As we all go through our lives there are, regardless of gender, race or religion, significant moments that mark our time on this planet. It might be something simple like starting to shave or something cultural like a Bar Mitzvah, whatever it is, we will all tick them off of our own personal bucket list. Of course some will be more significant than others, what the experts in these things call Rites of Passage.

I’m no different to anyone else in that respect, I’ve gone through life ticking the boxes, collecting experiences, hopefully learning as I go along. But my life, from an early age, has been quite schizophrenic, gathering life experiences both as me but also as the person I pretend to be, the individual named on all my legal documentation. Yep, the real me, Poppy has had to hind behind the mask of Oliver for most of my life.

Of course, I’ve got the same aspirations and life goals as any other young woman but I don’t neatly fit into the same box. It can get quite frustrating when everyone expects you to be doing Oliver stuff but all you want to do is Poppy stuff. Whatever the current jargon is, gender dysphoric, trans as in transexual, well that’s me.
Knowing who you are is one thing, being that person is another, back when I was a kid gender was pretty much a black and white thing. At school the uniforms reinforced that, girls wore dresses or skirts, boys shorts or trousers, some subjects were even gender specific. Oh how I wished I could be wearing the ‘right’ uniform and learning cookery or dress making but Oliver was in hot, scratchy trousers and doing ‘his’ best to beat bits of metal into submission.

But times change, fashions change, Oliver fully embraced the longer hair and more androgynous looks, not as much as Poppy would’ve liked but better than nothing. It did mean that the real me could actually go out in public, with care of course but without as much fear of being identified as ‘something’ weird. Teens don’t generally have much disposable income but I managed to buy my first make up and yes, I made the usual teen mistakes.

Some female Rites of Passage I’ll never get to experience of course but more mundane stuff I did manage. My first bra, so okay it wasn’t a shopping trip with my mum, nope mine was a slightly inappropriate lacy thing in the wrong size completely. Not perfect but in my head, Poppy’s head it still counted.

By the time I left school Punk had come along and new possibilities were on the table and what could be more girly but now manly than earrings. Oliver embraced this latest fashion wholeheartedly, most blokes just had the one of course, the real me got both ears done although for appearances sake at home and college, Oliver only wore a ring in one. It was another rite of passage ticked off though, much like the painted nails and swipe of eyeliner that was accepted as a ‘punk’ thing.

At eighteen I, and my small Poppy wardrobe headed off to University. Naively I’d thought that I could put my Oliver disguise away once I reached the hallowed corridors of Bachelor education. How wrong can you be?

Perhaps I got the timing wrong? Whatever it was, Poppy’s first trip to ‘The Union; was also her, my last. I hadn’t gone over the top, in my eyes I was dressed, made up and looking like any other first year female student. If camera phones had been a thing back then I’d show you a picture, but as they were years away you’ll just have to put up with my description.

So, after getting ready three nights on the trot then wimping out, day four I got myself into the knee length green Paisley skirt, skinny fit roll neck, knee boots and winter coat, hair clipped back to reveal the dangly earrings I bought on the market. Yeah, my student grant had taken a bashing but students live on beans on toast anyhow. This time I got out of the building and thus emboldened, set off for the Union.

I hadn’t really thought things out properly, come on, I was eighteen. I followed a couple of other girls inside but now what? Oliver had been here a few times with others on the same course but here I am, real me, Poppy on my own in a bar full of testosterone heavy students.

I was getting a few ‘looks’ as I headed to the bar, were they looking at Poppy or was Oliver peeking through? Just one drink and I’ll go. Which is where things went chest upwards.

“What’ll it be luv?” the barmaid asked through the din.
“Dry cider please.”
“Can I see your U card, we’ve had a few local kids trying it on.”
“Er sure.”

I dug into my shoulder bag, a find in Oxfam, found my purse and pulled out the small laminated card, the key to student services in these halls of learning.

“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”

On previous visits its just been a quick check of the date and done but this girl was looking harder at it.

“Everything okay?” I squeaked out.
“Yeah sure, can’t be too careful,” she replied handing it back across the bar, “So, dry cider wasn’t it Oliver?”

Of course the bar had fallen to silence as she almost shouted across the taps, a break in the music. It felt like every eye in the room was on me.

“Just remembered I’ve got an essay to finish, bye.”

And with that I took to my heels, not quite running, well until I got outside, I ran then, clear across the campus, back to my room, shaking like a leaf even as I bolted the door. Yep, I messed up, oh the photo on my ID was bad enough it could be almost anyone but there in big letters next to it was my boy name. Had the barmaid intended to ‘out’ me or was that chance, in my head I could’ve bluffed through it, but the whole university had heard, I’m dead!

For the rest of my time in higher education, I once more hid behind the Oliver persona, scared to my boots to reveal myself. No one ever said anything, probably no one cared or they thought they’d misheard or, or.

For the next few years Poppy hid from the rest of humanity as ‘real life’ meant it was Oliver who everyone else saw. That doesn’t mean the real me had disappeared, rather that Poppy’s irregular appearances were confined to her, our, my home. I say irregular, Oliver had several, albeit brief, relationships during which Poppy would disappear for months at a time.

It wasn’t that Oliver was a failure at the dating business, more that he empathised with the women involved rather more than both they and society deemed appropriate. It might be sweet and even cute to have an opinion on fashion, hair and makeup but when its better than your female date – well lets just say it doesn’t go down so well. And so all things Poppy were pushed out, removal of body hair, use of fragrant shampoo, even choice of beverage at the pub became more and more an attempt at becoming Oliver.

Then there would be a relapse, Poppy would sweep back into their life and everything would be hunky dory until Monday morning. You can hide shaved legs – well through the colder months and if you aren’t in a relationship but other stuff is more difficult. Then of course there’s the wardrobe, Poppy was quite adept at concealing everything but there was the constant fear of discovery every time there was some sort of liaison.

Oliver, it seems, was regarded as an okay chap, but not really marriage material. Life, for Oliver and it seemed Poppy was to be a non event, unexceptional, one may even say boring. Which was okay for Oliver but Poppy wanted, when she did surface, to have something more.

Things came to a head with the arrival of Covid. Like so many other office workers, my, that is Oliver’s days went from a nine to five with an hour commute either end to ‘remote’ working from his kitchen table. Suddenly there was no need to dress for work, no one cared about your appearance, your time keeping (well up to a point), as long as the work was done management was happy. Like so many others restricted to their homes, Oliver grabbed the opportunity with both hands, or rather Poppy did.

It started small of course, a pretty pair of earrings, some sexy underwear but after a couple of weeks it was Poppy sat crunching numbers, Oliver only appearing for the weekly food shop, where he joined the be-masked and ‘socially’ spaced and dissociated citizens of the neighbourhood. Anonymity meant that normally sober citizens began experimenting with their long suppressed and hidden personas.

Suddenly it was okay to dye your hair unnatural colours, dress more adventurously all without attracting the ire and disdain of managers and co workers. Everyone could explore their suppressed personas and whilst for some that meant not wearing a corporate uniform, for others it went a whole lot further.

Poppy didn’t replace Oliver in a single stroke, at first it was restricted to my home, Oliver, albeit wearing hidden frillies beneath his jeans, fetching the groceries and doing the proscribed socially spaced walks and bike rides. But, as weeks of lock down increased to months, Poppy started to get a bit bolder. The first tentative interactions with the outside world were nervous walks around the nearby park in gender neutral – ish outfits just with a few feminine touches, a bit of makeup, some girly jewellery, a scrunchy rather than plain elastic for a higher placed ponytail.

With repetition came confidence, no one was pointing, with almost everyone hiding behind face masks it was almost too easy. And then, on a trip around the supermarket, my inner Poppy took over leaving Oliver just along for the ride. It was most certainly Poppy who selected the bright red shade, Poppy who was almost giggling at the prospect of ticking off another ‘rite of passage’.

It was something that Oliver me had always envied or perhaps even resented, the societal bias that allowed women to dress pretty much as they wished and the injustice of acceptance of changing not just hair styles but colour too. For Oliver and indeed, men in general that really wasn’t an option, for Poppy though, well that no longer applied.

Befitting of any Rite of Passage, the whole process of going from a nondescript brown to ‘poppy red’ was a bit scary. Maybe if you’ve grown up with the chemical smells from a lifetime of ‘salon’ visits but for Poppy it was all new, heck, Ollie hadn’t even been for as much as a trim at the barbers since his schooldays. Of course, before the application of red she needed to lighten her hair, she’d bought the whole kit and caboodle in the supermarket, for once glad of the anonymity of the self checkout.

I wasn’t quite ready for how dramatic a change the bleach job made, but for better or worse it was a head of white blonde hair that replaced the brown. It was exciting and certainly not boring and very definitely not Oliver! Rather than go straight on to step two, newly blonde Poppy headed for bed, well after taking a few selfies of course.

The next morning i continued to savour Poppy’s blondness but the box containing the red dye was taunting me from the kitchen counter. So, after a couple more phone pics, i started to read the instructions. It had been a bit confusing buying this stuff, it was pretty obvious that the blonde was a permanent step, it wasn’t going to wash out but the actual colour dye, well that seemed to have several levels of permanence.

I’d, or rather Oliver had gone back and forth along the shelves trying to get a handle on things. Did he, or rather Poppy, want temporary, semi permanent or permanent? Even those descriptions seemed to mean different things to different brands, temporary could be a couple of washes to a dozen and the semi permanent colours suggested anything from that number to close on double that. Only the permanent seemed consistent but the pessimist in me guessed that even that could cover a range of outcomes.

In the end the choice was made on colour rather than permanence, ‘poppy red’ only came in semi permanent. The suggested results on the box looked ‘exciting’ to the virgin dyer, the gloves went on, a deep breath was taken and the red gloop was spread over her temporary Marilyn Monroe look. On the instruction sheet it said twenty five minutes but several online sources suggested extending that for a longer lasting effect.

And so it was fully forty five minutes later that i started the rinse out, surprised at how much dye was washing down the drain, at this rate there would be no colour left on my hair. Eventually the water ran clear, a quick application of conditioner / fixer, another rinse and for the first time i saw the result. Oh boy, oh bo-oy! my hair wasn’t just red it was RED, there wasn’t anything subtle about it, the blonde had been a shock, the red was a whole new level.

Without a hat there would be no hiding this and with the weather now turning warmer, that would draw even more attention. In short, without a head shave there was no way Oliver would be doing the shopping or anything else for the foreseeable future. The colour just screamed girl, it truly was Poppy red.

It took a couple of days to not be surprised by her reflection, a couple more before deciding to cut in cute bangs, if the colour hadn’t banished Oliver, the very girly hairstyle certainly did. From then on it was Poppy being Poppy twenty four seven, from getting up to going to bed and everything in between. I had some doubts of course, who wouldn’t but they were quelled each time that i looked at my reflection, the red head looking back was Poppy, there were no signs of Oliver to be seen.

And so Poppy took over the chores that had previously been left to Oliver, i tried on some of Oliver’s clothes but the result was just Poppy wearing men’s stuff which, as Oliver wasn’t exactly a snappy dresser, didn’t work on any level. Over the following days and weeks it was Poppy doing the shopping, putting the bins out, doing the garden. It was always smart, made-up Poppy but even dressed in more mundane stuff, it certainly wasn’t Oliver.

We all know how the Covid episode panned out, the lock down, the gradual easing of restrictions, of mask use until, some six months on, it was a dressed down Poppy who queued for over an hour in a Buddhist ‘chapel’ to get vaccinated. By the time restrictions were fully lifted a year later, Oliver hadn’t been seen again, Poppy had experimented with pink, purple and even green hair dyes but always came back to red.

After nearly eighteen months of ‘remote’ working, my, or rather Oliver’s employers started the process of returning everyone to the office. Which had Poppy me in something of a dilemma, could Oliver return, even for just a couple of days a week? It was definitely weird when i tried things out, seeing myself sans jewellery, sans makeup, hair, whilst still red, pulled back into a low ponytail.

Things could go well or not, as i set off for the office it was definitely Poppy in disguise as Oliver, i hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear Oliver’s underwear and a pair of tiny gold rings adorned my lobes. It wasn’t like anyone else would see what was underneath the shirt and trousers and lots of blokes have pierced ears. That first day in the office was strange to say the least, the previous unofficial dress code had been ripped to shreds by most of my colleagues.

The red hair went unremarked, it was nothing compared to Neal’s face piercings and Janet’s metamorphosis into some sort of Goth complete with tattoos. Clearly, Poppy wasn’t the only one to do some self exploration, even Gemma in HR had eschewed the severe trouser suits she had previously worn for a, well more casual style than you might expect from senior management – that miniskirt was to die for! If Poppy had turned up instead of Oliver, he, or she, would likely have gone unremarked.
But that opportunity was past, maybe a bit more of Poppy could slip out? The return to the office never got beyond two days, Oliver got Tuesday and Wednesday, the rest of the week at home was Poppy’s. It wasn’t perfect but i was reconciled to making the best of things and it was, after all, a big improvement over life before Covid.

It was a bit over two years later that Poppy me started getting, well, a bit frustrated. The pretending to be Oliver was kind of crimping her style, Monday evenings were devoted to removing any sign of Poppy from jewellery to her attempts at nail painting. Whilst I’d thinned my brows a bit they still looked a bit manly for a girl and i really wanted to get a nose stud and more ear piercings.

Gemma, she of a penchant for short skirts post Covid, had advised that there was leave to be taken before the end of the year, it was use it or lose it as time accrued wouldn’t be rolled forward. It was only a couple of days but it did mean that Oliver could be consigned to the wardrobe for almost a fortnight. Dates were agreed, the beginning of December, definitely something to look forward to.

I’d checked out piercing parlours and beauty parlours on line in the past, but both courage and fear of a repeat of the student bar so long before meant it remained no more than Poppy fantasy to tick items more from her ‘rites’ bucket list. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t look and a visit to the Christmas market in the next town over seemed like as good a time as any. And so it came to pass.

The nail bar looked warm and inviting, tinsel and baubles framing the shelves of tiny pots of nail varnish, the work stations unoccupied as the ‘technicians’ prepared for the day. Poppy had set out early to make the most of the day, but best laid plans and all that, temporary lights heading into town meant she’d just missed the hourly connection to her destination. So, to kill time and keep warm she’d gone for a walk, it did look cosy in the nail bar, she pushed the door open.

“Erm, can I get some extensions?”

There, I’d done it.

And so it began, the girl first trimmed her nails short, which surprised her, before expertly trimming her cuticles and then, using what looked like a Dremel, smoothed and shaped everything. The actual extensions came next, a dab of glue and quickly each digit received a talon a good inch beyond her fingertips which was kind of exciting but whilst she had seen women wearing nails that long, they’d be a bit impractical. Quarter of an inch would be a good compromise and an almond shape would look pretty cute.

Plastic was cut and shaped, the rotary tool, smoothed and a colour palette was pushed in front of her. My own attempts at nail painting had covered a rainbow of colours, some made Poppy’s nails look like a five year old's, others never, well, looked right. There on the palette though was a shade she was immediately drawn to, number one one eight.

But there was a way to go yet before colour would be added. I watched in fascination as her technician added more material to my nails, trimming and smoothing between layers. The result was amazing, even in their ‘naked’ state the length and shape made my hands look slimmer and no bloke would have such nails. The tiny jar of pigment was opened and each nail was deftly coated, much neater than anything I’d ever managed.

As a hand was completed it went into the curing embrace of the UV box, once, twice, then a third before a final tidy and buff with the power tool. Money was exchanged, not made easy by the unfamiliar length and feel of the nails. I hurried back to the bus station, the whole process had taken about forty minutes, longer than I’d expected but then I’d not really given much thought to the time involved.

It was only as the bus set off and i was settled in her seat, that I got to inspect my new appendages. There, on each digit was a glitter infused, cherry red delight, the finish so smooth, so glossy and permanently fixed in place. For as long as i could remember I’ve envied other women’s nails and now I have my own.

Of course, such excitement can be dangerous, in one such as myself, the level of affirmation went off the dial. It was no real surprise that when i stumbled across one of those ‘alternative’ clothing stores as i headed to the Christmas market, i went inside. Twenty minutes later I returned to the cold, a sparkly stone in my nostril and an extra hole in each ear.

I’d done it, not once but twice, yep, Poppy was her own woman! It was only later, as I sat on the bus home, that reality clicked in, yes i now had nails any girl would love, yes i had a cute nose stud and multiple ear piercings but in less than a fortnight I’d have to present as Oliver again for work. The nails would have to go, the piercings be removed well before they could heal, on the positive side it was two more ‘Rites of Passage’ off my Poppy list, even if the results were but temporary.

What no one ever mentions about nail extensions are the negatives, its all about looking pretty and low maintenance. Well there is no doubting the truth of that but as i soon discovered, even the simplest things suddenly took on at least a doubling of the difficulty rating. Even something as simple as using a touch screen on her phone required extra dexterity, scratching an itch could be darn right dangerous and as for putting on hosiery – well at least they weren’t my best Wolford’s!

Then there were the other things, doing up buttons, pulling zips, clasps on jewellery, virtually everything needed a new technique. It was a steep learning curve but one that i relished even if it was for little more than a week. Next Monday I’d have to have the nails removed and go through the whole Oliver transformation once more.

Best laid plans and all that. It was Thursday, officially i was on holiday still but after ignoring the buzz of the phone three times, i gave in and answered. Yes they knew i was on leave but there was an emergency and they needed me in the office asap, I’d, well Oliver, would be compensated, pretty please? We’ll send a car.

What could i do, it wasn’t like i was out of the country or something. There were just thirty minutes to get ready, to transform myself into Oliver, whilst the clothing was easy, the nails were a problem and as i soon found out, that also meant i couldn’t remove my new piercings, i just didn’t have the dexterity with the talons adorning her fingers. I left the house resigned to a dose of humiliation at the very least.

The reality was less dramatic than I’d feared, oh there were a few strange looks when a few people saw the nails but nothing was said directly to me. The emergency was due to a Cyber attack that caused computer outage and potential loss of data, the skeleton staff in the office insufficient to run the emergency protocols that were in place. This stuff couldn’t be done remotely and I’m, that is Oliver, is actually a team leader with specific responsibilities.

This was no nine to five job, it was late into the evening before they had everything back up and running, firewalls in place and a usable if not perfect, customer interface. Those last glitches could be sorted out on Friday but for now the panic was over.

“Well I’m glad that’s over,” Gemma allowed as one of the upper management finished his spiel on job well done, stepping into the breach, yadda, yadda, yadda.
“Er yeah, it got a bit intense once or twice,” I agreed.
“I think we need a chat tomorrow.”
“We do?”
“We do,” Gemma confirmed.
“What about?” I was pretty sure I knew what about, but it never hurts to play dumb.
“I think you know Oliver or is it Olivia?”
“Poppy,” I inadvertently admitted.
Gemma barely blinked, “pretty name for a pretty woman.”
“You knew?”
“Poppy love, its my job to know, the signs have not been hard to miss, everything you do screams girl.”
“But I’ve been Oliver at work.”
“Hate to break it to you but you haven’t been doing a great job of that.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Pretty much everyone, although I think most assumed you were a girl trying to be butch, I think today just confirmed what most assumed.”
“So what do you want to see me about?” I asked again.
“Well we obviously need to update your records and get you a new ID card so no hiding in those awful chinos and sweatshirts, I want to see Poppy not Oliver.”
“’kay, what time,” I sighed,” I’m supposed to be helping debug today’s fixes.”
“Shall we say ten, and don’t look so worried, I don’t bite.”

That was six months ago, Poppy still has a list of Rites of Passage but its a lot shorter these days. Oliver disappeared on that December day but some of his clothes are still tucked at the back of Poppy’s wardrobe.

Maddy Bell © 17.01.2025