by Renee James
“Do you think those thoughts and desires make you a woman?” she asks.
If I were a man I would find Camille powerfully exotic. She is slim and feminine and has that feline seriousness about her and a certain distance from everything. She’s wearing an elegant gray wool skirt below the knees and a matching suit coat with a conservative white blouse and a simple pearl necklace and pearl earrings. She could be a Radcliffe grad.
By contrast, I must look like a trollop. I’ve come directly from the salon, so I have on sexy heels, tight jeans, and a low-cut top that shows some cleavage. My hair is teased up in a messy big-hair do.
I know most transwomen tend to get to where Camille is as time goes on. I’m not there yet.
“Look,” I say. I hate these shrink games, even if I love the shrink. “I know you’re going to stomp all over me with new insight, but yes, I think these thoughts and desires are why I am becoming a woman. I’m sure there are many other much less fun things that make up a woman and that I am sorely lacking in them, but I’m prepared to live with that. In fact,” I say, “I’ve concluded that I won’t ever be a woman like a genetic woman is a woman. I think no matter how completely I evolve, I will see the world as a transwoman, as someone who lived half her life as male, then changed genders. I don’t think others will ever accept me as a woman. I’m always going to look different, my voice is never going to be womanly. Nobody is ever going to ask me to marry them. But I’m going to enjoy my life anyway. I’m going to love getting laid, even if I have to hire men to bed me. And I’ll always love the clothes, the hair, and the rest of it. . I know this isn’t the right answer, but it’s the answer. I’m not a man. This is what I am. And I want a vagina to go with it.”
A small smile plays at Camille’s lips. “Very good, Bobbi!” she says.
“That’s the right answer?” I say with incredulity.
“There’s no right or wrong answer,” she says. “It’s about knowing who you are and what motivates you. You're doing splendidly in that regard. No big surprise. You are a very thoughtful person.”
I glow under the praise. Camille is very thrifty with her compliments.
“And I’d like to correct you on one thing,” she adds. “You are very womanly. It’s inside you. What we need to keep working on is letting it come out and express itself.”
“Does this mean you are going to recommend me for GRS?” I ask. I confess, I’m getting restless. If she’d sign off today I’d try to have it done next week.
“It means you’ll get to make the decision yourself when we finish the year,” she answers. She goes on about state of mind, mental preparedness, and self-acceptance.
***
WHAT A HIGH! Hundreds of people are applauding us enthusiastically. The emcee of our updo show has just asked the crowd if they liked what they saw.
As the applause dies down, he thanks each of the on-stage performers individually. With each name, a different platform artist raises his or her hand, smiles and bows to the crowd. The applause picks up each time. I’m the third name. I smile and bow, blushing like a schoolgirl. The applause seems even louder than for the other performers. As I straighten from my bow I look out on the audience. It might be true. The audience is loud and boisterously enthusiastic. Some are standing. There are a few whistles. This is pretty much how they reacted to the other stylists, but for someone who just didn’t want to be ridiculed, this is an unbelievable surprise. My heart is beating as though I’ve just crossed the finish line after running a marathon. My model is standing next to me. She's beyond stunning: tall, beautiful, seductively clad in a tight ball gown, and wearing the tall, sexy updo that I created. That’s what the applause is for, but in a way, people are accepting me, too.
This must be what narcotics are like. Even as the applause wanes and the emcee directs the audience to someone else, I feel beautiful and sexy and accepted. I'm glowing with femininity. A large group of people have celebrated me as a woman and they've made me feel like a really talented hairdresser, with something worthwhile to share with the world. I have value.
It is my final stage appearance at the hair show. Suddenly I can’t recall a single moment of the self-doubt and overwhelming anxiety that have marked the past week of my life, and especially the past few days. The shows have gone well, but until now, the end of each practice and each live show was haunted by the knowledge that there would be a chance to fail on a grand scale at the next show.
Not now. There is no next show. As I realize that, I feel a great wave of regret. What will occupy my life now?
But my emptiness is short-lived. As the audience gives Evelyn, the star of our show, a standing ovation, models and hairdressers leave the stage. When the applause dies down, we circulate to the front of the stage to meet with the adoring public. A milling throng envelopes us. Most are women, all are hairdressers. They peer closely at the models’ hair. My model actually sits so that they can inspect my work. Most of the hairdressers want to talk to Evelyn, the most amazing dresser of formal hair I have ever seen. Having her coach me has been an education worth more to me than a PhD from Harvard. She works magic, curling and backcombing hair, and shaping it into forms that are both artistic and beauty-enhancing. And she imparts her wisdom generously, even to the strange looking transwoman. Especially to the strange looking transwoman. She told me I looked beautiful working on stage and that I had great talent. It wasn’t the old showbiz BS, either. She meant it. I melted, of course. Every time I look at her or think of that moment, I get weak knees. She probably doesn’t even know how precious her acceptance and encouragement are to me, and I’m not sure I could find the words to say so. Not here and now.
As people move from my model to Evelyn’s circle, some of them pause to share their praise with me. A few ask technique questions. A group of four wanders over to me from Evelyn’s throng. Their leader is a fiftyish woman with icy-blonde hair cut in a sassy punk style that hairdressers of all ages seem to be able to pull off. She has a big smile, no inhibitions at all.
“So,” she says, “We were wondering if you’re transgender.” It’s a statement, not a question, but she is expecting an answer. The two women with her blush at her bluntness, but they are eager to hear my response. The male, a slender young man projecting his gayness with an earring in his right ear and his youth with tattoos and Hip Hop clothing, looks somewhat embarrassed, but he’s waiting for my answer, too.
“Yes I am,” I respond. There is a moment of awkward silence.
“Well, how is that for you?” she asks. I look at her quizzically. She laughs. “You know, how are your clients with that? And the other stylists?”
“Oh, that’s a complex picture, I’m afraid.” I like her. She’s curious, not judgmental. “I lost a lot of clients at first, but business has been coming back. I’m lucky. My boss stuck with me and I work in a city that’s pretty accepting.”
She keeps smiling. She can’t think of anything to say.
“Where are you from?” I ask. That gets things rolling. They’re from Iowa. She’s Judy, the wild-child colorist. Carol is the owner, a pretty woman in her forties who can’t quit staring at me. Betty is the other woman. Bob is their newest staff member. He’s struggling to get a client base. They think he’s having acceptance problems because he’s gay. I look at him as we talk. He’s wearing Levi’s with holes in them, a baggy T-shirt and a baggy flannel over it, black canvas athletic shoes, untied. Tattoos on both forearms and on his neck. I don’t say it, but it seems to me no one would get to the gay part because he looks like a slob. That act could be a tough sell in Boystown, the most accepting place on earth.
Judy wants to ask more questions, but other people mill into our circle and the Iowans drift away after a while, Judy not quite ready to ask the penis question in the presence of others.
I migrate to a conference room where the SuperGlam creative director, Dennis, is having a short meeting with the demo staff and crew. Dennis is very Hollywood in his remarks, drenching us all i
n an unending flow of superlatives. He's pumped about how good the shows have been, and he manages to praise everyone, from the support people to the models and stars.
I’m still giddy when the meeting ends and we go our separate ways. As I pack my tools I try to decide how to go home—cab, El, walk? I feel a warm feminine glow. I feel sexy. These feelings don’t come around all that often, and I have an urge to bask in them. I’ll cab up to the north Loop area, I decide, and walk from there, maybe do some shopping, stop for coffee, whatever. I stop in the Ladies Room before heading out.
Dennis catches me as I’m putting on my coat. He swings behind me like a leading man, grasps the coat’s collar, and helps me put it on. He's as close to God as anyone in the hair business so I’m on the verge of wetting my pants.
“Bobbi,” he says, “we haven’t had a chance to really talk. These shows get crazy.” He gestures manically. “But I just wanted to tell you, you were great out there. Evelyn thinks you’re a genius and I think you have fantastic charisma.” Peeing in my pants isn’t a figure of speech anymore. I’m so excited my bladder feels like it’s going to burst. I can’t think of suitable words to say, but that’s okay. Dennis isn’t here to listen to me gush. He goes on about my work and my stage presence.
“Anyway, here’s the thing,” he says. “We may have a position open up on our regular show staff in the next few months. It would mean doing hair shows in New York, LA, Las Vegas, and Miami, plus a half-dozen academy gigs around the country. The money is good, but I have to warn you, the pace is wicked. Think you’d be interested?”
This is like asking a junkie if she wants another fix. “Yes!” I exclaim, nodding my head. I haven’t been on this kind of an ego high in…well, ever. My entire soul is on fire. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
“Good,” he says. “No promises right now, you understand, but I’ll be in touch.” With that he wraps his arms around me, administers one of those show-biz faux hugs, and moves on to the next person before I can say a word.
***
JUST WHEN I THINK life can’t get any better, I roll into the salon and find a copy of the Chicago Tribune on my station. It is opened to page ten where a red crayon circles a large photo showing my updo model from yesterday and me in the background. She looks stunning. More than stunning. She looks sexier than a retouched nude in a men’s magazine. I actually look okay, too—I look like a transwoman, but kind of cute. Neither of us is identified by name, but the short article says this updo at the SuperGlam stand was one of the highlights of the international hair show. Now there’s something to wet your pants over!
I bet SuperGlam loves that publicity. I do, and I’m not even named. Before I even take off my coat I run down the block to the newsstand and pick up four more copies.
I needn’t have bothered. Roger has already contacted the paper to make arrangements for reprints. We’re going to do a mailing!
***
He’s sipping coffee and scanning the morning Tribune, part of his daily ritual. He's a speed reader, capable of consuming a page of information in seconds and applying it creatively days or weeks later. He reads the news and business sections of the Trib in the time it takes the average peon to read a page or two of sports news.
It’s part of what makes him so powerful.
His scanning stops abruptly at a photo on page 10. It shows a beautiful woman with a fancy hairdo. But that’s not what stops him. In the background stands that tranny. The manly one. Looking smug. Recovered. She probably doesn’t even remember Andive and his buddy in the alley, he thinks. She looks like she’s having the best time of her life, all smiles and cleavage.
He studies the photo. There are people around them. The caption says it’s from the beauty show. The stupid bitch has gone and won a prize or something.
His rage flares. She is a thing! People should see her in an alley with a cock up her ass and a puddle of shit under her. That’s what she is. Not some fashion queen. The sight of her makes him feel ill. He wants to hit her, beat her senseless, hear her cry. Watch her die.
He struggles for self-control. People are so stupid.
Time to put this trash in its place.
***
I AM LOUNGING ON THE COUCH in Thomas’ apartment wearing a pink robe with a dark pink fluffy collar. It is a gift from Thomas and his partner and manages to be both snuggly and sexy at the same time. I love it, even though pink isn’t my color. I have just finished showering and my body is completely limp. I’m not quite as maniacal in kickboxing class as I was in the beginning, but I still work at it like a madwoman.
Thomas comes into the living room with steaming plates of pasta and sauce for both of us. His is packed with meat, nourishment for his huge muscles. Mine is vegetarian, just what a girl needs to stay healthy and slim. It’s working. Since I’ve been running and working out I’ve lost several more pounds.
We make small talk. I am distracted. The thought of the changes in my body gets me back to Strand. How would I defend myself against him and his thugs when I’m losing body mass and strength every day?
Thomas picks up on my mood. “What’s bugging you, Beautiful?”
“When I got home last night there was a doll hanging from my doorknob. There was a string around its neck, like a noose. And it had a big nail sticking in its butt. No note or anything, but I know who sent it. It’s the guy who had me raped. That’s just the kind of game he likes to play,” I say. “He likes everyone to know he’s smarter and stronger than anyone else. . He’s telling me that he’s coming for me. And he’s going to mess with me while he does it.”
Thomas shakes his head. "My God, Bobbi," he says. He wants to say more, but the enormity of my situation has stunned him.
“Thomas,” I say, breaking the silence, “You’ve seen me work out and you’ve seen my kickboxing class. What do you think my chances are of taking out a two-hundred-pound man in good shape if he was running at me with bad intentions?”
“Oh my,” says Thomas. “What do you mean by ‘take out’?”
“Ideally, to kill him,” I say. “But I’d settle for disabling him.”
Thomas thinks about it. “To be honest,” he says, “the odds aren’t great. It would take a perfect shot at the perfect time and if he moved his head even a little you’d have a better chance of hurting yourself than hurting him.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I say. We lapse into silence again.
“How would you handle it?” I ask, staring at him. “Let’s say there’s a three-hundred-pound homicidal maniac who’s after you. That would be like me taking on a two-hundred-pounder. He’s all muscle, and mean. He’s bigger, faster, and stronger than you are and he wants to hurt you. What do you do?”
Thomas puzzles over this for a while. “The problem with using a gun or mace is, if you hit him with it before he hits you, a court of law will see it as you assaulting him. If you wait for him to hit you, you probably won’t be able to resist his strength. . So…” Thomas says pensively, drawing out the “o.” “Personally, I’d go with a preemptive attack. A surprise. Gun, mace, baseball bat. Those might work. But I think I’d use chemistry. I’d get an animal tranquilizer or a very fast working muscle relaxer, something like that. I’d load it in a hypodermic needle and deliver it like I was slapping him on the back or something. By the time he realized I gave him a shot he’d be feeling the effects of it. In a few seconds, all I have to worry about is how to handle his limp body. Three hundred pounds is a lot for one man to handle.”
Indeed. But I’m thinking that I might be able to handle a two-hundred-pound man. And Strand might not even be that heavy.
“How would you get a tranquilizer?” I ask.
Thomas shrugs. “Maybe off the Internet. But that’s awfully risky. I guess I’d find a black marketer who handles stuff like that.”
“How do you find someone like that?”
“It’s an ugly business,” says Thomas. “You have to know someone who knows someone who knows someo
ne, you know what I mean?” I nod. He continues, “I really hate that stuff. I hate those people." Thomas stares at me, choosing his words carefully. "But if you need that for your safety, I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you.” I say it softly, my voice husky with emotion. I’ve never had a friend who would take that kind of risk on my behalf.
One of my many quandaries as I thought about transitioning all those months ago was whether or not I could ever fall in love as a girl. I was thinking of love as something else, but I have my answer. I can fall in love. I love Thomas because he's so noble and worthy. If he were into me, whatever I am, I would love to be his partner or wife. I love Marilee, too. If she were into women and into me, I’d set up house with her in a heartbeat.
These loves are different than the love I felt as a man. As a man, the sexual attraction came first then later maybe you find the person to be the other things you want. As a woman—or a she-male if you don’t credit me for womanhood—it starts with loving the person. I don't know why, but the sexual interest comes later and it’s not the important thing. . Oh, I still feel pangs of outright lust. Quite regularly. With strangers as well as those I love. I don’t know if that will ever go away, but maybe there will be love, too.
***
THIS HAS BEEN THE craziest week in my hairdressing career. It started first thing Monday morning when one of our hairdressers didn’t show up for work. Her roommate called in to say Roxie had overdosed over the weekend and as soon as she gets out of the hospital she’s going into rehab.
