by Renee James
***
I SLEPT POORLY last night. Mandy’s face kept popping into view. I would see her in my chair on one of her visits, laughing, gesturing. I kept recalling one particular appointment where she worked on her vocal inflections the whole time, keeping both of us in stitches.
She was a free spirit and a party girl, but she had a very nice human side, too. Even though her family disowned her when she came out she never held it against them. It broke her heart, but it didn’t make her bitter in any way that I could see. After her father died, her mother suffered a debilitating stroke. Mandy’s only sibling, a sister, lived far away. There was an aunt in the area, but she had her own problems. So it was Mandy who looked in on mom several times a week, did her shopping, helped clean the house, and negotiated the caretaker services that mom received from the state. Mom was increasingly unpleasant to Mandy and never acknowledged her as a woman, but Mandy never missed a visit.
Maybe this is why Mandy was so active sexually. She was looking for affirmation.
Mandy occupies my thoughts as I get ready for work, and the more I think about her goodness and the complete indifference of the media to her murder, the angrier I get.
My anger boils over as I pack my girl clothes for tonight’s date in a bag. My plan is to change at work. Do it surreptitiously, in the john, and sneak out the back door. If someone sees me, so be it.
But as I fold my clothes I begin seething about how this society treats trans people. Culminating in the murder of a sweet, good-hearted girl that doesn’t even get covered in the newspaper. And that makes me really resent having to lie about who I am. It pisses me off that my cute outfit is going to get wrinkled sitting in a bag all day and that I’ll have to do my makeup on the run and I won’t be able to do anything pretty with my hair.
All because I’m not supposed to be who I am. Because I can pay taxes, obey the law, be good to everyone, and still get murdered because it’s okay to kill trannies.
As I think about these things, my hands tremble with rage and the tears begin to flow. Fury and torment fill my soul to bursting. I hold my breath with all my might so that I don’t scream. When my lungs shriek for air, I exhale and vent my rage by ripping my clothes from the bag and throwing the bag against the wall.
I’m going to work as a woman today. It’s the only action I can think of that quells the storm inside me enough to go on. From this day forth I’m going to be who I am, no matter what. I’m Bobbi Logan, transwoman, hairdresser, friend to any who will have me, enemy of none. I’m a good citizen and a good person and I’m a woman. All of you who disapprove can go fuck yourselves.
***
THIS ISN’T HOW you are supposed to come out at work. In fact, it’s exactly how they tell you not to do it. I'm just too outraged to play by the rules. They wouldn't work for me anyway. You're supposed to let everyone know what’s happening, face to face, but in your male persona. I actually have a canned speech that I’ve been working on ever since I started hormones and started thinking about coming out at work.
“Most people are born with a male or female body and that’s the gender they identify with. But a few of us aren’t so lucky. I was born a boy but in my heart, I’ve always been a girl …”
I rehearsed this in a mirror once, and when I got to that part I could see people reacting as vividly as if it were real. One person gets that ashen green complexion that comes with nausea, another groans and says, “Oh shit!” Several just get sour looks on their faces. One pukes spontaneously.
I’m walking in the salon door wearing white jeans, a white cotton top, and white sandals with a low heel. My hair is brushed back at the temples and full. My dangling white and black earrings match my necklace, a white choker with a black amulet. I’m wearing light makeup in subtle tones, carefully blended so the final effect minimizes my flaws and plays up my strengths and looks completely natural. I drew a lot of looks on the El coming to work, and a few double takes on the street, so I’m not fooling anyone. But I look pretty good. Or at least I thought so when I did my last mirror check before coming to work.
As the door closes behind me, the reality of my situation comes crashing into focus. I am a man dressed as a woman and it's not Halloween. My boss, Roger, is an okay guy, but he's all business. I have a good chance of getting fired today. But it's too late to turn back. And besides, this is who I am.
The clients in the waiting area don’t really notice me. They wouldn’t—none of them are my clients. But as soon as I step into the field of vision of the receptionist, I start drawing stares. She notices right away. She fixates on my sandals and especially on my breasts.
The receptionist’s mouth gapes. She is staring at me in shock.
One by one, other stylists notice me as I set up my station. A couple of them just arch their eyebrows a little and go back to work. You see a little of everything in this business, so having the gay hairdresser show up in girlie mode doesn’t exactly stop the earth from rotating.
On the other hand, some other stylists are more demonstrative. One silently mouths “Oh my God” as she stares at me; another recoils in disgust. Reality slaps me in the face. If this were some hip, youth-oriented salon, the debut of a trans hairdresser might not be such a big deal. But we’re a little older and we cater to a cross section of high-powered business people and young professionals. They don’t come here to see wild hair and piercings, and they have never seen a drag queen or a transwoman in here doing hair.
I feel like an utter freak. Part of me is standing outside myself, looking at me, seeing a man with tits, a twisted, ugly subhuman.
I retreat to the bathroom and check myself in the mirror.
It helps. I may be a bit of an ungainly female, but I’m not so bad. My makeup is perfect. It makes my face more oval, my eyes bluer, and my high cheekbones subtler. My hair is nice. Not ultra-femme, but cute and professional. I like it. My breasts are slightly showy, because my nipples are making a very visible impression in my blouse. I should have worn a sports bra, or at least something with a little padding, but I was so focused on being me, on expressing myself, I wore a sexy lacy thing that would be perfect for a wedding night, but not so great for a first day at work as a girl.
When I go back into the salon, my colleagues who never noticed my breasts before can’t keep from staring at them now. Every time I talk to someone, sooner or later their eyes stray from my face to my chest.
The girl at the station next to mine, a playful, cheerleader type, catches me in the break room. “Are those yours?” she asks, gesturing at my chest. I nod in the affirmative. “What’s going on?” she asks. “Are you, you know…?”
“Yes,” I say, confirming the obvious. “I’m transitioning. I’m a transsexual.”
“Well,” she says. Her voice trails off as she tries to think of something to say. “Well, good luck with that.”
No one else says anything about my appearance, but Roger, the salon owner, has taken several very long looks at me. He is a short, immaculately groomed gay man, always nattily dressed and precise in his movements. I think of him as the master of a just-so ship. He likes order. He likes predictability. I can't think of any reason he'd like having a transsexual hairdresser on his staff. Just before my first service, Roger calls me into his office. My pulse goes into overdrive, my breath gets short. He is going to fire me and I have no idea what I will do next.
“What’s going on here, Bobbi?” His voice has an edge to it. His face is taut. He's upset.
I look at him questioningly.
“You know what I mean.” I do, but I don’t want to be the one to say it. “What’s with the outfit and the…the…are those real?” He points to my chest.
I shake my head, yes.
“Is this…permanent?”
Roger is very direct. He’s an okay boss—fair, respectful, honest—but not especially warm. He's trying not to lose his composure now. He's trying to understand me. Conflicting thoughts race through my mind: he’s going to fire me; he
’s not going to fire me and all I have to do is say yes and the next part of my transition can begin. This is the moment I’ve been dreading but wanting for months. All I have to do is say yes, and I’m Bobbi the girl, all day every day.
Or I say yes and Roger fires me in disgust, and I become an unemployed transwoman with bleak prospects of picking up another job any time soon.
I try to respond to him but I can’t talk. Tears well up in my eyes.
Roger has seen lots of hairdressers cry. We’re a high-strung lot, even the straight ones. But despite all his experience, he’s not sure what to do. He is sitting in stunned silence, watching me, at a loss for words. I can't say anything either.
He finally breaks the silence. “It’s okay, Bobbi. It’s okay. I just want to know. I would have appreciated a heads up, that’s all. I mean, I knew you were kind of effeminate, but I didn’t know you were transsexual. You could have said something, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Roger.” I say. My voice is high and tinny. I’m still crying, trying not to sob. This is not the Bob Logan I knew for so many years. He was stoic, controlled. He could take abuse from football coaches and murderous hits from violent linebackers without flinching. Without showing his anger, even. Part of me is standing to the side, taking all this in, while the other part is crying and sniffling.
“Yes,” I sob. “I’m trans. I’ve been on hormones for months. I need to start living as a woman full-time.” I cry some more. “I’ll do it gradually. I’ll come in like this for a while.”
“What do you mean ‘like this’?” Roger asks. His tone is businesslike.
“Slacks and jeans and shirt-type tops. Not too much makeup. Nothing super-girlie…?” I end in a question, wondering what he’ll say.
He looks at me in silence for a beat or two, his eyes wandering down to my chest, then back up to my eyes. I feel like my boobs are the size of watermelons.
“Okay,” he says. “You know more about this than I do. I just don’t want to lose a lot of customers over this. I know you’re going to lose some. A lot. That’s fine, however it works out. But I don’t want the other chairs losing customers, okay?”
I nod.
“If it gets bad, I may have to let you go.”
I nod again.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, standing up to signal our talk is over, “You look fine. It’s just a shock to the rest of us. Be tasteful, do your job, be friendly to everyone, and this might all work out. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
I feel like a teenager whose father has just forgiven her for wrecking the family car.
***
MY FIRST CLIENT is a businesswoman who works nearby, a textbook type-A personality. I’ve been doing her hair for several years. We’ve never really talked about personal things before. I don’t know how this is going to go down with her.
I get my answer quickly. As I greet her in the reception area, she looks at me and her eyes widen. She reaches my chair, sits down, and takes a long look at me in the mirror. “Well,” she says, “I was going to ask you how you’ve been, but…wow! What’s going on?”
She smiles a little as she says it.
“I’m in a gender reassignment program,” I answer.
“You make it sound like a night school course,” she responds. “You’re having a sex change?”
I stammer and stutter for a moment, then try to explain that the process is more nuanced than that and I’m still early in the journey.
“My, my, my,” she says. “I’ve always thought of you as my gay hairdresser. This is going to take some getting used to.”
We talk more than we usually do during her service. Usually she’s on the phone constantly, calling or texting. But apparently finding out your hairdresser is changing genders can push selling and buying to the backburner for an hour or so.
When I finish her cut and color, she gives me the same generous tip she always does and books her next appointment six weeks in advance, just like always.
My next few clients are less committal, basically, pretending not to notice. It occurs to me finally that they didn’t know how to ask. Sort of like when a large woman looks like she’s pregnant. You don’t want to ask her if she’s pregnant only to find out you’ve deeply hurt someone who is dealing with a terrible weight problem.
I ponder whether I should just tell people upfront, or maybe send out a personal letter explaining things. Or just shut up and do hair. I decide to try the upfront treatment. I sit my next client in my chair, and come around in front so we are looking directly at each other.
“Sharon,” I say, “I want you to know I am in a gender reassignment program and I’m going to be working as a woman from now on. I know that some people are very, very uncomfortable being around transsexuals. I really value you as a customer and a friend, but if my transition is going to be a problem for you, I’d like to refer you to one of our other stylists so we don’t lose you as a customer.”
I sound like a low-budget tour guide.
Sharon looks away, ill at ease. “No, that’s fine. I like the way you do my hair.”
I do her color touch up in near silence. She foregoes the blow-dry and leaves. The whole time she looked as though she was sucking on a lemon. I won’t be seeing her again.
I’m nervous and self-conscious now. I feel like I’m the muscle-bound strong man in the circus wearing an itsy bitsy bikini, being stared at by everyone around me.
Still, I do the same thing with my last client. He’s a tall, heavyset muckety-muck with a big CPA firm. Rich. Conservative. I expect the worst, but it doesn’t happen. “Ah what the heck,” he says, when I finish my spiel. “I always wondered if I shouldn’t be having a woman cut my hair, but I liked the way you did it. So now I’ll have a woman cutting my hair just the way I like it.”
He makes his next appointment before leaving, but that doesn’t mean he won’t call in later and cancel it. Or just not show up.
I wonder if I’ll be able to pay my bills in the coming months without dipping into savings.
***
AFTER A TENSE DAY of constant scrutiny, Boystown beckons like a warm, glowing Oz, a place of colors and characters and acceptance. It is a small triangle-shaped island in Chicago's Lakeview community, maybe two miles long and about a mile wide at its widest point. Gays started congregating there in the seventies and eighties, long before it was a fashionable neighborhood, long before it was designated “Boystown” by City Hall in the nineties.
Most of the buildings date back to the thirties or forties, and they're just one or two stories in height. If you were on an architectural tour of Chicago, you wouldn't come here. If you were sightseeing, you'd probably move quickly from the lakefront just east of here to Wrigleyville, home of the Cubs' ivy-walled ballpark and thousands of upwardly mobile young professionals, just to the west.
But for those who take the time to stroll our streets and look around, Boystown is a miracle of diversity. It is home to a half-dozen coffee shops, several wine shops, gay-themed book stores, gourmet food restaurants and stores, art shops, pulsating clubs, and a panoply of stores serving the needs of drag queen performers and other transgenders.
Acceptance is a way of life here. We are a community built on society's rejects. As long as you respect others, no one messes with you, no matter how many piercings or tattoos you have, no matter how odd you look or who you love. Even the straight people who live here are accepting, and there are a lot of them. This is a good place to live. You can breathe here. It's my refuge and my hope, and tonight, as I wind my way through the clogged sidewalks of Halsted Street to meet Officer Phil, it is my salvation. It's good to be home.
In a neighborhood famous for its variety of wild and crazy bars and clubs, Halsted House is special. It has a genteel, mannerly ambience. It caters to an older crowd, middle aged and up. No television sets, no deafening sound system. It’s quiet and filled with comfortable, stuffy chairs and old wooden tables and a dark, intimate bar.
<
br /> It reminds me of some of the exclusive gentleman-only clubs I visited as someone else’s guest back in my days as an accepted member of society. Except that Halsted House’s clientele is almost exclusively gay men. Gay women pop in occasionally, so do transgenders, and even straight men and women now and then. But it’s a high-end gay bar where you can carry on a conversation without shouting and without having to fight off amorous advances.
Officer Phil is at the bar, deep in conversation with several other patrons, when I walk in. He is very gregarious and obviously at ease in the place. He seems like the kind of person who would be at ease anywhere. In fact, in an hour he would know dozens more people in this room than I would meet in a month.
So, as he stands and smiles a greeting to me, I wonder, what can he learn from me?
We shake hands. He looks at me from top to bottom and says, “Bobbi, you look great tonight. Thank you for coming.”
I’m not used to straight men complimenting me on my girlish charms. . It makes me feel like a fraud, like I'm a foot taller than everyone in the room and my body is sprouting hair like a fast-moving disease.
We get a table. I dash off to the ladies room to pee and do my makeup. I don’t have any anxieties about using the ladies room here. Female visitors to a gay bar should be ready for anything. Plus, I have the place to myself. I’m the only person in the joint professing to be a woman.
When I get back, Officer Phil has ordered two glasses of red wine. We toast to each other’s health. Then Phil sits back in his overstuffed chair, looks at me, and smiles. “So, Bobbi, I’d like to know more about you—how long you’ve been trans, when you first knew, what it’s like being transgender in Chicago, all that stuff.”
