Can you stand to read one more personal story about a sister coming out of the closet? I know that every CD newsletter uses these stories as fill when there isn't enough other stuff to put on the page, and that you have read a million of them, but this time I'm the one telling the story. For that matter I don't care if you read it or not, I'm gonna tell it anyway.

Those of you who have followed my maunderings will know that The Bearded Lady (The column I wrote was called ( The Bearded Lady) is not only a pseudonym but reality. Except for short periods when I had to wear a breathing mask I have been bearded since my body provided enough hair to cover my chin. I can remember painful and anxious days in my youth wanting desperately to grow a beard, or at least some fuzz on my upper lip, so I could be a hippie. At that time my crossdressing was in remission, I had no desire to dress at all. When the desire did came back, I dressed alone and didn't care about the beard because no one could see me anyway. I lived in a very rural area and had no hope of attending a meeting, and my size will not allow me to pass. Why bother with the hassle of shaving if I couldn't go out anyway?

So about two years ago I changed jobs and am now in a small city. There is a CD group here, but with all the changes in my life I was reluctant to get involved. As anyone fool enough to write me letters knows I take forever to answer because I keep getting involved with this or that and never have any time for anything. And frankly, I was afraid that I might lose control of my dressing, and while I have a marvelously supportive family I am always careful to take them into consideration. I did not want to take a chance in offending them or allowing my compulsions to rule me.

So why did I get involved? My wife gave me the push, much to my surprise. She has gone back to school and her course in human sexuality required a research project, and what would be more natural than research on crossdressing. So she contacted the local group and they were very receptive to both the survey and to my beard. (Of course I went as my male self, I'm not that dumb!) We enjoyed the group and I decided it was time to shave.

From the times I have had to shave before I knew that it bloody well hurts to scrape that tender skin, so just after New Year's I shaved to give my face time to prepare for the meeting at the end of the month. I have acne again from the irritation, a one O'clock shadow and people tell me I look ten years younger, which is not bad in my forties but was a real problem in my twenties. Back then no one took me seriously until I had a mustache.

So I recently spent two weeks out of town and practiced makeup in my motel room, endured the agony of the alcohol in makeup on my irritated skin, drove into New York City to visit Lee's Mardi Gras where I bought a wig and wished I had several thousand extra dollars to buy the place out. If you're ever there they are nice people and very friendly and helpful.

I did find out that my wig hair sticks to the makeup on my face and is highly annoying. There must be a solution, but my wife wasn't available to help on my first night out and I was too chicken to ask my daughter. I have this funny feeling with makeup because my ideas of femininity are based on the natural look. The women I admire don't use makeup, or at least use very little of it. A heavily made up woman seems unnatural to me, so smearing enough goo on my face to cover the beard provokes ambivalent feelings at best.

I had last week off in compensation for working over Christmas and began to sew furiously, as I wanted something to cover my hairy arms. (I had to stop shaving somewhere!) My face still hurt and makeup is not my forte, but I screwed up my courage, dressed up and went out. In my excitement I got the wrong day for the meeting, and showed up last night to a dark and empty house in the middle of a blizzard, freezing my legs off in a skirt and hoping my wig wouldn't go sailing down the street. Not only that, but having killed our second car just before Christmas I took my wife to work so our son could have the car and had to kill time until Midnight when she got done. How do I get myself into these things, anyway? I know, I know, if I had bothered to read the newsletter to be sure it wouldn't have happened.

Call it a dry run, or practice or a jolly good try. (My wife suggests stupidity.) The next night there were too many people around to prepare before the meeting so I bundled my clothes and makeup into suitcases and off I went. It took far too long in the bathroom to get ready, but at last Ricky made her public debut and…

And nothing. I don't know what I was expecting, a trumpet fanfare, masses of people lining the streets and cheering, or all three networks covering this momentous event, but I was simply accepted as one of the girls and was invited to join the Euchre game and that was that. Come to think of it, isn't that what all us girls say we want, to be accepted without a lot of fuss? That's what I got, a friendly, low key reception but my mind was ready for victory parades down the streets of Paris or a ten minute introduction as the honored guest of the evening.

So that's it, I had a good time at a small party with some friends, learned how to eat pizza without eating my wig along with it or dropping it on my bosom, how not to scratch my face when it itches and muss my makeup. I was simply able to relax as Ricky in front of people. Not what my unconscious mind was expecting, but thanks girls, it was just what I needed.