The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2922 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I wondered if I should warn John that Debbie was fancying him. Whatever she was under the false eyelashes, she had a healthy libido or fantasy life. Have I not mentioned the false eyelashes before? They’re not the sort you see for sale in New Look, these are expensive ones which effectively make your own more noticeable by making them appear thicker. The alternative to those who want fuller lashes is to have the semi-permanent ones they glue to your eyelids with super glue, Sammi has them as do Julie and Phoebe. Danielle would if I allowed it which I haven’t at the moment. I told her she could have some done when she broke up for the summer holidays.

Julie stuck some false eyelashes on me and I found them so irritating I made her take them off, it was like looking through a hedge. Instead I asked her to dye my lashes so it always looks as if I have mascara on, even when I don’t. Last week she was trying to get me to use the latest brow pencil or sculptor or whatever they call it. My eyebrows are very blonde and only really show if I use eyebrow pencil on them which I do, but lightly. These days they all seem to have painted on brows like Cara Delwotsit. It’s not that long ago they were all thin lines plucked like a dead chicken.

Thankfully, I’m not that involved with fashion for myself, though I have plenty of arguments with a house full of girls. I tend to go for classic designs which might be expensive but happily I can afford them, so what I miss in fashionableness I make up for in quality.

Sammi is probably the most fashion conscious in terms of being able to afford good stuff regularly. The others fight over her cast offs, which are too small for me—I’m bigger in the hips and breasts than she is—that’s what AIS does for you. I also don’t like some of the real cutting edge stuff—perhaps I’m becoming an old fuddy-duddy compared to the days of my youth when I’d drool over the pictures in the colour supplements of the weekend papers about wanting to look like the models posing in the latest gear. Occasionally there’d be something about someone who’d changed sex and I’d do my best to acquire the article and hoard it in my stash.

My mother found it when she was cleaning my room and showed it to my dad. He went ballistic giving me the third degree. I remembered it quite vividly.

“D’you want to be like one of these freaks?” I’d stand there silently, tears running down my cheeks. “Charlie, I asked you a question—well do you?” I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t want to be like the subjects of the articles, I wanted to be like an ordinary woman, have periods and children but I knew that was impossible.

After he’d ranted and raved at me for about half an hour, during which time I didn’t say a word in answer to his interrogation, he made me go outside to the garden incinerator—one of those metal dustbin thingies with a lid on it and holes in the side—and he made me tear everyone of them up and burn them. If he saw any stories in the papers about gender dysphoria, he’d rip them out and tear them up so I wouldn’t get ideas. I stopped looking at the papers at home and read them in the school library, where it was still possible to ‘collect’ articles—I had a pair of sewing scissors I kept in my pencil case and could do an article-ectomy quickly and quietly. He didn’t find my second stash, which was in a box file labelled ‘dissection techniques.’ He was even more squeamish than I was and to put him off the scent I had some diagrams and photos of dissections we did in school in the box and would pretend I wanted to show him what we were doing. He told me to keep them away from him. In the end, I had a couple of photos or diagrams on the top and the rest was my collection of sex-change clippings. Perhaps I’m a natural subversive.

“Your eyelashes need doing again, Mummy,” suggested Julie and seeing as we had competition in the office now, I accepted her advice. Sitting in my study chair which reclines she began wiping my eyes.

“How’s the new girl coming on?” she asked, “The one from Sussex.”

“Okay, I guess—did I mention she wears false eyelashes?”

“No, but you have criticised her a few times.”

“Have I?” I wasn’t aware I was doing it.

“Well she is younger.”

“Julie, I’m only thirty two.”

“I know, over the hill...”

“Hoy, wait till you get there—I’ll try and remember to remind you how old you are.”

“I know what could make you both younger and sexier.”

“Yeah, colouring my lashes, saves me time in the morning and on mascara.”

“Let me try something.”

“You’re not sticking those false eyelash things on me again.”

“No I won’t, they’re too clumsy for you anyway—okay for younger women like—what’s her name—Debbie?”

Somehow, I failed to understand what she was doing and ended up with the individual extra lashes like Sammi wore. They’re glued to your eyeball or something and are the same length as your own lashes, they just make them thicker. I had a dozen or so on each eyelid and then Julies dyed them all dark brown, she also used a special eyeliner which dyes the skin for a couple of weeks. As she does makeup better than I can, when she showed me my eyes looked quite attractive without being too obvious. If I was going out in the evening, just slap some more eyeliner over the top. The lashes would last about three or four weeks as would the lash dye.

The next morning I wore a skirt suit and boots. Spring was coming but it wasn’t that warm most of the time and to save energy, I have the radiator in my office turned off much of the time—I try to lead by example. The girls noticed my new look at breakfast. They knew Julie was dyeing my lashes and approved. “Dunno what she’s done, Mummy, but they look much thicker,” observed Danielle. “I’ll have to ask her to do mine.”

I just blushed and let them talk about something else. Of course Diane noticed my change of look—well the suit was a YSL original—okay from Stella, which I’d not worn to work before. It was mid blue with tiny gold flowers embroidered on it and I wore my white roll neck blouse with it. “My goodness, you look smart—competition getting to you, is it?” She ducked behind her computer before I could pretend to throw something at her.

Just then, Debbie came in wearing a pair of painted on jeans with over-knee stiletto boots, a long polo neck jumper which covered her bum—just, long knitted waistcoat and her hair was up. I wasn’t sure what I thought except I’d never have had the courage to go to work dressed like that and if I had Tom would have had words with me.

“Took your advice, Cathy, decided to make an impact—oh like the suit, yes very nice, middle age designer stuff, I’ll bet that cost a bit.” I was speechless.