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News from the girly side
As a way of apologizing to everyone who read the previous entry in its entirety, I will now cover the other side I mentioned at its beginning - the light, bubbly news of no consequence to anyone.
Today was a girl day. I shaved and did my hair and fussed over my appearance to the extent my limited resources and narrow social-acceptability niche permit. While I was doing this, I looked down at my legs - which really needed to be shaved again - and thought, you know, I want them smooth, but this business of shaving them every few days is getting old, fast.
My eyebrows also needed to get reshaped. The gentleman who did them, Austen by name ("Licensed Aesthetician," as the incredibly overblown phrase on his business card says), obviously knew something about waxing, and he obviously knew something about which salons were willing to deal with men. (Austen is highly drag-queen-friendly.) So I figured, when I went in to get the brows redone, I'd ask him about it.
But then I remembered I had an article from one of the local gay newspapers, over a year old. It was about various methods of long-term hair removal - lasers, wax, electrolysis - and the places in town that would do this. On men. So I dug it out and looked. There was one place listed which made a specialty of waxing men's legs. One person, actually. Austen.
I considered this a sign from above.
So on Tuesday evening I am not only going to have my eyebrows redone, but my legs waxed. Cross your fingers and perform the appropriate incantations. As I told Marc, it shouldn't hurt much more than pulling off a Band-Aid that's attached to your entire skin surface.
While in my gussied-up and therefore most self-confident state, I ventured back to the makeup counters at Saks. (By the by, I found out later in the day that these counters, and their hustle and bustle, make Marc nervous. It's funny, they have the same effect on Nonelvis. Is there some gene I got? If so, where did I get it? I bet it came from my mother - makeup counters have always fascinated her weirdly, like they do me.)
I did not talk to the woman at the Clinique counter, the one who was so determined to help me last time. (By the by - yes, another long parenthesis - when I described her reactions to me, I didn't mean to imply that she thought I was a shoplifter. Oh no no no. She had me pegged perfectly - she knew I was shopping for makeup for myself, and she was trying as delicately as she could to nudge me into my asking the questions she knew I wanted to ask. But I didn't. I'm a coward.)
And I didn't ask her this time, because she recognized me. Yikes! I felt like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Here he comes again, that shy man who likes to look at ladies' cosmetics!
But I did go to the MAC counter - where, for a change, they had some men working, and uglier men with more deliberately ugly makeup I have never seen in my life. These people are supposed to instill confidence in the product? But I did bring myself to ask one of them a question, and I did get an important answer. MAC has a type of foundation they sell which is as thick as sludge - semi-solid - and provides coverage you would not believe. I told him it had to be able to cover stubble. "This will even cover up tattoos," he said. Bingo!
They only sell it in their full stores. So it's out to the Burlington Mall this weekend for me.
Anyway, the point is that I actually spoke to someone at a cosmetics counter and got some useful information - so everyone who's been writing me to tell me to get my nerve up and just do it, you can feel smug now.
Then I proceeded with the real reason for my shopping trip - to buy shoes. See, it's getting a bit chilly. My beloved sandals will soon have to be retired for the season. I am reaching a point now where I want a shoe that's a little more stylish, and yes, a little more girly, than my regular old sneakers. But less formal than my two pairs of (male) dress shoes that gather dust under my bed.
Hmm. Well, here's my whole shoe collection to date. You'll see that while I may accumulate earrings, I am not up to par on shoes:
- 2 pair Teva sandals, one extremely worn. Black.
- 2 pair men's dress shoes, one extremely worn, the other extremely ugly. Black.
- 1 pair Nike walking sneakers. Dark blue.
- 1 pair all-weather hiking boots, still whitish from the waterproofing wax I apply in the off-season, but normally dark brown.
- 1 pair fetish boots, thigh-high, 3" heels, black.
- 1 pair ladies' high-heel pumps, black.
- 1 pair ladies' casual flats, black.
- 1 pair Western boots. Black.
That's the lot. I didn't see myself wearing any of those to work regularly this fall.
I would just like to reiterate something I've said several times today: Women get all the good shoes. I saw shoes today which were perfectly wonderful and not even exceptionally girly - shoes which would have gotten no comment whatsoever from anyone about their appropriateness on me - if only they had been available in my size.
And all the men's shoes are ugly. Men's dress and semi-dress shoes especially. Why are men's shoes so boring? As boring as men's clothing is, it's downright salvageable compared to the shoe situation. Why can't I get some of these Lycra boot-shoes that stretch to pull on? Why can't I wear casuals with ankle straps? Why can't I wear - well, you get the idea.
My shopping for shoes is not as frustrating as, say, Nonelvis shopping for jeans - last time we did that, it took an extreme act of mutual will to keep our relationship together - but it's pretty bad. If I wanted it, they didn't have it in my size.
Eventually I did find a pair of calf-high Doc Marten lace-up boots, which will take me a while to break in but should wear well. I'd have gotten the taller ones, which would come up to the top of my calf instead of the bottom, but they're too hard to wear under jeans when they're that high - and I won't wear them over jeans, that's disgusting.
But I'm still looking for a pair of cute black shoes which are only normal shoe height, not like boots, a little more fun than Doc Martens but a little more casual than men's dress shoes. And they need to be very large. One day I will find them.
Meanwhile, I decided to go meet Marc for a quick late-evening walk. I wanted to try wearing the new shoes, but I also wanted to wear shorts, and you just can't do that combination with bare legs ....
So I ended up in the boots (laced only halfway and tied off), black tights, black cutoffs, a worn black t-shirt, and a baggy khaki army jacket. With my hair tied back and little wisps of it hanging out, and my hammer earrings. It's the closest I've come to dressing like Delirium from the Sandman books - who, along with Death, is my casual-fashion model, I'm sorry to say. (My idea of formal fashion was probably best personified by the film career of Audrey Hepburn.)
Of course, I'm taller than Delirium and more intimidating. And she would have worn torn fishnets instead. But I'm out of fishnets right now - all mine were so torn that they've passed into "unwearable."
A couple of men jeered, as usual, as we passed by. Men are so insecure! At least they didn't shout anything rude, as has happened before. If they want to laugh into their hands, that's their business.
On the plus side, at least two women looked and broke into broad smiles when they thought I couldn't see them. I don't know if it was "goodness, he looks silly" or "goodness, he looks cute." I'm happy with the reaction either way
See, I don't mind giving people amusement, even at my expense. It's the antagonism I don't like.
It was a spur-of-the-moment frivolity - I was outdoors in the getup for maybe half an hour. But it put a swing in my step, gave me an opportunity to shake that portion of my anatomy which suffices for a rear end, and was fun. I can't ask for much more than that.
Except maybe another pair of shoes.
The outfit passed what has always been the primary test for any even vaguely cross-dressed or extreme outfit I wear: It made my lover want to rip it off and throw me onto the bed. If an outfit has that effect, I generally think it's safe to take outside the house, no matter how ridiculous I secretly suspect it looks.
On the way home, Marc and I were talking about meeting people, and dating, and so forth. I said to him, "You know ... years ago, if someone told me that putting on women's clothing was going to turn out to be the number-one thing in my life which has attracted women (and men!) to me, I wouldn't have believed it."
I'm not sure I believe it even now. But it's true - my history bears it out. There have probably been times when people noticed me, or thought I was sexy, when I wasn't wearing women's clothing. But the ones I remember were all places where I was. Rocky Horror. Fetish shows. Even the occasional convention floor.
Of course, I'm also oblivious. It may be that people notice me all the time, but it's only when I'm prettied up that I'm prepared to notice them noticing me.
Hmm. That's something to think about.
© Columbine
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