Just let me fix my hair...

I was actually getting used to being called Samantha. Which was cringe-inducing weirdness, but everyone had been doing it for hours.

Mom turned to me. "We've let you stay dressed as a boy all evening," she noted, "but now it's time for bed. And you have to braid your hair, of course." She looked at me appraisingly and added. "Confidentially, if I had hair like yours, I wouldn't let anyone cut it either."

Mom laid out some clothes for me on the bed, nightclothes—a package of panties and a nightgown. Looking at them, I heaved a huge sigh. I'd agreed to this, hadn't I? I couldn't remember. But I didn't have to like it.

Mom stepped out of the room and shut the door. I stripped off reluctantly, Shirt, pants, socks, and last, my jockey underwear. I never wore an undershirt that had to be pulled over my hair if I could avoid it.

I stared at the package of panties. Panties. "I'm a boy," I whimpered. Sugarpie had somehow migrated to my pillow, the only eyes watching me besides my own. I looked in the mirror to confirm, yes, I am a boy.

Very little evidence of puberty, though. No pubic hairs or even underarm fuzz. No muscles; in fact, my bones were pretty obvious. I knew I was about 5'1", weighing 95 pounds, more or less. My waist was smaller than Hannah's, and my hips not much larger than my waist.

"Can I come in?" Mom's voice came from the hall.

"Not yet!" I said, my voice squeaking.

I grabbed the package of panties and tore it open, sending colorful underwear flying. I picked up a pair and slipped them on, cringing, but they really didn't feel that much different from my own tighty-whiteys. They weren't white. Hurrying, I had grabbed a lavender pair.

I looked at the mirror and gasped. With hair curling down to my waist and the panties, I did look like a girl—especially if I hid the view of my chest with my arms—a skinny girl. I pulled the nightgown on to hide the view as much as anything, but it didn't really help.

It was a simple garment, pale blue, with poofy short sleeves and a wide neck trimmed with figured lace, more at the hem. I pulled my hair out of the nightgown and let it flow down my back. I sighed at my reflection. Covering up my skinniness made me look cuter. "Don't say a word," I told Sugarpie.

*

Mom had gotten tired of waiting and opened the door enough to peek. "Oh, you're dressed," she said and came on in.

"I'm..." I began but couldn't think what to say. I plopped down in the chair in front of my dresser and got out one of my big combs.

Mom gathered the scattered undies and put them away, then sat on the bed and watched me. "You're going to braid your hair?"

I nodded. I did this every night because that's what you have to do if you want hair like mine. First, I combed it to get tangles out. There seemed to be a little more than usual tonight. Well, it had been a long day, and the curls I had gotten at the salon probably encouraged a few more tangles.

Some people, other people—okay, girls and women—have something they add to their hair at this point, but I don't. I just comb it out then use my brush to work up the natural oils from the scalp all the way to the ends. Done right, this prevents lots of hair damage. Done wrong, it is a major source of damage.

"Do you brush it like a hundred times?" Mom asked.

"No," I said. "That's a myth, twenty or thirty times for each section is enough." Thinking about it, though, right and left, front and back, that does amount to about a hundred strokes. But I don't count them.

"You have such beautiful hair, Samantha," she said.

"Um, thanks," I said. Until she called me that name, I had almost forgotten that I was sitting there in a pair of girl's panties and a nightgown. Brushing my hair has always been soothing, as if each stroke removed a layer of stress.

"You're brushing out all the curl," she noted.

"Uh-huh, I have naturally straight hair, so if I comb or brush it, it's going to lose any curls it got from just being water-set." Okay, I'd read up on this stuff. I'd wanted for a long time to try curling my hair with water only but had not had the nerve to do it. I collected enough flak for just wearing it long.

"You're smiling."

"Um," I said. "I like doing this." I liked it a lot. Taking care of my hair was the chief pleasure of wearing it long. I didn't just like doing it. If I couldn't do it or even got delayed too long, like tonight, I felt gross, cranky and depressed. Getting into my hair routine finally was doing a lot to make me feel better.

I started using the combs to divide my hair into sections, tucking each section between my fingers as I worked. Looking in the mirror made this a bit easier, but it wasn't necessary. I'd practiced doing it without looking many times. One of the keys is getting the four sections as near to the same size as possible, which I could do entirely by feel.

And I'm quick. I had it all done in just minutes. Mom handed me a ribbon to tie off the end. It was a wide pink ribbon, and I usually used a narrow blue one. "Tie it in a bow," Mom suggested. So I did. I'd tried it before, but it looked too girly. Now.... Well, it didn't matter, now, did it? Besides, I would unbraid it first thing in the morning and....

Was I going to try curling my hair like the salon did? I had to admit, I wanted to. I didn't have the big curlers and the gentle air-drying machine, but maybe I could leave my hair in braids until Mom and I could go shopping?

Was I suddenly looking forward to going shopping?

I turned my head this way and that, checking to see that the braids were even and tight enough to keep my hair from tangling in my sleep. My waist-length hair now reached only a little past the middle of my back. It looked nice and...and the ribbon looked good too.

Mom nodded. "Don't tell anyone I said so," Mom confided, "but you're prettier than your sister." Dad had said the same thing. I just smirked at my reflection because I knew it was true.