Face To Face

Brandishing freshly lacquered burgundy nails and trembling with anticipation, my fingers fumbled with the cap of the recently-purchased brunette wig – a teasingly short, “updated bob”, with highlights, $65 on eBay - to position it into place, thereby concealing my natural receding salt & pepper hair.

 

“Finally in place” I think to myself, “brush this strand back, gently tug down the sides and…Voila”, I’ve done it!  

 

Pausing but a moment, my eyes rise slowly to face the image reflected in the hotel bathroom mirror– to witness the result of an afternoon  of primping and preparation. To see if Avon, Mary Kay, Cover Girl and a host of other vendors’ too numerous to mention had lived up to their collective promises. Had they succeeded to make me younger, supple and luscious, distinctly and uniquely desirable, singularly sensual with indescribable beauty? Ah, what high expectations they did indeed impart!

 

On this characteristically warm, late-September afternoon, in the inadequately lit lavatory of my Joliet, IL Courtyard suite, the reflection revealed someone who until then had existed unbearably in the confines of my imagination. But, undeniably, here she was – rather, here I was - Kris Haley, me, staring back from under wispy brow-length bangs, blue eyes pleading for freedom to see, to discover, to embrace life !

 

“There you are!” I exclaimed to no one but myself, as if greeting a dear, long-lost friend. I remember reveling in the vision – visually exploring every line and detail, each curve and nuance with painstaking scrutiny. Overly-critically to be sure of this first effort at outward feminine expression, I remember feeling slightly disappointed with the result yet utterly intrigued with the reality of this person. Something like the experience of childbirth perhaps– the exhaustion and pain of labor quickly giving way to the wonder and marvel of a new life.

 

I smiled. She smiled back. I turned and looked over my shoulder to discover her looking right back at me. I practiced the “looks” – coy, timid, enticing, devilish, whimsical, sad, joyous, seductive - playing all the while with the new tools of expression I’d unlocked.

 

Don’t you remember getting your first box of 64 Crayola Crayons? All those scrumptious colors! That joy and wonderment, the potentially great artistry waiting for expression! 

 

Feeling that way again, at that moment in front of the mirror – the exhilarating promise and hope of a fascinating life that might in fact lay ahead. Certainly I could not fully comprehend how my life was to change and down what roads I would find myself traveling. What I did know however was that I had discovered the “me” that simply had to find a way to exist.

 

Let’s Have A Look

“What seems to be the problem” asked Dr. Wilson? The mingled smells of alcohol and penicillin were so unwelcoming– reminding me of our family pediatrician’s office, a stuffy little complex of exam rooms and reception area high above the bustling main street business traffic eight stories below. Back then of course air conditioning had not been developed so his office windows would be open to allow whatever summer breeze might be available to enter. For simplicity, Mom would take the three of us, my two brothers and I, at the same time for our annual school physicals.

 

The middle of three sons born to a typically middle-class, mid-American Catholic family, I grew up in relative comfort as mom and dad pursued their American dream during the post World War II era. Dad had served in the Air Force and was able to earn a college degree on the GI bill. He quickly found employment as an engineer with a local heavy-equipment manufacturer and they settled their young family in a new two-bedroom suburban home in a quickly developing northwest area of what would be my central-Illinois hometown.

 

I never liked going to the doctor. Sitting at the end of the exam table in white cotton tee-shirt and underpants, my feet dangling at the end of lean, sparsely-haired legs, I silently searched for words to formulate an answer. I looked to my Dad sitting in a nearby chair for guidance. He had come with me on this visit, which was unusual in itself. He’d always been at work when mom would take us. This time was different. At fifteen years of age I was too old to see the pediatrician.

 

His answer was quick, brief, something like “He doesn’t seem to be developing normally.” I felt embarrassed, awkward to be discussing such things with a stranger. This was my first visit to Dr. Wilson. He was a kind-looking man with silvering hair and a gentle touch. He was easy to like and quickly put me at ease. Reminded me of grandpa

 

“I see” he said, looking at me inquisitively, “let’s have a look”.

 

Le Difference

“You look like a girl!’ my brother would holler at me disdainfully, observing me as I’d take a bath.

 

I’m pretty sure he hated me though I am not entirely certain why. It may have simply centered on his inability to accept me as I was. I was not the younger brother he wanted and needed me to be.

 

Back then we took baths instead of showers. If it didn’t get too nasty, the three of us would take turns sharing a bathtub full of sudsy water – for efficiency I expect – and so it was natural for us to see each other naked getting in and out of the tub. My physical appearance increasingly caused him to react violently, to the point of physically hurting me.

 

To be honest, I was chubby and by third or fourth grade I typically was rounder than many of the other boys my age and had a fuller rear, tummy, thighs and “booby-buds” as my brother nicknamed them.

 

Knowing no difference, my appearance did not dissatisfy me other than the fact that I was overweight. Actually I looked a lot like many of the girls in my class. As I recall, it was about this time that I explored ways to conceal my male genitals. I discovered that I could tuck my small penis between my chubby thighs and imagined it looked like a girl. I liked it, I found out that my whitie-tightie underwear would hold it tucked down there. Thus was my introduction to cross-dressing.

 

Goldilocs Comes Out

Halloween was always fun in our neighborhood. We lived on a quiet, dead-end street so it was easy to go from one end to the other, visiting all the neighbor kids homes and coming home with a brown grocery bag full of candy, popcorn balls and taffy apples.

 

One Halloween I wanted to be Goldilocs. I could be a girl for the night and no one  would think anything of it. Mom borrowing stuff from family friends – they had three girls, we had three boys , almost identical ages no less. So, I remember ending up with a cute little dress with puffy short sleeves, buttons up the back with a tie bow at the waist. Turned down bobby socks and some black shoes. To finish it off she got one of those cheap, yellow-blonde costume wigs with ponytails. A little rouge on my cheeks and there I was – a vision of beauty! 

 

This particular Halloween unfortunately was like most others before it – chilly, wet, blustery at best. So it was decided that Goldilocs would wear an overcoat to keep warm and dry. It’s funny but I can still remember the feeling of the damp cool air blowing around and up my dress, not at all comfortable but yet exciting at the same time.

 

The neighbors were tickled by my costume and offered their polite compliments while my brother and his friend called me names, chided me and generally let me know they did not approve of my character.  That was a little intimidating but it was the best Halloween of my childhood.