

“You’re okay. But you could be gorgeous.”

I choked on my drink. “Me? Are you going to send me to one of those spas that turn ninety-pound weaklings into the Terminator?”

“I believe the term is ‘Terminatrix.’” She smiled. “My bet is that I can transform you into looking like the kind of girl you spend all your time trying to find.”

Me . . . looking beautiful? That’s ludicrous! I shook my head. “You’re crazy.”

“Not at all,” she countered. “Like they say about houses, ‘you’ve got good bones.’ You’re 5’7” which is a little short for a man but about average for a woman. You’re skinny for a man and, again, about right for a woman. You don’t have a prominent Adam’s apple. Your facial structure is symmetrical, and your fine features are unisex.”

“You’re making me sound soft and feminine,” I whined. Why’s she picking on me? That’s not like Kayla.

“Actually,” she said quietly, “if I made an honest attempt to describe your dazzling smile, I would use those two words: soft and feminine.”

“Now I know you’re screwing with me,” I sputtered. “A lot of girls have told they love my smile.”

“I do, too. But masculine teeth are rectangles with squared edges. Yours are pointier with nicely-rounded edges.”

“I don’t have any trouble getting dates,” I stated firmly. I’m not a wuss!

“You’re good-enough looking, and you’re rich.”

I shook my head. “You and I have done everything possible to hide our wealth. Outside of our lawyers and accountants, nobody knows.”

“Uh-huh,” Kayla agreed. “But money allows you to eat right, have a personal trainer, buy good clothes, drive nice – but not ostentatious cars. . .. And, given where we live they might suspect you have money.”

“We do have an upper hand. But . . . I’m getting lost here. You’re suggesting you can make me look highly datable . . . as a woman. I’ve got one main question.” I paused. “Why?”

“What you’re currently chasing in a woman is -- for the most part . . . marketing. You need to look for different qualities – and the best way for you to learn that lesson is for me to prove to you that even you can be a ‘hot babe.’”

“I guess I can accept that there are more important criteria than good looks.”

“You need to be more convinced than ‘I guess.’ There’s a lot about you that you need to discover.”

“Maybe so,” I agreed. “Still, I totally reject your premise that almost any person can be made to look like a rising star.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why it will be an interesting bet. The bet is that -- if you fully cooperate -- for a month, I will transform you into looking like your ideal date.”

“This is going to be the easiest bet for me to win . . . ever.”

She smirked. “Okay then. We need to agree on stakes. I’ve asked you several times to travel with me to Iceland.”

“I know it’s a popular tourist destination, but I have no interest in staying in an ice hotel. Ice is for making beverages cold.”

Kayla continued. “You want me to go to Egypt with you -- and I have no desire to learn more about antiquity. So, when I win, we’ll spend two weeks in Iceland. If you somehow win, we’ll tour Egypt.”

“Including you riding camels?” I pushed.

“Yes,” she reluctantly agreed. “If you win, we’ll ride camels to see the pyramids. But I’m going to win, and we’re going to Iceland to view the Northern Lights.”

“Not a chance,” I grinned eagerly. “When do we start?”

“I need to make some calls. I’ll reserve my salon for after-hours so that you won’t be embarrassed. I’m sure they’ll be discrete. They’ll do the bulk of the work. I need to hire a transformation service and personal coaches. It’ll take about two weeks to make all the necessary purchases and arrangements and to start on some things. After the additional two weeks that will be needed to make the necessary changes in you -- you’ll look in the mirror and tell me if you look like your ideal date.”

“Are you going to trust me to be the judge?” I asked skeptically.

“You’ve always been honest. I’m also going to trust that you will make the efforts necessary for the metamorphosis to be successful.”

“I promise I’ll do my best.” I raised three fingers with my thumb holding down my pinky.

“Do we have a bet?” She asked.

“You’ll love riding a camel.” I shook the hand she had extended.

***

Two weeks later, Kayla had assembled a platoon of cosmeticians, advisors, and coaches.

She managed to “rent” her salon and four of its employees to work with us after normal business hours.

They made me feel comfortable right from the start.

Kayla had suggested that we didn’t want to lie to anyone. She told them I wanted to try a complete transformation, demanded their secrecy, and allowed them to draw their own conclusions.

She paid them three times normal to ensure their cooperation -- and desire to give us their best.

It was clear from their demeanor that they had all previously worked their magic on non-binary people. They treated me like a well-paying “female” client. There was nothing overtly gender specific, just “Honey” and “Sweetie” and the deference seen in woman-on-woman contacts.

Kayla bought me a pair of size 10 white, bell-bottom jeans and a blouse to wear to the salon; they straddled the line between male and female. My shoes were light grey/mango women’s New Balance running shoes, and my socks were ladies’ crew sock. The beige panties she had me wear were completely female.

I was dressed from the skin out in female clothing, but people would only know – if they did an extremely close inspection.

Any deception was lost when they had me strip and put on a salon gown.

“We’re going to do a three-day makeover,” Susan explained. She was the owner of the salon and one of five professionals who would be tending to me. “Actually, in your case, it will be a ‘three-night’ makeover. We’ll start working on you at 9:30, which is half an hour after we close, and will work four to five hours a night.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate sincerely your efforts to maintain my privacy.”

Kayla had worked with me on my voice. I spoke a half-tone higher and modulated my phrases. I was confident that I sounded like I belonged in the salon for a makeover. My new voice seemed natural. Of course, over the years, I’d often been mistaken on the telephone for a female. Even so, Kayla had hired a voice coach, who also helped with the transformation.

Within minutes of sitting in the chair, I started to feel feminine. It would have been hard not to -- under the circumstances. One woman was giving me a mani-pedi. After plucking dozens of eyebrow hairs, another had applied a mask to my face.

“Tonight, will be mainly about removing unwanted hair,” Susan explained. “We’ll do a full body wax. I want you to start a daily regimen of shaving your arms, legs, and torso in your shower. It would help if you use a Gilette Venus razor. There’s no need to use shaving lotion. I recommend that you first cover your body with Aveeno body wash. It ensures a smooth shave and keeps your skin from becoming too dry. I notice your elbows are dark.”

I blushed. “It’s always been an embarrassment. I’ve tried everything to clean them. That’s just the way my elbows are.”

“Not anymore.” She smiled. “After an initial ‘everyday’ phase for a month, if you shower at least four times a week and use Aveeno body wash, your elbows well become soft and smooth. The same thing for your knees, which also show signs of being too dry.”

As lovely and careful as they all were, the waxing process proved painful. They assured me that if I shaved my arms, legs, and body at least three times a week I would only need waxing every three months, to get to those areas I couldn’t reach.

I knew that in less than twenty days all this femininity would be behind me -- once I won the bet. Yet, my mind quickly formed a pleasing picture of a daily shower ritual, with results I would love.

A fourth woman bleached and trimmed my dark brown hair. “You’re now a honey-blonde! The average length is about eight inches, but we’ll fix that.”

Day two was all about hair extensions.

“You have nice thick hair,” Susan gushed. “We’ll add as much as fifteen inches of length, which will allow for a wide variety of hair arrangements. Only about twelve percent of women have long hair these days. You’ll be in the minority. . .the right one.”

Even though I know the long hair will be temporary, I’m curious to see the different styles on me.

“We’re going to start you with a butterfly cut with feathery layers,” she said. “Men love it.”

Men love it? I’m not interested in what men love. I just want to prove Kayla wrong.

“We’re also going to try several cosmetic lines. You have lovely skin.” Susan’s hand touched my cheek. “However, we never really know how a particular facial product will respond to you, until we try.”

I nodded, with only partial understanding.

“Your sister paid us to train you to do your make-up, so we’ll explain everything we do and talk you through every step. Make-up application is a skill that requires constant revisitation. You’ll find more than enough information online. But you have to be selective in accepting what you see and hear.”

They devoted the final night to a complete makeover, with adjustments to my hair, and a little black dress.

We were joined by three gender transformation experts. They fitted me with breast prosthetics, hip pads, and something they called a “gaff” that featured a faux camel toe. They also stuffed me into a body shaper -- reducing my waist by about two inches.

They would be working with me on my walk -- and a hundred other things they quickly summarized.

As a last step, they spritzed my wrist with Good Girl Gone Bad . . . a fruity, floral perfume.

They had not allowed me to see myself during the process. Finally, they stepped back and pulled a sheet off a full-length mirror.

“You’re lovely,” Kayla said softly, from behind me.

I am. For the first time ever, I feel good about what I see in the mirror. “I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe for our trip to Iceland.”

Kayla hugged me. “You’ve emerged from your cocoon.”

“But,” I questioned, “who am I now?”

“You’re you. Like Mrs. Robinson was for Anne Bancroft, you’re now a different version of you.”

“You were listening.” I smiled.

“I’ve been observing you closely all your life.”

“Mrs. Robinson was manipulative and abusive.”

Kayla grinned. “You’ll never be that. But Mrs. Robinson was also a strong woman who didn’t want her daughter to repeat the errors she had made. You’ll eventually find the best you -- and the right person to share your life.”

The End