Highway to Elle
Chapter 4: One Elle of a Makeover
by Paige Turner

Logan's encounter with his ex-girlfriend Kayla had made one thing terrifyingly clear: his current appearance still retained enough of his original self that someone who knew him well could sense something familiar. That wasn't a risk he could afford to take. Even with all the changes GIRLI had made to his body, traces of Logan Turner remained—in his mannerisms, in his expressions, in some ineffable quality that Kayla had recognized despite everything. If he was going to survive the year ahead, those final traces needed to be eliminated completely.

"If I'm going to be on Elite, I need to commit completely," Logan had declared to the cheerleaders. "I want to look different. Completely different."

"That's the spirit!" Alexis exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "You'll thank us later. The right hair and makeup make all the difference."

Tiffany checked her phone and squealed with excitement. "Perfect timing! I just texted Serenade Salon, and they had a cancellation. They can take us in an hour if we hurry."

"Serenade is the absolute best," Madison explained as they gathered their shopping bags. "All the Elite girls go there. It's expensive, but it will be completely worth it."

The salon was located in an exclusive shopping district, its sleek interior populated by fashionable women undergoing various beauty treatments. Logan felt immediately out of place despite his increasingly feminine appearance, acutely aware of how his basic ponytail, minimal makeup, and frumpy sweats contrasted with the polished clients around him.

"Elle needs the complete transformation package," Alexis informed the salon manager while Logan sat frozen in embarrassment. "She's transferring to Westridge, and we need to bring her up to Elite standards."

The manager assessed Logan with professional scrutiny. "We can definitely work with this. She has gorgeous bone structure and those freckles are to die for. Let's start with a consultation."

What followed was a four-hour beauty marathon that systematically feminized every aspect of Logan's appearance. The hair stylist began by attacking his auburn locks.

"We'll intensify your beautiful auburn color and add rich dimensional highlights that will catch the light," she explained, mixing custom color formulations. "Your natural wave pattern is ideal for the face-framing layers we'll create, and we'll add significant length and volume to make it truly striking."

As the colorist applied the dye, Logan felt the cool, thick substance being painted methodically through sections of his hair. The chemical smell made his eyes water slightly, but what truly unnerved him was watching his familiar brownish-auburn shade being painted with a vibrant red solution. It felt to him that with each section the colorist covered, another piece of Logan Turner vanished. He sat rigidly in the chair, watching his transformation through the mirror with a mixture of fascination and growing panic as the stylist worked her way around his head, using foils and various brushes with professional efficiency.

"Now we'll let this process for about 45 minutes," she explained, setting a timer. "The color needs time to penetrate the hair shaft for that perfect auburn richness with subtle copper undertones we're going for."

While the color processed, Logan was moved to another station where an aesthetician began what she called "structural refinement" of his eyebrows.

"Your natural arch is actually quite exquisite," she noted, examining his brows with magnifying glasses. "We'll just clean up the shape and define them properly."

The process was surprisingly painful—waxing followed by precise tweezing that brought tears to his eyes. Once the basic shape was established, the aesthetician introduced a procedure that horrified Logan.

"Microblading! It will give you perfectly defined brows for months," she explained, preparing a specialized tool. "It's semi-permanent pigmentation that creates the illusion of individual hairs in the ideal feminine arch."

Logan wanted to object but found himself silenced by Alexis's enthusiastic approval and his own uncertainty about refusing treatments that might compromise his cover. The microblading procedure involved tiny needles depositing pigment just beneath the skin surface, creating delicate hair-like strokes that transformed his brows into perfectly shaped arches that completely redefined his eyes.

While his hair color processed and brows recovered, Logan was subjected to what the salon called a "youth-prolonging facial"—an intensive treatment involving exfoliation, extractions, and various serums applied with specialized equipment.

"Your skin is already responding beautifully to whatever regimen you're on," the aesthetician commented, examining his face under bright lights. "We'll just refine and enhance with collagen stimulation and targeted brightening for those adorable freckles."

Just when he thought things couldn't get worse, a specialist in "non-invasive enhancements" arrived for a consultation.

"We offer subtle tweakments that can refine facial structure without surgery," she explained, examining Logan's face from different angles. "For someone your age, we recommend only the most targeted interventions."

Before Logan could process what was happening, the specialist was marking measurement points on his face and preparing injections.

"Just a touch of fine hyaluronic acid filler to enhance your upper lip definition and cheek contours," she explained, preparing a syringe. "And a micro-dose of relaxer for your forehead to prevent future tension lines. Nothing that looks artificial—just enhancements that bring out your natural beauty."

The injections were quick but uncomfortable—sharp pinches followed by strange pressure sensations as the substances were deposited beneath his skin. The specialist worked with practiced precision, using tiny amounts distributed in strategic locations that subtly feminized his facial structure and left everything feeling swollen and wrong.

"These treatments will blend with your already gorgeous features," she explained. "The results look completely natural but will totally enhance your feminine aura. The effects last about six months, so you'll need maintenance sessions, but they're quick and easy."

After the timer at the color station went off and his hair had been rinsed, the stylist escorted him back to her chair for what she called "the dramatic reveal." Logan stared in shock at the rich reddish shade that had replaced his natural color. The enhanced tone made his skin appear creamier and his developing freckles stand out dramatically.

"This is just the beginning," the stylist assured him, gathering several packages from a nearby drawer. "You'll love what it looks like after extensions."

Logan watched in mute horror as she opened multiple packages of human hair that matched his new color perfectly. "These are premium quality hand-tied extensions," she explained. "They'll blend with your natural hair and add both length and volume."

The process was tedious and uncomfortable. Logan sat with his neck cramping as the stylist meticulously attached small bundles of hair close to his scalp creating an almost imperceptible bond. The weight of the additional hair felt strange and alien against his neck and back, leaving him with a constant awareness of the foreign material now attached to his head. With each added section, he felt the physical burden of his transformation becoming increasingly tangible—his head literally heavier with the weight of his new look.

Once all the extensions were in place, the stylist began cutting his newly lengthened hair into a long layered style with soft face-framing pieces and natural waves that perfectly complemented his facial structure. With each snip of the scissors, she created movement and dimension that made the extensions blend seamlessly with his natural hair.

"You'll need to be careful washing and brushing for the first few days," the stylist instructed as she worked. "No vigorous scrubbing or rough handling, and always brush from the ends up, never from the root down. Your extensions should last about eight weeks before needing maintenance."

As the stylist continued her detailed instructions about sulfate-free shampoos, weekly conditioning treatments, and proper blow-drying techniques, Logan was disturbed to find himself absorbing every word with perfect clarity. Just like earlier in the day when fashion terminology had inexplicably lodged in his brain, these elaborate feminine hair care routines seemed to settle into his memory with unnatural ease. His mind eagerly soaked up terms like "heat protectant," "texturizing spray," and "root lift" as if they were football plays he'd been studying for years.

The finished result was stunning—his once shoulder-length hair now cascaded in vibrant auburn waves well past his shoulder blades, creating a dramatic frame for his increasingly delicate features. The stylist used various hot tools to enhance his natural waves, creating cascading curves that softened his appearance dramatically. Each time he moved his head, he felt the unfamiliar weight and movement of the much longer hair, a constant physical reminder of how far removed he was becoming from his original self.

The final phase involved a makeup artist who provided both application and education on techniques far more sophisticated than the basic tinted moisturizer and mascara Dr. Gupta had taught him.

"For everyday, you want an enhanced natural look that appears effortless while highlighting your best features," she explained, applying various products with practiced skill. "We'll teach you how to create your signature style that works with your coloring and features."

Again, Logan found himself frightened by how effortlessly he absorbed the detailed makeup techniques. As the artist demonstrated the proper way to apply primer for longevity and foundation that perfectly matched his skin tone, Logan retained each step with perfect clarity.

Logan caught himself leaning forward with interest as the artist demonstrated contouring techniques, finding the delicate brushwork almost mesmerizing "The secret is blending," she explained, demonstrating with a fluffy brush. "You want to create dimension without visible lines. A touch of bronzer here, highlight on the high points, and your bone structure will look naturally feminine."

Next came eye makeup techniques - how to blend eyeshadow into the crease for dimension, tight-line the upper waterline, and apply mascara without clumping. "Always curl your lashes first," she advised, demonstrating the technique. "It opens up your eyes and makes them appear larger and more expensive."

Finally, she addressed lip techniques, showing him how to use liner slightly outside his natural lip line. "Your Cupid's bow has beautiful definition, but we'll enhance it just a bit," she said, carefully outlining then filling in with a nude-pink shade. "Overdrawing is an art—too much looks fake, but the right technique gives you that perfect feminine fullness."

Once, Logan would have been overwhelmed and confused by the array of brushes, products, and techniques. But his mind now categorized and filed away each piece of information as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn't need to concentrate or make an effort to remember—the knowledge simply integrated itself into his consciousness.

By the time the comprehensive makeover was complete, Logan barely recognized himself. The person in the mirror was unquestionably female—a striking young woman with vibrant auburn waves cascading past her shoulders, perfectly shaped eyebrows arching above expressive eyes, subtly enhanced facial contours that appeared completely natural, and delicately freckled skin that glowed with health. The dramatic hair transformation alone would have made him unrecognizable, but combined with everything else, the disconnect between his rapidly fading self-image and this reflection grew more profound than ever.

"Absolutely stunning," the salon manager approved as the team of specialists presented their finished work. "You look like a completely different person."

The irony of this comment wasn't lost on Logan, who stared at his reflection with a mixture of horror and fascination. The face gazing back from the mirror wasn't just Logan with longer hair—it was an entirely different creature who happened to inhabit his transforming body. He was certain he wasn't going to get recognized by someone from his old life again. Maybe ever.

After their final assessment of the transformation, Tiffany pulled out her phone and held it up. "We need to document this. Elle, you have to take a selfie with your new look."

"A selfie?" Logan repeated, still disoriented by the stranger in the mirror.

"Yes! This is a moment that needs to be captured," Madison insisted. "Here, use my phone—it has the new camera."

Logan hesitated as Madison pressed her phone into his hand. He'd never been particularly adept at taking selfies, always managing to cut off half his face or capture unflattering angles when he'd tried in his previous life.

Logan raised the phone uncertainly, but then something strange happened. Without conscious thought, his body shifted into position. His chin tilted down slightly, his head angled to catch the salon lighting perfectly. His eyes softened, lips parting just enough to appear natural rather than posed. His arm extended at precisely the right length, the camera positioned to capture his best features while minimizing any masculine angles that might remain.

His finger tapped the screen, capturing a flawless image that looked like it belonged in a beauty magazine—the auburn waves framing his face perfectly, his expression both confident and approachable, the composition highlighting every element of his transformation.

"Let me see!" Tiffany exclaimed, reaching for the phone. She examined the photo with a low whistle. "Okay, seriously? First try and it's perfect? Most girls need like twenty attempts to get one this good."

Alexis peered over her shoulder and nodded approvingly. "You're a natural. Tiff, text it to her so she can put it on her Insta. A look that good needs to be shared."

"I... don't have social media," Logan stammered, suddenly aware of yet another gap in his fabricated identity. It hadn't even occurred to him that "Elle" would be expected to have an online presence.

"What? How is that possible?" Madison looked genuinely shocked. "Every girl has at least Instagram."

"My mom is super strict about privacy," Logan improvised, drawing on the fake backstory Dr. Gupta had created. "Because of her government work, she doesn't allow me to have public accounts."

The explanation seemed to satisfy them, though Tiffany shook her head in sympathy. "That's tragic. But you should at least keep this photo for yourself. It's incredible."

As the girls continued chattering about filter options and lighting, Logan stared at the photo Tiffany had just texted him with growing unease. How had he known exactly how to pose? The perfect angle, the subtle expression, the flattering composition—none of it had required conscious thought. His body had simply... done it, as if he'd been taking feminine selfies his entire life.

This wasn't the first time he'd noticed these automated responses. Small gestures and mannerisms had been emerging with increasing frequency—the way his hands now moved when he spoke, how his head tilted when listening, even the subtle shift in his walk. But this was different—a complex sequence of movements he had never learned, executed with practiced precision.

He'd come to terms with the GIRLI "kinesthetic reprogramming" that had though him his tumbling skills, rationalizing it as a necessary evil to learn the cheer techniques needed to achieve success in a sport he had no background in. But this was something different. These weren't entirely new skills, but altered behaviors that were modifying how Logan would have otherwise acted in certain situations.

It was as if someone else was occasionally taking control of his body, a feminine presence that existed just beneath the surface of his consciousness, ready to emerge whenever "Elle" was required.

As Logan stepped out of the salon, his newly styled auburn waves catching the afternoon sunlight, he felt like a completely different person. Which was precisely the point. But the shopping and salon marathon had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and by the time the girls had dropped him off at his apartment, all he wanted was to collapse.

The next day, Logan arrived at the GIRLI facility for his scheduled evaluation. He'd spent nearly an hour that morning getting ready, following the salon specialists' instructions with surprising ease. Despite knowing exactly which products to use and how to apply them, the prescribed routine still took forever—a meticulous process of styling his new extensions, applying the correct makeup techniques, and ensuring everything looked natural.

Logan's face still felt unnervingly different after the salon treatments. His skin tingled from the aggressive exfoliation, his eyebrows ached dully from the microblading, and the peculiar pressure sensations from the injections lingered beneath the surface. When he spoke, he could feel a subtle resistance in his upper lip, the slight fullness catching his attention with every word. His face no longer felt like his own—not just in appearance but in the physical sensations that now accompanied every expression.

Following the cheerleaders' advice about his "signature style," he'd chosen a sage green sundress with a delicate floral pattern, paired with a cropped cream cardigan that softened his shoulders and arms. He'd found a pair of GIRLI "contour augmentation module" silicone inserts in his closet that perfectly filled his new A cup bras, their gentle weight against his chest distracting and foreign. He slipped simple sandals that showed off his new pedicure onto his feet, inserted small silver stud earrings through his aching earlobes, and tentatively left his apartment.

Dr. Gupta looked up from her tablet as he entered her office, her eyes widening slightly—the most emotional reaction he'd ever seen from her.

"Your appearance has achieved remarkable feminine refinement through these strategic enhancements," she stated. "It is reassuring that you have expended your supplemental aesthetic stipend to substantially elevate your adaptation potential beyond initial projections."

"Thanks... I think," Logan replied uncertainly, taking his usual seat across from her desk. "You're saying I look nice? And you're not mad that GIRLI had to pay for a makeover and all these new clothes?"

"Affirmative," Dr. Gupta replied without a hint of self-consciousness about her bizarre communication style. "I would estimate your assimilation trajectory has accelerated by approximately 17.3% based on these modifications."

Logan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still not accustomed to the way the sundress arranged itself around his legs. The light fabric seemed to have a mind of its own, settling against his thighs and occasionally catching air currents that threatened to lift the hem. It required a constant, low-level awareness that his cargo shorts had never demanded—a subconscious monitoring of how he sat, crossed his legs, and adjusted his posture.

"Something happened yesterday that I wanted to ask you about. At the salon, when we were taking pictures, I automatically knew how to pose. It was like my body just... took over. And I've noticed the same thing with all the beauty techniques I learned yesterday—my brain seems to be absorbing and processing this information without any effort."

"I've already explained how the kinesthetic programming is intended to assist your training sessions," Dr. Gupta said, clearly trying to deflect.

"No, that's different," Logan insisted. "I know about the tumbling skills and the walking patterns you gave me. This was something else—social behaviors that… weren't me. It's like these random feminine behaviors are just appearing."

Dr. Gupta sighed, then dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. "Your lack of female socialization as an adolescent required incorporation of targeted behaviors through subconscious cognitive restructuring during your routine treatments."

"You've been programming these behaviors into me without telling me?" Logan felt a chill run through him.

"These behavioral adjustments were explicitly covered in your GIRLI contract under 'comprehensive socialization adaptation,'" Dr. Gupta replied. "The autonomous emergence of gender-congruent behaviors indicates successful neural pathway formation."

Logan ran a hand through his newly styled auburn waves, still not accustomed to how they were constantly falling into his face. "Can you stop putting stuff like that in my head? Who cares if I can take a selfie."

"No additional subroutines require insertion," Dr. Gupta said, to Logan's relief. "We will proceed to the next phase of the neurological realignment protocol: emotional processing and response pattern unification."

"Emotional processing?" Logan repeated.

"Gender-congruent emotional responses are essential for authentic immersion," she explained. "The phase three protocol will reconfigure your limbic system to produce more appropriate responses for your target demographic."

Logan wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but the clinical detachment in her voice made him reluctant to ask for clarification. He was already dealing with enough strange new experiences for one day.

"When does this... emotional thing begin?" he asked finally, resignation evident in his voice.

"Immediately," Dr. Gupta replied, standing to lead him toward the treatment room. "The sooner we harmonize your emotional cascade patterns with appropriate gendered stimulus thresholds, the more successful your assimilation will be."

The treatment itself seemed less invasive than previous sessions—mostly monitoring equipment attached to his temples while he viewed a series of images and video clips. Yet something felt different afterward, a subtle shift he couldn't quite place.

Three days after the "emotional recalibration" session, Logan was alone in his apartment, procrastinating starting his thirty-minute nightly beauty routine—a regimen that still felt foreign but was becoming disturbingly habitual. Restless and bored, he began flipping through the few television channels available to him now that Dr. Gupta had turned off his internet access. He settled on what seemed like a harmless yet annoyingly saccharine drama, something mindless to distract him from the increasingly disturbing changes happening to his body and mind.

As the film reached its climax—a scene where the protagonist held her soulmate's hand as he drew his last breath—Logan felt a strange pressure building in his chest. Before he could process what was happening, tears were streaming down his face, his breath catching in quiet sobs.

"What the hell?" he whispered, touching his wet cheeks in disbelief.

The emotional response was so overwhelming, so visceral. He'd always prided himself on his ability to stay strong, keeping his feelings in check. He had maintained that facade even when facing the worst tragedy of his life—his mother's sudden death during his sophomore year at Westlake.

She had been his last surviving family member, the one who had raised him on her own and sacrificed so much for his success. But Coach Davis had pulled him aside after he'd learned of the car accident, hand on his shoulder. "Look, Turner, you're twenty now. A grown man. I know it's tough losing your mom, but you've got to sack up. Can't let it derail your future."

So he'd compartmentalized his loss, channeling everything into football, maintaining his stoic exterior while teammates and coaches praised his mental toughness. "Turner's got ice in his veins," they commented after he showed up for practice the day after the funeral, attacking each drill with mechanical precision.

But there had been no real processing, no actual grieving. Just an emptiness he'd filled with grueling workouts and team commitments until his back injury had taken even those coping mechanisms away. Now, these unfamiliar tears felt like they were being wrenched from some long-sealed vault inside him.

The emptiness of the apartment suddenly felt suffocating. The silence pressed against him from all sides—no roommate's music playing too loud, no teammates barging in unannounced for impromptu gaming sessions. Just four walls containing a person who didn't even exist six months ago.

On impulse, Logan reached for his phone, scrolling to Alexis's contact. She wasn't a friend—not really—but right now, she was the closest thing to human connection in his increasingly surreal existence.

"Hey, just wondering what you're up to tonight?" he typed, then hesitated before adding a casual smiley face emoji that felt foreign to his fingers.

The response came almost immediately: "omg was just thinking about u!! [surprised face] watching netflix & doing my nails. wbu??"

The eager response eased something in Logan's chest. Someone knew he existed. Someone was thinking about him. Even if they only knew "Elle," it was better than the hollow silence of his empty apartment.

"Watching a movie," he replied, wiping away the last of his tears.

"omg which 1??? [eyes]"

"'Under Summer Skies,'" he replied, wincing at how this admission would've been received by his football teammates.

"OMG I LOOOOOVE THAT ONE!!! [crying face][crying face][crying face] have u reached the end yet???!!!"

Logan stared at the message, a strange comfort washing over him. Alexis had seen the same film, felt the same emotions—there was a connection there, however tenuous. In this moment of raw vulnerability, even this superficial exchange felt like a lifeline.

"Just finished it," he finally typed.

"i literally SOBBED my eyes out!!! [crying face][broken heart] like ugly crying, mascara EVERYWHERE. that scene DESTROYS me every time lololol"

Logan found himself responding automatically:
"same! i totally cried my eyes out when she was at the grave omg [crying face][heart]"

He stared at his message in horror after sending it. The words hadn't felt like his own—they'd emerged without conscious thought, a perfect mimicry of how a teenage girl might discuss the film, complete with emojis he'd never used before.

Alexis responded with a string of crying emojis, then:
"omg we have the SAME taste in movies!! [raised hands] ur gonna fit in so perfect with the squad! btw hope ur ready for my end-of-summer BBQ next weekend!! everyone's dying 2 meet u!! [hair flip girl][sparkles]"

Logan froze, his momentary connection forgotten. "BBQ?"

"oh did i forget to tell u? [facepalm] it's on ur schedule!! end-of-summer party b4 school starts. ALL 23 girls on the squad will be there + coach winters! my parents have a huge backyard w/ pool. don't worry about bringing anything—just urself! [heart]"

Twenty-three cheerleaders. An entire afternoon of social interaction. Swimming. Casual conversation. Group dynamics. Inside jokes. Teen girl behavior on full display.

Logan's hands began to shake. He'd barely survived the shopping trip with three cheerleaders. The salon visit had pushed him to his limits. Even this brief text exchange felt like navigating a minefield of potential mistakes, never knowing exactly when "Elle" was going to take over and save him from his male instincts. It was mentally exhausting. How could he possibly keep it up for an entire afternoon surrounded by two dozen girls who would expect him to be just like them?

He typed a quick "sooo excited to meet everyone!!" with a sparkle emoji, hit send, and tossed the phone onto the couch as if it might burn him. How was he going to get through the party? Much less, his entire second senior year?