Getting Your Hair Done

Is a man going to a hair salon instead of a barber shop another sign of the feminization of men? It depends on what he asks for when he sits down. A little off the ears? Probably just a haircut. A shampoo and set, with a few minutes under the dryer to catch up on the fashion magazines? Now we’re getting somewhere.

I’ve been on both sides of the salon mirror. In 2017, I went to my usual salon en femme, and the owner had no idea who I was. When I finally told her my name, she said, “Oh my God!” I was tickled that someone who knew my hair so well could look right at me and see a woman she’d never met.

Of course, most men who go to a salon simply want a haircut they like. But there’s a little freedom in being asked, “What would you like to do with your hair?” and realizing you can give an answer other than “the usual.” Maybe you want some layers. Maybe you’ve wondered what a little color would do. Maybe you just like having somebody shampoo your hair and would rather spend those five minutes enjoying it than explaining why.

If there’s any feminization in that, I’d say it’s in the way men are borrowing a pleasure long associated with women. The salon gives you time to look through a magazine, study a style you like and admit that, yes, you’ve given some thought to how you want to look when you walk out the door. That can feel like a small luxury, especially if you grew up thinking a haircut was an errand to get over with.

And for some of us, there’s more to it. A man might show his stylist a photo of a woman with a cut he likes and hear, “That would work with your hair.” Imagine how good it would feel to hear that if you’d been carrying the photo around for weeks, working up the nerve to ask.

I like to imagine that’s how it starts for the fellow in the waiting area, leafing through a fashion magazine. He came in for a trim. Then he spotted a pageboy he liked. By the time his stylist called his name, he’d already folded down the corner of the page.

One thing does lead to another.

Graham Norton femulating on the London stage in La Cage aux Folles.

Stuff 139: In the Beginning – Part I

By JJ Atwell

Part I?

Yes, part one. Of three.

I’ve been thinking about the first time I ventured out of the house to attend a meeting of other crossdressers. That led to another memory: joining them for a holiday party at a busy restaurant. Two different but related experiences.

I hope retelling these events will encourage those of you who haven’t taken those first steps out the door to give it a try. I’m here to attest that the world did not end just because JJ was out in public. Along the way, I learned a few lessons that I hope you’ll find helpful.

First Outing

The first time I left the house as my girl self really wasn’t that long ago—September 2022. Although I had been dressing for many, many years, I had always stayed inside my house.

Somehow, I learned about a local group of like-minded people—crossdressers and transgender folks who held monthly meetings at a secure location near me. Imagine that!

I did a bit more research and found the group’s contact information. Then I did nothing about it for a few months. I kept telling myself that this was a big step. Was I sure I wanted to take it? After going back and forth several times, I finally convinced myself to take a chance.

Initial Contact

To contact the group, I needed to call someone who went by the femme name Joyce. As it turned out, she was the group’s president.

I took a deep breath and dialed the number. When a decidedly male voice answered, I asked for Joyce and received a welcoming response: yes, I had reached her. I introduced myself, and with the ice broken, we talked a bit about my crossdressing journey and what the group was like. It was a kind of vetting process for both me and the group.

Having passed the interview, I received the details about where and when the group’s next meeting would take place. I put it on my calendar, still not convinced that I’d actually go.

I remained uncomfortable with the thought of being out in public. If I did go, what should I wear? Would I look good enough? What would the others think?

So many doubts.

The Day

On the day of the meeting, it was time to get serious. I had decided on a fairly simple, comfortable outfit—the one pictured at the top of the page. Just a loose black top and a leopard-print skirt. My wig was perhaps a bit much, and I’m sure my makeup wasn’t great. But I was ready to go.

I put a bunch of stuff in my bag, grabbed a pair of girly, oversized sunglasses and headed out the door.

Well, “out the door” if the door into the garage counts.

After getting situated in the car and figuring out what to do with my bag, it was time. Another deep breath, and I pushed the button to raise the garage door and drove off to the meeting.

Throughout the drive, every stop sign and traffic light brought the same questions: Were people looking into the car? Could they tell I was a crossdresser? Fortunately, I didn’t notice any unusual stares.

Once I arrived at the meeting location, I took yet another deep breath. Now I had to get out of the car and walk into the meeting hall.

I stepped through the door and saw about 15 people, suddenly all looking at me.

Gulp.

Putting on my best smile, I said hello and introduced myself. I spent much of the evening chatting with the other members and wound up making new friends whom I treasure to this day.

Frankly, I don’t recall many specifics about that night. But I certainly remember the high as I drove home!

I’ll Be Back

As always, comments are welcome, either here on the blog or by email to Jenn6nov at-sign gmail dot com. JJ is always looking for more stuff, so if there’s something you’d like to read about, please let me know!

Lance femulating on a recent episode of television’s Let’s Make A Deal.

What It Meant to Be Called a Sissy

By Cathy Peterson

Stana hit the nail on the head with two questions in her recent article: “Are you a sissy?” and “What is a sissy?” Over the years, I’ve written to her when something she’s posted has taken me right back to my childhood. This time, I pulled out the old photos.

I grew up with two older sisters and a younger one, and the four of us shared a bedroom. After our mother divorced, we all lived with our twice-divorced auntie. If you’re keeping score on nature versus nurture, there was plenty on the nurture side. By three, my older sisters were regularly dressing me in girls’ clothes. By four, I’d stopped pretending I didn’t like it. By five, I loved dressing like my sisters. And by six, I could dress up whenever I wanted, whether my sisters were around or not. Mother could take it or leave it. Auntie encouraged it.

In the blue-collar factory and railroad town where I grew up in the 1960s, “sissy” was a word kids knew how to make hurt. I was skinny and shy, with smooth skin, long blond hair and blue eyes. I was probably as awkward as any other kid my age, but there was always something about me the other kids could point to.

We didn’t take pictures of everything back then. It just didn’t occur to us to reach for the Kodak Instamatic all that often. I have maybe twenty photos of myself dressed as a girl, and I treasure every one. Here are a few, along with what I remember from each.

Age 5 · In the backyard

That’s me in my older sister’s hand-me-down plaid jacket. The pants, socks and shoes had all belonged to my sisters, too. I had a mop of curls in back that went much farther down than you’d think once somebody brushed them out.

The mothers on our street would say, “You’re so cute,” or “You look just like your sisters.” Sometimes they’d tell me what lovely curls I had. I liked hearing it. The boys on our block, and some of the girls, would hear it too. Before long, one of them would come out with, “You’re such a sissy.”

Age 7, I think · A show in the kitchen

My younger sister and I were putting on some kind of musical show for our older sisters and Auntie. Mother may have been there, too. I can’t remember what we sang, but I remember what I loved wearing: pastel nylon panties, tights, buckle shoes, a ruffled full slip and, finally, the dress.

Sometimes one of my sisters’ friends or one of Auntie’s would stop by and see me all dressed up. When my sisters’ friends called me a sissy, I knew they meant it to sting. Some of Auntie’s friends said it so fondly you could almost hear them smiling. “Aw, such a sweet little sissy to have around the house.”

Age 10 · A princess in the fourth-grade play

We put on a medieval Christmas play, first for the whole elementary school and then for the parents at open house. There were more girls’ parts than girls. Our teacher barely got as far as “Would one of you boys be willing to…” before I put on my best show of reluctance and agreed to play one of the court princesses.

In the first photo, I’m on the left, beside Mary Ellen. In the second photo, I am looking up at Danny, our king, who’s standing on a box. The teacher said I could wear the jumper over my own red shirt. I added white tights and my sister’s old black dress shoes.

The boys in my class had plenty to say about that. The fifth- and sixth-graders were even worse. Most of the girls in the play seemed perfectly happy to have me alongside them.

Age 12 · Lady Rose in the sixth-grade play

Apparently, my reputation had preceded me. This time the teacher came right out and asked me to play Good Queen Lady Rose from the rival kingdom.

That’s me opposite Debbie and Ricky, our knight in aluminum foil. I had a paper crown, a pink turtleneck, a tan skirt, a black belt, black tights and black heeled boots. Mrs. DeMarco supplied the full, flowing wig. I had a lot of lines, and my voice hadn’t changed yet, so I could do a pretty good lady’s voice.

There was plenty of sissy talk from the boys and a few of the girls. Other girls fussed over my wig, my lipstick and my clip-on earrings. On the day of the evening show, I wore the whole outfit around the house. Our teacher was famous for holding one dress rehearsal after another. As far as I was concerned, she could have held a few more.

Age 12 again · Summer at the lake

Here I am at the city lake beach. I’m wearing my older sister’s snug red shorts and little striped tank top, along with her old white flip-flops. Mother said the red didn’t look too girly. I was happy to go along with that.

At the snack shack, someone in line would ask, “Are you a girl or a boy? I can’t tell.” I heard “You’re such a sissy” and “You look like such a sissy girl,” especially in the changing room. I could tell myself the shorts and tank top might pass for a boy’s outfit, but I knew how I looked in them. That’s why I liked wearing them.

At home, I knew exactly what to do with my slim frame and blond hair. I could style my own hair, pad a training bra with half a Nerf ball, and put on stockings, low pumps, a dress and a little jewelry. Around my family, I could enjoy getting every detail right. Out in public, even a pair of red shorts could make me wonder what somebody was going to say.

When I look at those photos now, I can still hear all the different ways people said “sissy.” I can also remember how good it felt to be Lady Rose, and how long I managed to stay in that outfit before anybody needed me to take it off.

Wearing Boston Proper

Alex Reid