by Renee James
I sit her in the chair in my living room that I use when I do haircuts at home. It faces a mirror that extends five feet high on the wall. I flip on the track lights that light up the person in the chair as if they are royalty. I examine Jo-Jo’s hair and scalp. It is clean, healthy hair. No evidence of color.
“You have very nice hair,” I murmur. “We can do pretty much anything you want with it. We can cut it in a bob or a graduated bob if you want a classy, easy-to-maintain look. We can layer it and punk it up or go for big and sexy. We can do a kind of androgynous pompadour.” I sweep her hair back on the sides to imitate the look of a fifties style inspired by Elvis Presley. It would look great on . . . her. I’m having trouble thinking of Jo-Jo as a “her” because she isn’t presenting herself in a feminine way. Her clothing is gender neutral. Her jewelry is not even metrosexual. And her face is vacuous male despite a little shaping to the eyebrows.
Cecelia oohs and ahhs at the pompadour look. “That’s the ticket, honey,” she says. “It’s sexy and athletic at the same time.”
Jo-Jo smiles but says nothing. I ask if any of those styles sound interesting. She smiles and says she doesn’t really know.
I’ve known lots of transgenders who were uncertain about hairstyles, didn’t know the nomenclature, weren’t sure what would look good, couldn’t make up their minds. But Jo-Jo is beginning to feel like an airhead to me. She doesn’t look like she’s on drugs, but she acts like she’s on a trip a long way from home.
I lack patience for lost souls like this one, or the many T-girls in our community who get so obsessed with their gender issues and their appearances there isn’t anything else to them. After a long night in the cold, I definitely am not in the mood to coax something out of Jo-Jo when I could be in a nice, hot tub, sipping wine. Still, Cecelia’s example towers over me. This often overbearing woman who crushes arrogant bigots like so many bugs can’t say no to even the most clueless transwoman. And neither can I.
“Okay, Jo-Jo. Tell me about your lifestyle.” When in doubt, get to the basics.
“Well, I’m twenty-six, I live in the city, I work as a personal trainer. . . like that you mean?” she says, looking at me in the mirror.
“That’s a start,” I say. “What do you do for fun?”
Jo-Jo rattles off a list of sports . . . soccer, handball, long-distance running, softball, football. I ask about the arts. No. Nightlife? Going out to dinner. Going to parties. I point to her wedding ring. “Are you married?”
“Yeah,” says Jo-Jo. Silence.
“How is your wife with your transition?” I ask.
Jo-Jo shrugs nonchalantly. “Fine.” Like it’s no big deal.
“Really?” ” I’m astonished. “Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
Jo-Jo shrugs again, same vacuous smile. “I guess.”
I’m trying not to judge Jo-Jo, but it’s hard. Very few wives stand by husbands who just get into cross-dressing. Wives who stay with a spouse who transitions are one in a thousand, maybe rarer. Jo-Jo acts like it’s expected. She’s in for a shock, though she’s so dull she might not feel it when it comes.
“Have you come out at work yet?” I ask. I’m wondering how feminine to go with her cut.
“Oh yes,” says Jo-Jo.
“How did they take it?”
“Fine,” says Jo-Jo. Sure, why would anyone get excited about that?
We talk some more, me asking ten-word questions, her giving three-word answers. I’m wondering if Jo-Jo has a low IQ or just lacks social awareness. Either way, it wouldn’t break my heart if she decided to find a different hairdresser.
In the end, I recommend a basic layered cut that she can wear like a long pixie or sweep back into a cool pompadour, or just wear flat and look kind of masculine, like now. I pull out an old hairdo magazine and mark several styles.
“Why don’t you think about it for a while and give me a call when you’re ready to do something,” I say. “We can either do it here at night for twenty-five dollars or in my shop during the day for sixty. Let me know.”
“Well, uh, uh,” she responds, “I was hoping we could do it tonight.” Punctuated with that vacuous face.
Shit. I’m tired and sore and cold and hungry. I wouldn’t want to cut Oprah’s hair right now, even if it would make me rich and famous and give me thirty minutes to chat with the greatest woman on earth. Doing Jo-Jo’s hair is on a par with bobbing for apples in a toilet. But I could never turn down Cecelia, and I need the money anyway.
Cecelia chats away as I cut. It’s a relief, really. Trying to carry on a conversation with Jo-Jo is way too hard. During a lull in the conversation I ask Jo-Jo what her wife does. I can’t picture what kind of woman would settle for Joe the airhead as a man, let alone go along with the Jo-Jo transition.
Cecelia answers. “As a matter of fact, Sue is an attorney and she works at Strand, Benson and Hayes.” Cecelia raises her voice a little when she says "Strand" to punctuate the significance of that to me. I told her we have a dear friend at that firm who we can’t talk about because she hasn’t come out,” says Cecelia. Jo-Jo is looking into space. I’m not sure she has even heard the conversation. Cecelia winks at me as she finishes her explanation. That’s why they’re interrupting my night: Cecelia is trying to get a contact in Strand’s firm. She must collect sources like an investigative reporter.
They finally leave around ten o’clock. Jo-Jo actually looks cute. I puffed up her hair and applied some makeup and lipstick, gave her pointers on mascara and eyeliner and blending bases and powders. I don’t think she got much of it, but she left here looking a lot prettier than I’ll ever be.
No matter. It’s after ten and I’m slipping my naked body into a hot tub at last. I will sip wine and feel myself up and try to imagine what it will feel like when I have a vagina. I will also wonder if Jo-Jo is really a transsexual or just a dimwitted party boy looking for another sexual adventure. And that will bring me back to Bobbi. Girl in a man’s body? Or a gay boy who wants to try missionary-position sex? Or failed hetero man who can’t get it up but still wants to get it on?
***
I'M STILL HANDING OUT PROMOS to rush-hour people mornings and evenings, and still freezing my tush off doing it.
Tonight has been particularly odious. A bunch of people, maybe a dozen, have rudely rejected my flier. One man looked at me and said, “Jesus, get away from me.” A middle-aged woman looked at me like I was a giant turd on the sidewalk and said, “Never. Not ever,” as she walked away. Many others said the same kind of things with their eyes and body language. Still, there is the occasional smile and a few people actually begin reading the flier as they walk away. I have to keep reminding myself that that’s what I’m after. Maybe eight or ten people each week who will give me a try. I have to block out the people who find me odious. I can’t, really. Not entirely. But I don’t let them keep me from doing what I have to do.
The traffic coming out the door of the building has slowed to a trickle. It’s after six and I’m tired and cold. I decide to knock off and head for home. Even though it’s really cold, I decide to walk. I need the exercise. I’ve been shedding weight since I started hormones. Part of it is trying to get thinner and more feminine looking, and part of it is that I’m losing muscle mass. I’d lose some muscle anyway, but I’m doing it by design, trying to alter my big, heavy male musculature into long, lean muscle that still has some athletic dynamism but looks more femme. That’s the goal.
As I start north on State Street I see a familiar figure pass under a light on the other side of the street. It’s Strand. I wonder why he’s walking. I’ve seen him leave his building before and it’s always in his black BMW, a suitably pretentious and aloof way to navigate the streets of the city he must figure he owns.
On an impulse, I follow him. He makes his way to a high-end hotel on North Michigan. I stay behind him and on the opposite side of the street, tucked into the crowd of pedestrians. Moments after he enters the hotel, I take a deep breath.
Should I try to follow him in? Chances are, the doorman will shoo me away like a skid row bum; the only transwomen who come to a place like this are hookers and they look a lot better than me.
I dither for a minute then follow him in. The doorman gives me a long look. He’s trying to decide whether or not to let me pass. I don’t look like a hooker, but I surely don’t look like their typical client, either. This place is for execs with big egos and bigger expense accounts. A middle-aged, six-foot transsexual? Not a likely customer, but in this day and age, who knows for sure? I flash him a smile and greeting, trying to act like a self-assured big shot, albeit trans. It works. He opens the door for me with a smile.
Inside, I make my way into the lobby, hugging the walls to be as invisible as possible. No sign of Strand. I work my way around the lobby and peek into the lobby bar. No luck. A waitress sees me and approaches.
“Can I get you something?” Professional. Courteous.
I order a glass of wine, trying to feign self-confidence in a hotel for millionaires. As she gets the wine, a small table with a view of the lobby opens up. I seat myself. When she returns, she serves the wine and asks if there will be anything else.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend here in the lobby tonight and I wonder if you’ve seen him.” I describe Strand.
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “That describes half the men who come in here.”
Point taken. But after I finish my drink I stop at the front desk and ask the same question. The clerk isn’t sure. “What is the gentleman’s name?” he asks.
I hesitate. Do I really want to do this? “Strand,” I say. “John Strand.”
The clerk punches a keyboard and looks at his screen, frowns, punches more keys, frowns again. “I don’t show a guest with that name,” he says. “Perhaps he hasn’t checked in yet.”
Of course he hasn’t checked in yet. Not under his own name, anyway. I thank the clerk and find a seat in the corner of the lobby and wait another fifteen minutes. I don’t see Strand. He is having a tryst of some sort. Probably a genetic woman since he’s so private about his transwomen. Could a shit like him actually love one person and brutalize everyone else? At seven-thirty I decide I will never know and make my exit.
***
THANKSGIVING IS THE WORST holiday for me. A long, cold weekend with not much to do. A little buzz at the salon on Friday and Saturday but nothing like Christmas or even Easter. And Thanksgiving Day itself is as lifeless as a cemetery. The LGBT Center serves a dinner but it’s a couple hundred strangers eating cafeteria-style. Decent food, but institutional. A jail with no walls. All in all, it makes you feel like a bum taking charity, another face in a mass portrait of unwanted souls.
Whatever my mother’s failings, she was an excellent cook and that made Thanksgiving Day special in my childhood. The house would fill with mouth-watering aromas and Mom was actually happy and energized, bustling around the kitchen. My moody sister lightened up too, flitting between helping Mom and talking on the phone. My father got deep into whatever football game was on. I’d sit in front of the TV with him and pretend we were pals. I hung on his every word, took even his curses to heart, shelled walnuts for us both, made crackers and cheese. He never treated me like a pal or a son, but he was civil to me at those moments, and that was as good as it got between us.
Dinner itself was usually quiet. Mom and Dad made small talk. My sister shared girlfriend gossip. I fantasized about all sorts of things. Sports. Saving someone’s life. What I would do if I was my sister, how I’d wear my hair, who I would want for friends, what clothes I’d wear.
Thanksgiving gatherings ended for me after high school. Sis invited me for Thanksgiving once after our parents died. Nice gesture, but an awful experience. I was in my gay phase, and she stipulated that I couldn’t bring a boyfriend or talk about gay life. She blamed it on her husband, but she was just as repulsed. It was awkward and boring. They never invited me again and if they had, I would have declined.
I think these thoughts as I finish my hair and makeup. Wouldn’t Sis and hubby just love having me over now, eh? It’s funny, though. She looks at me and sees a pervert and I look at her and see a wasted life. She is fat, sloppy, bored with her job, angry at her life. Her husband is a self-absorbed moron, also fat, his life entirely devoted to televised sports. Their son was an obnoxious, mean little bastard by the age of five and will only be the same thing but bigger as he matures.
She would be so much happier today if she had ever been able to see the potential for herself that I saw when I so wanted to be her.
I shake the thought as I collect my coat and purse. Dinner at the Center is better than dwelling on these thoughts. And maybe someone will want to go out for a nightcap afterwards.
December
I HAVE GOOD DAYS AND BAD DAYS in dealing with the fact that I am an oddity wherever I go. I’m coping fairly well today, maybe because the news about Strand’s affair has me focused on something more than myself.
It’s a good thing, too, because one of the other stylists has a client who is breaking her neck to stare at me. Many times when this happens I have all kinds of self-esteem issues. For the rest of the day I’ll feel like people are staring at me with overt disgust.
Carol, the stylist, is getting tired of the lady’s act, too. Naturally, the bitch is here for highlights and a cut. It’s hard enough doing highlights on a client who constantly moves her head. Doing a cut is beyond frustrating and even a little dangerous since our shears are razor-sharp.
I decide to save a life. As my next client is being shampooed I walk over to Carol’s chair. Her client, a baggy-looking middle-aged lady with sagging features, abruptly looks away as I draw near. I stand in front of her.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
The woman squirms, glances up at me for a millisecond, then away. “No” she says.
I glance at Carol who has a slight smile on her face. Of my colleagues in the salon, Carol has been the most supportive and sympathetic to me.
“Okay,” I say. “It seemed like you wanted to ask me something, so I thought I’d check. If you ever do want to, just say so. Carol will tell you I’m easy to talk to.”
Carol continues to smile at the reference. I return to my chair. Her client stares a hole in the floor.
There are many different types of bullies in our society. Carol’s client represents the petty tyrants, maybe the least damaging. They’re the ones with no guts. You can face them down and it makes you feel sort of empowered when they shrivel up. Problem is, without actually having an encounter, I can’t tell one of these from a screaming tyrant or a bone breaking bully or one of those really nasty passive-aggressive twits.
And, sometimes people who stare really do have questions they’re afraid to ask. I’ve broken down a few barriers by inviting them to ask whatever they want. I give them honest answers—it’s usually about my plumbing or why I’m doing this or what it’s like or who I date or all of those things. But in answering them, I establish human contact and they start to think of me as a person rather than a freak, at least a little bit, and it takes the edge off. All the girls in the salon have clients who now greet me when they come in.
My next client gets my mind off all this. It’s Ray, the father of the transgender child. We haven’t talked since he asked my advice about how to help his son become a girl.
“What’s new in your life?” I ask Ray after we go through the client consultation ritual.
“Well, thanks to you, we’re actually working on a plan for Laurie,” he says. “That’s her name. She and her mom came up with it. They asked me if I was okay with it and I said yes, of course.” Ray runs with it. I don’t have to say another word for the whole service.
They all understand that it’s going to be hard, but they’re going to work together to get through it. “It’s the damndest thing,” he says. “Laurie’s mother and I never agree on anything and we’re actually ok
ay on this.”
Laurie is almost eleven. They are taking her to Marilee once a week and they have a family session every two weeks. Laurie is a girl at home but will finish out the school year as a boy at school. Next fall, they’ll enroll her as a girl at another school. Ray is paying for everything. They’re going to see about blocking her puberty until she’s old enough to start female hormones—or decides she’d rather be a boy.
“You can’t believe the change that’s come over her, Bobbi,” Ray exclaims. “She’s happy. She smiles and laughs. She and her mom have been shopping for a wardrobe of girls’ clothes. Laurie’s in heaven and her mom seems like the weight of the world just slid off her shoulders.”
I smile and nod slightly. Ray keeps going. It’s like a dam has broken. When he takes a breath, I ask, “Am I hearing a little romance budding between you and your ex?”
I have to stop cutting as Ray shakes his head. “No. No, nothing like that. But I think we are becoming friends. I hope so. This other way takes so much energy.”
“Why wouldn’t you be friends?” I respond. “My goodness, you’ve never fought her on anything, have you?”
“Not really,” he says. “I don’t know anything about raising kids. And I have some money, so I can take good care of the two of them and all it means is I live in Wicker Park instead of a lakefront condo. Big deal. And I gotta say,” he remarks after a moment’s thought, “Gail’s never really taken advantage of that. When she asks for more money, it’s not for a fancy car or a new outfit or whatever. It’s because the washing machine went kaput or Laurie needs braces. I’m pretty lucky.”
I can see why Laurie's mom took it so hard when Ray left her. He’s one of the nicest guys I’ve met. I mean, what divorced husband gives up a fancy apartment and hip lifestyle to take care of his ex-wife? Heck, most of the divorced men I know don’t even live up to their obligations to their kids. It must have been really hard on her. This man is so decent and so huggable. You could really do some happy ever-aftering with a guy like this. I bet she felt like her heart was broken when he left. I’d feel that way.
