Ever since I had my “epiphany” and fully recognised the truth about myself I have wanted to be able to go out in public looking as female as that beatch “Mother Nature” will allow.
It’s been a long, hard road because I’m just over 6 feet tall, fairly sturdily built, have large ears, large hands, large feet and, most disappointingly, androgenetic alopecia a.k.a. Male Pattern Baldness. In my case this baldness is not complete (as in the whole of the top of my head is bald) but I have a deep bald “river” on each side and a central “patchiness” to my hair.
I’ve been able to wear wigs in order to look more feminine but have always wanted to be able to take that final step and let my own remaining hair do the work for me.
To that end the hairdresser I had been using (M) had been working with me to style my hair as best she could while I gradually let it grow over the past three or four years. I was actually due to see her again back in March when, with any luck, we might have been able to reach our goal.
Unfortunately, due to the lockdown that came into effect back in March, she was finally forced to give up her salon which meant that I needed to find someone new to take over my hair care.
Once the salons were allowed to open again I began looking around for a suitable alternative. Of course everywhere was fully booked up for weeks by their existing regular clientele but I finally made an appointment which became due yesterday.
As it happened a dear friend of mine had suggested meeting up yesterday as well for “coffee and shopping” and so I could make a whole afternoon of being out and enjoying life.
When the time came for my appointment we strolled up from the High Street to the salon and made arrangements to meet up again afterwards for “one more coffee”.
In the salon I took off my wig and gave my new hairdresser (P) the full story of how M and I had been working toward our goal and explained, as best I could, what M had had in mind. P was fully supportive of the main idea and suggested some minor refinements given the latest condition of my hair. I agreed with her analysis, I had my hair washed, and she made a start.
While she was working and we were chatting she was quite obviously “up” on transgender issues and was very considerate and supportive of my position.
Then, once she had cut the framework of my style, she flicked everything into place for the first time and … it broke me.
Finally, at age 67 and after the years of work that M had put into the foundation of my hair, I was looking in the mirror and saw my true self.
One of the most extraordinary things that struck me was that, apart from some thinner spots just up from the fringe area, there was little difference between how my real hair looked now and the style of wig that I had settled on two or three years ago and subsequently maintained.
It was at this point that I broke down and began crying.
P was very concerned that maybe she had got it wrong and that I didn’t like it, but I was quick to reassure her that my tears were of joy, delight and amazement. Finality!
Everything had come together in that moment; I was at last as complete as I will ever be.
My friend appeared at the doorway just as we were finishing off, and in a moment of pure theatre I turned toward her, lifted my shopping bag, and with a dramatic flourish and great purpose I threw the wig into it.
I am due to get more (free, thank you NHS) wigs in a couple of weeks, and for the time being I’ll keep getting them, but my main focus now when I have my wig appointments will be to find suitable hair attachments to “fill in the gaps” down the centre line.
I know I will never be photogenic, and I sure as hell need to learn how to pose for photos, but I asked my friend to take a couple of pictures to help me remember the day when I could finally say, “This is me” …
Stay safe, and live your life how YOU need to.