Monday morning. Fresh
from a shower, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying my face. I pluck stray eyebrow hairs and then look
critically at my eyes. I make sure that
all traces of mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow are completely removed; there
are usually little particles that linger.
To shave or not to shave my face? The amount of beard is dwindling, but still
significant. Usually I will not shave today,
to give my irritated face and neck a
rest after several days of very close shaving.
If I’m having electrolysis in the next day or so, I have to refrain from
shaving until then, anyway. If I’m
having laser hair removal, though, I have to make sure to shave closely again. Am I going anywhere after work? Do I look too scruffy? I make the complex calculations and decide to
skip shaving.
I get dressed in some of the remaining men’s clothing I
have. Fortunately, I did the laundry
this weekend, because I only have enough work clothes to make it through the
five-day week. I put on a tight undershirt
with a loose polo shirt over it, to help conceal my breasts. I slip into my battered old work shoes. I can’t bring myself to buy any more men’s
shoes, so I’m hoping this pair, which I bought 18 years ago, will survive a
little while longer.
Now to my hair. I
pull it back and secure it with a rubber band, then, armed with maximum hold
hairspray, comb and spray it into submission, finally ending up with a reasonable facsimile of a man’s haircut. It looks a little messy, but presentable.
As I walk into my workplace, I settle into the old familiar
habits of a lifetime. My walk, my
gestures, and voice become more masculine.
I learned by mimicry long ago to camouflage myself, to blend in with the
men like I was “supposed to”. But I
can’t help but notice that my mannerisms have lately become a little more
feminine and fluid. That would have
bothered me in times past, but I really don’t care now. I have even caught myself answering the phone
in my more feminine voice.
I go through my day totally focused on work and trying not
to think of anything else. It’s a good
day if I don’t hear some bigoted, hateful remark from particular
coworkers. They believe I am “one of
them”—i.e., a white, Christian, heterosexual cisgender male—and so don’t bother
to censor their remarks. I want to speak
up and call them out, but I feel surrounded and afraid. I stew in silence,
chastising myself for my lack of courage.
At times my thoughts drift toward transitioning at work—how
would it be if I was myself here? Some
people, I think, may be able to make the adjustment, some, I think, will be at
least covertly hostile. Will they let me
use the women’s room? Will anyone even
talk to me? Will management be actively working to get rid of me? Will some unhinged person decide enough is
enough and bring a gun to work with them (many of my coworkers are proud of
their concealed-carry permits)? Or would
someone wait for me outside to physically express their displeasure with my “lifestyle”?
I stop by the grocery store on my way home. I’m hoping I don’t run into anyone I know;
it’s become somewhat embarrassing for me to be seen in “male mode” by people
who know me as I really am—kind of like walking around half-naked. I hurry home
and put on my “outside clothes” to work in the garden. I’m generally still afraid of my neighbors’ reaction to
my transition, so I am still presenting as a male even here in my own
yard. Soon it’s time to wind down for
the day; I put on my PJs and robe, curl up in front of the TV with my cat, and
wonder how much longer it will be until I’m able to be totally me.
