I wake up to the sun shining brightly in my eyes. I glance at the clock…almost eight thirty… I stretch, careful to not wake up Emily, blissfully sleeping and somehow ignoring the bright light. I smile and lightly brush a few strands of hair out of her face as I recall last night’s ‘activities’. I can still feel the glow…

I quietly get up and put on my silk nighty and a robe. I go into the kitchen and look out at the glorious day…and make some coffee… Emily and I had been up late last night. Me studying up on the defense for my psychology Ph.D.—and her studying for her finals for her social services degree. After that, well, we need to ‘unwind’. I smile again at the memories…

Thirty minutes later a very sleepy-eyed Emily comes out of the bedroom—drawn by the smell of the coffee. She comes over and gives me a kiss and I hand her a mug of the steamy brew…strong and sweet like she likes it. She smiles and says, “That was wonderful last night. We should do that more often!” I giggle and tease her back, “What? Study late? I think that can be arranged!” I duck the bagel that comes flying towards me and we both giggle some more.

I take a sip of my own black coffee, carefully blowing on it to cool it down a bit, first. I look over the mug and say, “I have to meet up with M.S. in an hour for another practice session. I don’t feel like I know anything about controlling my energy yet.” Emily rolls her eyes and says, “I think you have come a long way over the last two years. I mean you got your B.S. and now you are preparing to defend your Ph.D. thesis…that is amazing. I mean I know you are a genius, but that is still amazing. Look at me, I am barely ready to just get my soshe degree and you are going to be Dr. Joy!” I grin and say, “And we are going to make a mad team! Look out ye with problems!” We giggle and I go to get ready…

Forty minutes later, I am taking the short drive from the off-campus house my Dad insisted on renting for me to school. I park in my designated spot and walk up to the main building and to M.S.’s office. I knock and quickly enter at her bidding. I walk over to her and give her a big smile and hug and we get started for the day…

An hour later, my brow is glistening from my efforts. The tiny pin prick in her finger is not healing...if anything, it is bleeding more. M.S. says, “Joy, relax…you know you can’t force it. Come, you have mastered everything you need to control the flow of your energy…but you keep your channels clogged because you are trying too hard and your mind too cluttered. I want you to meet up with these two women. Here are the addresses in town. One is a very good friend of mine—don’t tell the Church—that teaches yoga…but spiritual yoga. She will help you with clearing your channels. The other is the ballet mistress at the studio in town. It is a very respected studio and taking some lessons there will help you settle down and further hone your self-discipline. I should have sent you to both a long time ago—I really don’t know why I did not think of it before…

The next day Mom surprises me. She gets me up at eight and says that she has taken the day off… that Ms. M. had talked to her and that there were some things we needed to do to get me ready for work that evening. I groan…

We pull into the parking lot of Mom’s hair stylist an hour later and I look at her inquisitively. She looks back and asks, “I assume you still insist on letting your hair grow out?” I am surprised at this…she normally wants me to basically buzz-cut it… I carefully nod… She continues, “Well then, we need to get it shaped up…it is looking too wild… Cindy is going to straighten it out and make you look presentable. She can cut it so that it will have shape as it grows. Mind you, I still think you should cut it, but you were a good sport yesterday and if you keep up your good behavior at work, you deserve some leeway in how you want to look.” She giggles and says, “It just can’t be…ape man.”

I get out of the car and wiggle around, trying to get my clothes situated. After wearing the clothes I did at work yesterday, my normal clothes feel…well, itchy. I follow Mom in and she introduces me to Cindy, her stylist. Mom says, “Cindy, Terry has a new job at New York and Company and needs to look presentable for work. I have agreed to allow him to continue to grow his hair out, but it needs to be shaped up. He also needs to have something done with his nails. They are a disaster…” Cindy takes a look at my nails and says, “Well, it looks like someone tried to salvage what they could…they will take some work, but we can make them look good. I will check your toes, too…”

I know better than to say anything…Mom is letting me grow my hair, so I am not going to push it… Cindy has me sit down at a sink and lay back. She washes my hair…it is really weird having my hair washed this way, but it feels nice. When she is done, she wraps a towel around it and takes me over to her styling chair. I sit down and she takes off the towel. My hair is a wild mess. I had been able to put Mom off from making me get it cut for several months…thankfully she had been really busy, so it was not that hard. But I knew she was gunning to get it buzzed—which makes me the laughing stock at school, since most of the boys are growing theirs out more, now.

Cindy runs her fingers through the wet blonde mess and asks me, “OK, Terry. What are you thinking? How do you want it styled?” I sit there and think…not really knowing what to say. Finally, I say, “I don’t really know. I never got that far, since Mom never would consider letting me really grow it out.” She nods and says, “Well there is absolutely no shape to it, since your last cut was basically just clippers with a guard…it is all the same length and that is why it looks this way now. Four inches is not that long at it is still too short to do much with—other than to start shaping it up. Honestly, it has been a long time since I cut a guy’s hair but I am sure we can get it looking right. I am going to add in some layers, along with a taper in the back. I think sweeping bangs would look good on your face. It will be sort of like what I would do for a pixie cut on a girl… Does that sound OK?” I shrug, “I don’t think I will tell anyone that is what it is called, but I trust you to cut it and make it look OK… Anything that Mom will like and allow me to grow it out…”

What seems like forever later, but according to the clock is only thirty minutes, I am looking at myself in the mirror. Cindy is drying my hair with a blow dryer and using her fingers like a brush. She takes a hair straightener and straightens the bangs she had blown to the front and to the right. The bangs are longer on the right and sort of feathered—she had used a razor to get that look. Overall, the look is slightly girly, but I am sure that I can comb it and make it different. She says, as she finishes up, “You will get the best results blowing it forward like I did and with a straightener, but the way it is cut, it is really low-maintenance. It will always fall basically into this shape…although, you will have to get used to the bangs falling into your face. Now, let’s show your mom and get to work on those nails.”

Mom is surprised at the look and shakes her head but says she is OK with it if that is what I want. I don’t say anything, not wanting to rock the boat. Cindy then takes me to a table and has me sit down. I brush the hair from my face and can already tell it is going to get annoying, but smile as Cindy takes my hands and looks at them. She says, “These are terrible!” She puts my hands into some sort of hot wax and lets it cool, then pulls it off. Then she puts my fingertips into a bowl of soapy-looking water. She does the same with my feet, while my hands soak.

While my feet are soaking, she pushes back the cuticles on my fingers and examines my nails. She says, “These are beyond hope, really. The only way I am going to make them look decent is to glue acrylic nails on them. And you are going to need to take some really good vitamins. The acrylic tops will protect them until your real ones grow out healthy. She gets busy gluing, cutting, and shaping the acrylic nails. She says, “I am going to leave them about an eighth of an inch past your fingertip. That is nice healthy length; you can of course grow them out longer if you want, although that is about as long as a guy would normally let them grow. You will have to come in weekly for your hair and we will take care of your nails, too…” Then she fixes my toe nails. She applies a strengthener to them and then a couple of coats of clear polish. As she is doing that, I look at my fingers…the tips aren’t really long, but still are visible, since they are bright white and squared off to my fingers… They look like Mom’s only shorter.

Two hours after arriving at the salon, Mom pays and we leave to go get some lunch. Mom takes me to the same mall that I now work at and we go into the Applebee’s. I am momentarily embarrassed when our waitress asks us what us ‘ladies’ would like to drink. Mom lets her kindly know I am a guy and we order.

After we finish eating, Mom takes me out into the mall and into some lingerie store I had never heard of (or paid attention to). She gets several packages of black tights. Then she picks up several pair of girl’s panties…in boy cut style, but plain white in ‘microfiber’ (whatever that is). When we get out, I ask, “Why did you get those? Why can’t I just wear normal socks and underwear? This is crazy, Mom.” She looks at me and says, “You have new clothes that are very nice, but are not what you are used to. Boy’s clothes are less finicky. Girl’s clothes show things more, since they are stretchy and a bit tighter. Trust me. Panty lines are embarrassing enough for a girl—I don’t think you want any. Besides, experiencing tights—or pantyhose as some people call them—will be good for you. And before you ask, no, we are not getting you different clothes…or shoes. We got a really good price for really nice stuff and no one is ever going to know…”

Finally, she takes me into Old Navy and finds several ‘camisoles’ in colors similar to my new shirts. I give her a really quizzical look as she holds up the silky things with spaghetti straps. She says, “I saw how you didn’t really button your shirt yesterday, so, you are going to wear one of these under your shirt. The silky nature, the lacy trim, and the cute little flower right here in the front will be incentive enough for you to button that third button and keep it hidden.” I groan and whine, “It was only because the buttons are on the wrong side…I will keep it buttoned. I promise!” Mom looks at me and says, “With this on underneath, I am sure you will.”

Soon after that, we are back home and Mom tells me to get ready. I take a shower, but Mom makes me wear a plastic-rubbery hat on my head to keep from getting my hair wet. She tells me I can practice learning the style tomorrow. I get out and dry off. She has already laid out some charcoal grey pants with a black pinstripe, and pale yellow shirt and yellow camisole, and my other undie stuff. I sigh and get dressed.

After she drops me off at the mall, I dejectedly make my way to the second floor and to NYC. I walk in an Amber greets me, “Terry, you look great! Nice hair! And look at those nails! Go straight to Ms. M.’s office—she has something for you.” I nod and click-clack my way to the back of the store and to her office. She calls me in and says, “Terry, you look great! Much better than that mess from yesterday! I see you left your hair long. I think that suits you.” She fidgets a minute, then continues, “I…err…I ordered your nametag from the engravers down the hall and they delivered it a bit ago. I…well...they…made a mistake. It is understandable with where you work and all, but they misspelled your name. I don’t have any more store blanks and will have to order them, but because so many seasonal hires have been made company-wide, they are on backorder and it will take a couple of weeks…at least.

She hands me the nametag and I pale when I see the name ‘Terri’ engraved in it. She says, “I am afraid you will just have to wear this one for now…it is our policy. I am sure no one will even notice…”