by Renee James
It turns out Roxie is a junkie. I don’t know who else knew, but I certainly didn’t. She has always been nice to me and good with customers, and she’s a very good hairdresser. I felt a desperate sickness in the pit of my stomach hearing about her habit. I hope she makes it all the way back. When Roger makes the announcement he tells us we’ll all be picking up some of Roxie’s clients until she gets back.
The next day, one of the prudes who works in the salon and thinks I’m a pervert announced that she was pregnant. This was not a happy announcement for her. Trudy often talks about how she has pledged her life to Jesus Christ and actually tapes televangelist shows and slings moral judgments from the scriptures around like arrows in an Indian raid. She's pregnant with no husband in sight. She spills the news to us in an impromptu gathering in the break room. She rattles off the words like she is reciting the pledge of allegiance. She’s ashamed and humiliated. She put herself in a compromising position. She has only herself to blame. She will ask for forgiveness for the rest of her life. Life is sacred, so she will carry the baby to term and raise it the best she can. She asks for support and love from all of us.
She never looks at me during this recitation. Maybe she’s thinking God will forgive her for getting knocked up as long as she doesn’t socialize with trannies. Not my most humanitarian thought of the day, I guess.
Later, during my lunch break, two stylists were discussing the news. One of them said Trudy was all Jesus and sunshine by day, but a wild woman by night. It wasn’t a case of the boyfriend backing out; it’s more that she can’t even guess which stud struck gold.
It would really infuriate her to know that I feel sorry for her, but I do. I think a lot of religious zealots are people who are trying to overcome deep, painful issues in their lives. I feel for them, even though I think the religiosity makes them worse. As for being a Rush Street slut, well, hairdresser gossip is sometimes long on drama and short on facts. Either way, she has my sympathy. We trannies know all about humiliation.
One of Roxie’s clients that Trudy was supposed to do came in Wednesday looking like a street person. Her hair was matted and tangled, and glistened with an oily glaze. She smelled like cigarettes and grime and that was from four or five feet away. She wore designer clothes, but they were wrinkled and unkempt.
Trudy almost fainted when the client sat in her chair. She excused herself and ran back to the break room, nearly hysterical. She was riding a really awful streak of bad luck—I was the only stylist in the room.
“Bobbi, Bobbi,” she sobbed. “Can you help me? Can you help me please?” She tells me about the client, the stink that makes her ready to vomit. The filth. Maybe the woman is a junkie too, like Roxie. She fears she’ll pick up a disease that will hurt her baby. . Could I do the client?
Trudy has always regarded me like a turd in a punchbowl. I used to sometimes dream about having a moment like this when I might humiliate her as certainly as she has me many times. When the time came, though, all I could see was a broken-hearted girl whose world was flying apart and who was scared out of her wits by everything.
“Of course,” I said. I sat her down at the table and got her a glass of water. “I’ll take care of it,” I said, and left.
The client’s name was Cleo. I told her that Trudy was pregnant and having morning sickness issues, and that I’d do her service today—no charge, because of the confusion. Cleo looked dubious. She was trying to decide if she was desperate enough to have a transsexual do her hair.
I’m really good, I told her. Very definitely in Roxie’s class. In the end, Cleo came over to my station. Normally I move the hair into different shapes and inspect the scalp during a consultation, but that would have been pointless with Cleo and it seemed to me there was a chance of infection by touching that ugly, stinking mass on her head. Trudy hadn’t been exaggerating. Cleo reeked.
So I caped her, whisked her off to the shampoo bowl, and scrubbed her down with a clarifying shampoo. Three shampoos! Each one involving rigorous scrubbing of hair and scalp. Ordinarily, we use the clarifying shampoo on customers with very oily hair, but just on the first shampoo. We go with something milder on the second because the clarifying formulation is really strong. I had never done a third shampoo until that day. I felt like the health of her hair was a distant consideration after my own survival and maybe that of everyone else she encounters in life.
“Do you usually do three shampoos?” she asked as I applied the conditioner.
“Not usually,” I said. “Your hair and scalp were pretty oily and I wanted to make sure we got you balanced.” I thought the reference to “balance” was especially brilliant.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “I have really oily hair and I forget to wash it sometimes.”
I asked her when she had last washed it. She couldn’t actually remember. Probably four or five days ago, she guessed. My guess would have been a full week, including a day or two of swimming in a sewage ditch. She knew it was out of control, that’s why she came in even though Roxie wasn’t here. I asked her how she knew Roxie, thinking maybe they hit some shooting galleries together. But no, Cleo just came in here one day on her lunch hour and drew Roxie. Roxie did nice work and was fun to talk to.
I would been fun to give her a hip, avant-garde cut, but she clearly did not care for her hair and the cut would be wasted on her. I decided to trim her bob and give it some asymmetrical pieces. She’d at least look good when she leaves the salon.
As I worked I ask her how often she normally washes her hair. “I’m terrible about that,” she said. “I don’t know why. I just hate to shower and wash my hair.” Once she started talking about it she just kept going. She didn’t know if it was a phobia or just that she gets so into her work. She was a certifiable workaholic, fifteen to eighteen hours a day. Weekends too, but she takes the work home. At first she laughed about it, but later, the raw emotions came out. Her marriage was failing. Her husband wasn’t interested in her any more. She expected him to ask for a divorce any day now.
“Why not just come in here two or three times a week?” I suggested. “Come in on your lunch hour. We’ll have the assistant give you a shampoo and blow dry. You’ll love it. It won’t take much time and it’s a lot cheaper than a divorce.”
She laughed a little, but my message was a serious one. She was a pretty nice looking lady when she cleaned up. Thirtyish. A cute body just a shade on the chunky side but with nice boobs and decent legs. Nice face with full lips that could be pouty. Pretty eyes. If we could trade bodies I’d do it in a heartbeat.
That was the saddest part of the service. She was a nice lady, vulnerable, with some kind of psychological disorder. The solution to the part of her problem we can all see was easily solvable. But I know she wasn’t going to solve it. For some reason I won’t ever understand, she couldn't change what she was doing. The divorce was inevitable. I wondered what the rest of her life would be like. She thanked me profusely at the end of the service and said she’ll think about my shampoo idea. She will, but she won’t do it.
How sad.
Now, at the end of the day, my crazy week goes completely insane.
As I’m straightening up my workstation, the receptionist comes back with a bouquet of flowers.
“Bobbi!” she says, “Are you holding out on us? Who’s the new guy?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I say as I receive the bundle. I place it on my table and peel back wrapping paper to find the card. My heart stops when I read it.
“Bobbi, we miss you and can’t wait to see you again. All of us this time—Curly, Moe, and Larry.”
I get the reference. Thug #1, Thug #2, and Strand. This was meant to scare the crap out of me. And it’s working.
The receptionist says something else but I don’t answer. I can’t. I can’t draw breath to make words. She leaves.
Strand is getting very close. He is the cat and I am the mouse between his paws. That's his message. He will play with me for as long as it�
��s fun, then he will devour me.
I wonder if they will be waiting for me somewhere on my way home from work. I can see them pulling me into an alley, beating me, six arms and fists flailing, crushing my nose and teeth and cheek bones, then shoving their cocks in my ass, then other things. I am sweating and shaking. I sit in my chair and take deep breaths for a while. When I feel able to talk, I call Thomas.
He escorts me home. I show him the card that came with the flowers. “I can’t ignore this anymore,” I tell Thomas.
“Can you help me get the kind of tranquilizer we talked about?” I ask.
Thomas nods. “I’ll need some time, so be careful.” He gives me his schedule so I can call him for escort service. He’ll also get me some pepper spray.
What kind of world do I live in?
***
I DON’T ALWAYS KNOW WHEN they're following me and when they aren’t. I see them once in a while, a glimpse here and there. I’m careful about where I go and when, but otherwise I want them following me. And I want them cocky and arrogant.
Today I've walked casually from the salon to a wig and costume shop. Inside, I make a show of trying on several drag queen wigs—big, oversexed things in different shades of blonde. I do it in full view of the shop’s big display windows, primping and posing shamelessly. While I’m trying them on a sales woman waits on me.
“This is just for fun,” I tell her. “What I really want to look at are mustaches, beards, side burns, and a man’s short hair wig.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Having second thoughts?” She says it playfully.
“A kinky partner,” I answer.
“Kinky’s good,” she says.
She brings a selection of facial hair to a private room. We go through everything looking at color, texture, and length. I make my purchase and tip her grandly. When I step out of the store anyone who bothered to notice me would assume I’m carrying a wig in my Global Wigs bag.
But what’s in the bag is a man everyone thinks is dead. Bob Logan, or someone who looks a little like him, is coming back to life for a little while.
***
IT IS EERIE LOOKING into the mirror seeing vague traces of my male self in the strange image that appears there.
Wearing a male wig and male clothing but without costume facial hair, I look like an effete man, maybe even a woman in drag. How ironic is that? It’s a bit of a shock to realize how much I have changed in the long months of my transition. My skin is utterly smooth, my beard long since gone in a blaze of electrolysis and hormones. My eyebrows are thinner than a man’s, and shaped to help create the illusion of rounder, wider, more feminine eyes. My face has narrowed slightly, from weight loss I suppose, and my lashes seem longer.
I start by applying eyebrows, a slightly bushy set. Instantly, I look much more masculine, though I still look more like Bobbi than Bob. I add sideburns that extend about halfway down my ears. I look like a pretty boy gone country and western. Goofy, but not many people would recognize Bobbi in there.
When I put on the Van Dyke beard, I am completely transformed. A man looks back at me. Ordinarily, the sight would sicken me. This is not who I am. But today, this is work. And it’s working. Under close scrutiny, the skin is too smooth where it isn’t covered by facial hair, but no one will study me that hard.
I put on the gray businessman’s suit I picked up at the resale shop by the Center. I look like an English professor. When I add the trench coat I look like an English professor getting ready to go for a stroll around campus. For kicks, I complete the look by selecting a black umbrella with a hooked handle from my closet; I brandish it like a cane as I walk.
At eleven o’clock I peek out my door to make sure no one is coming, and then glide down the stairs. My male shoes feel awful—heavy and stiff, and they look incredibly ugly to me. But the show must go on. I slip out the back door and take a walkway to the alley then move out to the street; if Larry, Moe, or Curly is watching my front door, they won’t see me. If they see me a half block from the place they won’t recognize me. No way.
My Sunday outing lasts about two hours. I work on walking in a more masculine manner. Again, I find myself hating the exercise. I miss my prissy walk. I don’t want to be a boy.
I stop for coffee, stop again for a newspaper, and again for breakfast. Then I do a little shopping. No one recognizes me in the coffee shop or the restaurant, two places I occasion in my real-life Bobbi mode. I pass better as a man than I do as a woman, though I still attract a few double takes as I make my way around town. It’s my voice and my gestures. I’ve been working on the voice for a long time, so that’s kind of a compliment. The gestures… Well, that’s just me. Male or female, I’m effeminate. I just feel better that way. Still, I try to subdue both the voice and the gestures and keep telling myself that this is only temporary.
I really don’t like being perceived as a man by others, even though they accept me. At some point, I realize how profound this is. All these months I've feared the strange mix of surprise, hostility, and astonishment I get from others as Bobbi, the transwoman. Now in my little male charade I discover that their acceptance is not nearly as important to me as being me.
What a strange way to learn such an important lesson.
I smile as I stroll. I feel almost reborn. I know who I am. All I have to do is survive long enough to enjoy that certainty.
Just that.
April
THIS IS THE ULTIMATE April Fool’s Day joke, except April first was yesterday and my client isn’t here as a joke. My knees feel like rubber, my jaw must surely be scraping the ground.
A moment ago I entered the salon from the break room and stood behind the client in my chair, evaluating her scalp and the length and texture of her hair. I used to introduce myself first, but this small act of arrogance has been very successful for me in establishing my authority in the hairdresser/client relationship. It helps get the new client’s mind off the fact that I look a little odd and lets her know that I am a hairdressing star, at least in my own opinion.
Nice hair, I think. Medium-fine texture, moderate wave, nice highlights. Healthy, well cared for. I look up into the mirror as I start moving the hair around in relation to her face. That’s when the air went out of my world.
B. Richards wasn’t a new client. B. Richards is Betsy Richards, the former Betsy Logan, wife of Bob Logan, the former me. My ex-wife is sitting in my chair.
She notes my reaction and her smile freezes. “Was this a bad idea…?” She starts to say Bob then catches herself. “Bobbi,” She finishes.
I grope for words. “No,” I say, finally. “It’s just a surprise.”
“I saw your picture in the paper the other day and I thought, you know, this would be fun for both of us,” she says. “Is it that I’m remarried?”
“No, no, not at all,” I say, regaining my composure. “I’m happy for you. I was happy for you when we met for lunch.”
She looks at me dubiously.
“Really, Betsy,” I say. “I don’t have many manly thoughts any more. I feel more like your sister than your ex.”
She beams. As she smiles, her eyes appraise me, from top to bottom. I can almost read her mind as she takes in the spiral-permed auburn hair with red and blonde highlights, the hip eye makeup and heavy jewelry, the cleavage, the short skirt with fishnet hose, the platform heels.
“You look…” she pauses, “…really nice, Bobbi.” She means it. “It’s very weird for me to say that. It’s very weird to think it. I have to forget who you were before and just see you as you are now. I never thought my husband would someday look good in a mini skirt and heels. Is that all you?” She gestures to her own breasts, which are cloaked in conservative business clothes but still the focal point of a youthful, fit, and wonderfully proportioned body.
“Yes,” I say. We talk boobs for a moment. She guesses I’m at least a C-cup. I tell her I’m getting close to a D. She asks what it’s like to “go through the change” and we both laugh at h
er choice of words. Painful, I tell her, and exhilarating.
I realize we have used ten minutes of her appointment time to chat and quickly move back behind the chair. I resume positioning her hair this way and that around her face, then trying different levels of volume on the sides and top.
“What were you thinking of today, Betsy?” I ask.
“Just a trim,” she says. “To be honest, I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”
“I’m flattered,” I respond. I lead her back to the shampoo bowl, waving the assistant off. As I work on her, I say, “Just in case you hadn’t thought about it, whoever is doing your hair is very good. The color is great, the hair is healthy, and the cut is very precise. A hairdresser this good is worthy of your loyalty, so my feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t reschedule.”
“That’s very generous,” she says. “Actually, he’s moving. And so am I.”
“Really?” I say. I feel like she’s leading up to something.
“He and his partner are moving to Washington, DC. The partner landed a job in a law firm there. Jonas is choosing between salon offers.”
“What about you? Where are you moving?” I ask after I get her back in my chair and begin the service.
“Well,” she says, shifting slightly in the chair. “I’m not moving moving. I’m just not going to be coming downtown to work anymore. Bobbi, I’m pregnant. I’ll work a few more months, and then I’m going to be a stay-at-home mom for a while.”
I smile widely. “I’m so glad for you, Betsy.” I bend and hug her. A real hug. “I’m so glad,” I repeat.
“Thank you,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “Are you sure?”
I come around in front of her so we can look directly at one another. “I am completely sure. One of the things I worry about is that you may have wasted too much time with me. I’m so sorry for that, Betsy. I just didn’t know who I was.”