blond
That Girl
locks that surrounded it.
There was no getting around it.
I was pretty.
I put my hands on my hips and sashayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, trying to move like the women on TV I had crushes on—Dean Martin’s Ding-a-Ling Sisters, the go-go girls from
Laugh In,
the runway models on the fashion reports my mom used to watch. It was strange. The girl in the mirror was really turning me on. I almost felt as if I had found my perfect mate. I began wishing that somehow I could come out of the mirror and date myself. The message was clear. I had become completely enraptured with my feminine alter ego.
Over the course of the next few months, I would attempt to put on the full outfit again but seldom had any concrete guarantees that my mother would be out of the house long enough for me to spend any quality time with Mrs. Paul Feig, at least without fear of being walked in on. The few times that I could safely suit up and admire myself in the mirror, I found myself wishing I could let somebody else see me this way. I wanted to know if I truly looked as much like a girl as I thought I did, or if I was simply lost in some narcissistic haze that was keeping me from seeing the whole, like an unattractive girl who thinks she’s pretty just because she buys some new clothes.
But when October rolled around, I saw my chance. It was time for this debutante to venture out into society.
Halloween seemed like the perfect excuse to let the girl in me go public. Guys dressed like women for Halloween all the time. I’d even seen a couple of my dad’s Kiwanis buddies in dresses at a party and everyone thought they were really funny. Who would think anything of a ten-year-old boy putting on his mother’s wig and go-go boots just to get some candy? It felt like the perfect plan. If I didn’t look like a girl, people would laugh and I could pretend it was a joke. If they told me how good I looked, then I’d know my suspicions were correct. I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do if I did indeed get the confirmation that I possessed a great deal of feminine pulchritude but that wasn’t my concern at the moment. This was strictly my opportunity to burst upon the scene and beguile, like a young actress who gets an “And introducing . . .” credit in her big-screen debut. Excited and nervous, I went into the kitchen to enlist my unwitting mother in my cross-dressing plan. Not wanting to out myself on the spot, I did some quality acting as I pretended to dream up the idea in front of her.
“Hey, Mom, I think for Halloween this year, I’m going to dress up either as Groucho . . . uh, a spaceman, or . . . um . . . I don’t know. Hey, you know what could be funny? I should dress up like a girl. Ha ha. That’d be pretty weird, wouldn’t it?”
If they handed out Academy Awards for childhood deceit, I would have at least gotten a nomination.
“Dress up like a girl?” my mother said, pondering. Then she smiled and laughed. “That
would
be very funny. You know what? Wait here a minute.”
She went into her room and I heard some rustling around. My heart almost stopped when she quickly reemerged with the familiar blue tube that held my blond wig in hand. Did she know what I’d been doing all these months and was now about to shame a confession out of me? I steeled myself and prepared several statements of denial in my head.
“I’ve had this wig lying around here for years,” she said, excited. “I almost gave it away last month.” My heart
really
almost stopped on that one. I made a mental note to self—
Hide that wig.
“I bet this would look good on you.”
She slipped the wig on my head, then laughed, a look of amazement on her face. “Wow, I’ve gotta say, honey. You really look like a girl in that wig.”
A wave of joy overtook me upon this confirmation of my feminine charms. I pretended to act surprised and went into another dramatic soliloquy.
“Really? You’re kidding? I
That Girl
locks that surrounded it.
There was no getting around it.
I was pretty.
I put my hands on my hips and sashayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, trying to move like the women on TV I had crushes on—Dean Martin’s Ding-a-Ling Sisters, the go-go girls from
Laugh In,
the runway models on the fashion reports my mom used to watch. It was strange. The girl in the mirror was really turning me on. I almost felt as if I had found my perfect mate. I began wishing that somehow I could come out of the mirror and date myself. The message was clear. I had become completely enraptured with my feminine alter ego.
Over the course of the next few months, I would attempt to put on the full outfit again but seldom had any concrete guarantees that my mother would be out of the house long enough for me to spend any quality time with Mrs. Paul Feig, at least without fear of being walked in on. The few times that I could safely suit up and admire myself in the mirror, I found myself wishing I could let somebody else see me this way. I wanted to know if I truly looked as much like a girl as I thought I did, or if I was simply lost in some narcissistic haze that was keeping me from seeing the whole, like an unattractive girl who thinks she’s pretty just because she buys some new clothes.
But when October rolled around, I saw my chance. It was time for this debutante to venture out into society.
Halloween seemed like the perfect excuse to let the girl in me go public. Guys dressed like women for Halloween all the time. I’d even seen a couple of my dad’s Kiwanis buddies in dresses at a party and everyone thought they were really funny. Who would think anything of a ten-year-old boy putting on his mother’s wig and go-go boots just to get some candy? It felt like the perfect plan. If I didn’t look like a girl, people would laugh and I could pretend it was a joke. If they told me how good I looked, then I’d know my suspicions were correct. I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do if I did indeed get the confirmation that I possessed a great deal of feminine pulchritude but that wasn’t my concern at the moment. This was strictly my opportunity to burst upon the scene and beguile, like a young actress who gets an “And introducing . . .” credit in her big-screen debut. Excited and nervous, I went into the kitchen to enlist my unwitting mother in my cross-dressing plan. Not wanting to out myself on the spot, I did some quality acting as I pretended to dream up the idea in front of her.
“Hey, Mom, I think for Halloween this year, I’m going to dress up either as Groucho . . . uh, a spaceman, or . . . um . . . I don’t know. Hey, you know what could be funny? I should dress up like a girl. Ha ha. That’d be pretty weird, wouldn’t it?”
If they handed out Academy Awards for childhood deceit, I would have at least gotten a nomination.
“Dress up like a girl?” my mother said, pondering. Then she smiled and laughed. “That
would
be very funny. You know what? Wait here a minute.”
She went into her room and I heard some rustling around. My heart almost stopped when she quickly reemerged with the familiar blue tube that held my blond wig in hand. Did she know what I’d been doing all these months and was now about to shame a confession out of me? I steeled myself and prepared several statements of denial in my head.
“I’ve had this wig lying around here for years,” she said, excited. “I almost gave it away last month.” My heart
really
almost stopped on that one. I made a mental note to self—
Hide that wig.
“I bet this would look good on you.”
She slipped the wig on my head, then laughed, a look of amazement on her face. “Wow, I’ve gotta say, honey. You really look like a girl in that wig.”
A wave of joy overtook me upon this confirmation of my feminine charms. I pretended to act surprised and went into another dramatic soliloquy.
“Really? You’re kidding? I
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