Growing up as both a boy, inwardly at times and outwardly, (and as a girl, just inwardly,) presents dilemmas and conflicts — some happiness, some sadness. “I am fifteen, going on sixteen….” said a daughter in the von Trapp ‘Sound of Music’ family…..

Chapter 8

Jersey was to prove to be my best ever holiday so far. The rest before this one had been dull — in the extreme. Never before had I been close — as close as this — to girls of nearly my own age. OK, these were a year or two older but that was a bonus. To them, had they known of my admiration, I would have been a worm that crawled out from under a stone. To me, they were just perfect… and all so close to hand. If only I could have the courage to talk with just one. To get introduced, maybe.

But no, I wasn’t going to get my hands on them! Nor they get theirs on me!

I had plenty of time to reflect on my feelings now. The heterosexual side of me was running riot. The feelings were all over me. But in the quiet of the night, some nights, those other feelings and fantasies came back! (Did I mention the night-times?). Then, there were times at the poolside.

When had I started feeling the way I did then? I spent time thinking. Regretting?, sure. Glad, sure. Mixed up?, sure!

The ‘no brothers’ aspect of the holiday was brilliant. I could be myself without bully boy number 2 picking on me. He was off somewhere with his girlfriend. That would give him grief. Her parents were very strictly “hands off our girl” and there he was, taking her away….. for what!!?? (Well, surprise, surprise, they ended up getting married four months before their first child was born!) Went into rented accommodation with a job in Birmingham. Served them right, I say.

I rather fell in love with the younger of the two blondes. Her older Sister’s hair was gorgeous and curled over maybe twenty or thirty rollers. It turned under across the nape of her neck, inviting a kiss to be placed there, no doubt. The blonde colour was a mixed honey and dark natural shade.

But the younger girl’s hair was a much lighter blonde, the same curls were everywhere but the nape of her neck was blunt-cut in a way I could imagine being perfect for me, for my hair… if it was set that way. It was so blonde, it was unlikely to be a natural shade, but there was not a sign of roots to betray cosmetic lightening. My previous interest in girls’ hair was now on fire! In those days, it was called a “Gypsy” style. Plenty of height in the curls at the crown. Sleeker below the ears. My hair would have been almost long enough.

The holiday passed and I never did get to talk with these little beauties. I returned home for the next school year to begin. I would soon be 16. Examinations, studies, no social life. Staying in at home. Mum went back to work so was always out of the house during the day. I was often “home alone”. My older Brother got married in September and moved away — just 20 miles but that was it, he was gone. Dad was still working, going away less, but still coming home to eat and go to sleep in front of the telly. 56 years of age. I will not be like him at that age, I thought. (And I wasn’t!)

I still had my lipstick and, soon enough, there I was back in Marks & Spencer’s store, buying some new panties. Brilliant! I had enough to be able, on the days when there was no sport at school, to wear them 24/7 I resisted buying a new bra for all of a further two weeks. My Saturday job was paying quite well (I settled for a job in Sainsbury’s Grocery store, having been tempted to apply for a Saturday boy/girl job at a local hair salon.)

One day, I thought, perhaps a salon job would be for me, but I wasn’t ready for that.

Before long, my cosmetic pouch contained some foundation (or was it ‘concealer’?) which helped me with the lipstick. I could make really a well-defined outline for my lips with hat as the base coat. (We are talking mid-1960s, pan-stick, pale pale pink lips and deep dark black eyes). That brings me to the eyes……. The mascara and the eye shadow. I tried my Mum’s out and made an incredible mess of my face. I almost poked one eye out which brought me to tears. I looked like a crooked panda.

I had fallen in love with Dusty Springfield earlier in the year…. 1965. Or was it the year before? So, I had posters of her all around my bedroom. I literally drooled at the sight of those beautiful eyes and the huge hair she wore. The earliest pictures had her in “country girl” petticoated skirts and frilly blouses, which I loved. Her tits were so small, they could have been mine! Then she became a bit of a drama queen and, with her own television show every Saturday night, became the most glamorous girl I ever dreamed to loving. It was only ten or twenty years later that she confessed to be “moved as much by a woman as a man”. In other words, she was at least bisexual. When I heard those words, years later, I knew I was a lesbian! I’ve not been moved by a man — any man — ever. Billy Connolly once admitted as much — because he “enjoyed doing what they do”. I think he was right!

With the freedom that I was beginning to enjoy, with the regular money from a Saturday job coming in, I was able to think beyond the “stash” of clothes that I had collected together. All underwear. No shoes. No outer wear, like blouses or anything feminine like that. But there was enough for me, and my bedroom. My secret. The risks of discovery were fading. Brothers both gone. Dad away until predictable coming-home times. It was only Mum’s return from the place she worked, each afternoon, that was uncertain. Vigilance had to be my driving force when dressed as far as I dared.

The holiday had preyed on my mind ever since we returned from Jersey. As I did, on many occasions that autumn, stand in front of my mirror with panties and bra on, with lipstick on. Wanting to complete the illusion. Wanting to see myself fully dressed.

Mum’s dresses and skirts or blouses were all too big for me, growing in stature though I was. If I had the joy of having a Sister, I’m sure she would have helped me out. I rather began, for the first time, to imagine myself as my very own Sister, when I was part-dressed. There was no way I could (yet) afford to buy blouses or skirts, or dresses — this was before the days of Bon Marche, new Look and H&M. That would have to wait.

My mind turned to the girls from holiday. With their rollered hair and swimming cosies beside the pool. I could buy a swimming cossie in the sales that were coming up at the end of the summer. Perhaps I should look for one with those slightly padded cups that would make it look like I had more tits than I did. Oh… if only I did!

More than that, the holiday images in my mind kept on returning to those rollers in the girls' hair. At 16, my hair was getting longer. At least as long as the younger blonde. And then I resolved to try something quite outrageous. To have my hair washed and set in a salon.

It didn’t take too much imagination. I chose a suburban location not far from home in north London. Golders green was a nice Jewish enclave, easily reached by bus from where I lived, but not on anybody’s ‘usual’ route going anywhere. There must be salons there. I was certain I could find one. I hatched a plan.

As an irate Father (I had one of those, but he wasn’t irate with me very often), I would call a salon and say, insistently, that my Son was to “have his hair washed and set in a girl’s style”…. Implying “whether he likes it or not” or “to teach him a lesson”. It took courage, once I’d found the listing in Yellow Pages, but it didn’t take me long.

I wish I could remember the name of the salon, but I can’t I chose the one that was the most female sounding…… or maybe it was something funky, like “Curl up and Dye”. I wish I was there now. It took two and a half minutes to book an appointment. About a week ahead of the time I called, I would be on the bus, going to Golders Green. I would wear as much female clothing as I could lay my hands on… underneath! I’m sure the receptionist who took my call would not have been fooled for a minute — my voice could hardly be taken for an adult, a Father’s.

The day soon arrived. After several breathless days of me asking myself… what have you done?! And telling myself…. you can’t go through with this! I let Mum leave for work. The appointment was for 11.00am. Half an hour’s bus ride away. I had to leave in time to be outside the salon in good time. I dressed in my panties and decided I would risk the bra — what if it was seen somehow? Well, I’d have had the joy of its tugging at my shoulders and back. What would anyone say? Nothing! I had to be there in enough time to walk back and forth across the road to see inside the salon. To chicken out if I did lose my confidence. Or to see the stylist waiting for me!

I caught the bus, into the unknown!

Chapter 9 will take me through the door into a whole new world that lives with me today. Sweet 16 and never been kissed, no longer!