Pretty Peripherals

by emmie dee

© 2004

 

Fidget. Squirm. Re-cross my legs. I wasn't surprised at my physical nervousness as I waited. It wasn't an environment that I was used to, and I was there to do something totally different. At least for me. At least for a man. Should I be doing this? Yes, I must. Will I be totally humiliated? Hopefully not.

I glanced to my right, noticing my pale reflection in the window; dark, wavy hair a month past the usual haircut time, even features, wearing gray sweats with blue panels on the shirt, and beat-up tennis shoes. My gaze continuing at the window, I read the neon sign that said backwards, from my perspective, Pretty Peripherals. Smaller letters below it on the left said Nails Makeovers Piercing Tanning. Another neon sign on the right traced an elegant woman's hand, long red nails extended upward, holding a rosebud. Varying colored neon lights traced the borders of the window panels. Inside, strips of chrome interrupted the pleasant feminine pastel tones of the wall panels. Everything was comfortable, trendy, welcoming, and, well, feminine. Thank heavens it wasn't crowded. Nobody else waited. The cute redhead with freckles, breathing mask over her mouth and nostrils, was carefully applying final coats of polish under a bright light to her customer. A striking olive-skinned woman with long black wavy hair busied herself at the computer by the cash register. She had greeted me with a smile and an inquisitive look as I came in, but I had waved her off at that point. She seemed satisfied with that. I hadn't been ready at that point, partly because there were two more customers in the store, and partly because I hadn't worked up my nerve. Now the last customer was resting her nails under a hot air dryer built into the manicure table. Finally, the slightly pudgy Latino woman pulls them out, holds her elegantly tapered coral nails before her eyes, and smiles in satisfaction. She and the redheaded nail tech walk to the register together. The woman pays, tips, touches the tech gently on her shoulder in appreciation, and leaves.

The darker woman—Greek? Italian, Middle-eastern? hard to tell--looks at the appointment book, and says to the redhead "Looks like we have a no-show, a Mary Bowen, who was supposed to be here at 5:30."

"That would be me," I interrupted. "Except it's Marc, with a C, not Mary." The woman looked over at me with something of a start. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I had assumed you were here waiting for Mrs. Ramirez. And you definitely look like a Marc, not a Mary. Most of our customers are women, you understand…"

"Yes, I know," I said, as I walked to the desk, hopefully showing more confidence than I felt. "But your ad in the Yellow Pages said 'Male customers welcome.' Are either one you Debra?"

"No, she was scheduled for this evening but called in to tell us her child was sick," said the woman, her black eyes widening in comprehension. "That's why I thought it said Mary—the C was sort of on its side and I read it as a Y. Debra must have scheduled you and her handwriting isn't the best. So what can we do for you? It's a little late for a tanning booth, but we could fit in a session, I believe."

"So Debra didn't tell you about our conversation," I led, feeling a little disheartened. She smiled and shook her head no. Now I would have to explain myself again. I breathed deeply. "I'm actually here for a manicure."

"Don't be nervous about that, sir. We have several male customers who like well-groomed nails. It's very nice, really, and they enjoy being pampered. So will you, I expect. Jeri here is our nail technician and she will be glad to help you." On cue, the redhead smiled, walked over and began to lead me to her table.

"Actually—this is the embarrassing part—I need a set of artificial nails. What do you call them? Acrylic?" I shrugged.

"Acrylics? Really?" Jeri asked. "Well, if you want them, I can give them to you. But are you sure? Acrylics bond to the nail and actually become part of you in a way. You can't remove them, you can only trim them back. If this is for a costume party or something, the glue-on nails you can buy at the drug store would serve your purpose and be easier to remove." We walked to her station and I sat down. "But if you still want them, it would help if you tell me why you want them, and that would help me do what best meets your needs."

"Yes, it's acrylics that I need," I said.

"Then put your hands in the softening and cleansing solution here, and we'll get ready," she said efficiently. She eyed me inquisitively. The other worker, I noticed, had drifted closer to be within earshot.

"Actually, it's a bet," I said.

"I wondered if it might be,"

"And I lost."

She smiled, showing even, white teeth. "I sort of guessed that, too."

"So I'm supposed to come home with a set of fake nails, and I have to keep them on for a whole week."

She raised her expressive eyebrows again. "For a week? Won't that be embarrassing at work? Or just on the streets?"

"We both are starting on our vacation today. I stayed home and packed, but she had to go back to the office and take care of some emergency. Otherwise she'd be here gloating. Tomorrow we'll head for this nice secluded cabin in the woods, where we had our honeymoon. So I won't be out in public a whole lot."

"Interesting. But on the drive up, and when you go to the store or whatever, aren't you going to get tired of having your fists doubled up to hide them?" She arranged her tools as she spoke. "Or are you going farther than this? Forgive me for asking, and I'm not passing any judgment, but is the idea to humiliate you, or are you going to go farther than just the nails? You're a nice looking man with not too large a build, so I suppose you could pass quite nicely." I couldn't help her coworker grinning just a bit. I caught her eye.

"I'm sorry, sir," the coworker said. "I'm just intrigued. It sounds like a wild little bet you had going. May I ask what it was?"

I shrugged gently, leaving my hands in the slick solution. "Sorry. We promised each other not to tell anybody else what it was about. We're very happily married, but let's just say that we had an argument about who had it the worst, and we both got stubborn."

"Women always have it the worst," Jeri grinned across the table at me, "and men had better know it. And now you're going to discover it the hard way."

"Something like that. So. You heard my story. Tell me a little about yourselves," I prompted.

They didn't chatter a lot, but both gave me a brief outline of their lives and families. Sarah, the other woman, was married and had a toddler, Jeri still lived at home and was trying to get enough money to afford college. Eventually, Jeri lifted my hands from the solution and rinsed them. It was enjoyable having an attractive young woman hold my hands, and she studied them as thoroughly as a palmist, except of course, my palms faced the table. "A little ragged, like many men's," she appraised. "Even though we'll be overlaying them with acrylic, we'll clean them up a bit first." She picked up a stick that she called orangewood and began poking it into my cuticles. She followed with clippers and files, smoothing out the white parts of my nails. Although I experienced some moments of pain, it was mostly a pleasant, pampered experience. When she finished, she said, "There. How does that look? And how did you like it?"

"Nice," I said, "and fine. It was good."

"If you were here for a normal gentleman's manicure, it would look like this, except that I would paint on some strengthener and maybe a clear polish. But now we'll do the next step, roughening up the tops of your nails to make a better bond with your pretty new ones." With that she picked up a little buffer, similar to a Dremel tool, and sanded away, scuffing each surface, destroying some of the beauty she had just created. Then she washed and rinsed off the dust and debris from the process.

Sarah carried over some sets of small bins. In them lay my future "look," as they were different sizes of nails. I was surprised at how long they were. Were they going to stick out an inch from my fingertips? I certainly hoped not. Jeri held up different acrylic nails to my own, judging them for size. Then she laid down onto the table some samples in my size. She must have seen my nervous expression. "Don't worry about the length, sir," she said.

"Marc ."

"Marc. They start long like this and we trim them back to the customer's preference," she explained. I breathed a little sigh of relief. "Basically, we have two types. The first are very popular right now, the French style, nicely shaped, natural, with a long white tip. Some have little designs on them. The others, we call blanks, are clear near the base and white above, but not as finished. These are a little less expensive, and we use these when we want to add color to the nails. If you're concerned about them being obvious, I would recommend the French style. We trim them back relatively short, and they won't stand out so much. What do you think?"

"Until a few days ago, I never thought I'd have to make that decision," I grinned ruefully. "Actually, my wife said that they need to have color, and that they had to be at least professional length, whatever that means. So I guess that means the blanks. Uh, she also said that I should let you choose the color and style."

Jeri's green eyes sparkled. "Don't worry. I won't be too mean to you. We'll find a pastel shade, maybe a very pale pink, so they won't stand out so much. Nothing like mine" Her fingers, themselves tipped with long bluish-green nails, were busy sorting through the blanks, holding them to my nails, and sorting some more. "Your nails are just a little wider than most of our customers, but not too much so. They're somewhat flat, too, and so we have to work a little to get the best matches." A bit more sorting, then she chose one and carefully painted the bonding agent onto my right index finger nail and the blank, and more carefully aligned the blank to my nail, and gently squeezed them together for several seconds. I had to hold back a shiver, as I felt a bit overwhelmed by what was happening to me. That sliver of acrylic was going to be part of my body, even if I trimmed it back to a normal length, for what? Weeks? Months? Jeri must have picked up my tension. "Kind of a strange experience for you, huh? It's different for me, too, since I've never put these on a man before, but we'll get through it okay." Her bright, reassuring smile warmed me. My right middle finger and ring finger received their extensions next.

"Uh, excuse, me, can I take a potty break?" I asked. I needed to break the tension.

"Sure. Go down the hall past the tanning booths, and to your left. It's unisex." I found it and found relief. Then I went back and Jeri started again on the remodeling of my hands. My right hand was completed and she started on the index finger of my left when she spoke again. "Forgive me for being snoopy, and you don't have to answer, of course, but this seems a pretty significant payment for losing a bet. If your wife would have lost, what would she have to do?"

I considered not answering, claiming that I wanted to protect my wife's privacy. But it was me that needed protecting. "Well," I said carefully. We sort of agreed to fill each other's fantasies. She loves her own nails, and thought she might enjoy me having them too. The gender bending thing in general intrigued her."

"Is she a customer here, by any chance?" Jeri asked.

"No. We live on the other side of town, actually. We didn't want her nail tech to know about this. I just looked in the Yellow Pages for places that offered nail services and welcomed male customers. I wanted to call and make sure it was okay first, to avoid rejection, I guess."

"So what was your fantasy that your wife was going to live out?" Slowly, during this dialogue, Jeri worked the nail blanks onto my waiting fingers.

"It's about hair, actually. I don't know if you call it a fetish or not, but women with really short hair are very attractive to me. My wife enjoys hair that drops down to the bottom of her shoulder blades, and normally I would never ask her to cut it. But for the bet, I said that if she lost, we could go to my barber shop and both get clipper cuts."

"You'd have her head shaved! That's terrible!" I heard Sarah say.

"Not shaved, more like a long crew cut. And she'd keep her bangs," I explained.

"And you'd make her do that?" Jeri asked, drilling me with her green eyes.

"Not make her," I offered. "I guess that I'd let her back out if she really objected to it. But she did agree to those terms."

"But that's so one-sided. If you lose, you get a little sissified, if you'll excuse the expression, for a week. But she'd have hair radically short, that would take months or maybe a year to grow out to where she was happy with it."

"I guess that she was pretty sure that she'd win," I said. "And she did, so here I am."

"Here you are, indeed" Jeri mumbled. For a long time I stewed nervously while Jeri started painting my nails, but not with polish. It must have been some sort of liquid plastic that helped make the blanks seem more naturally a part of my fingertips. After many coats, she picked up a pair of small but heavy scissors, held my right thumb in her left hand and slowly began clipping into the long plastic nail, tracing a gentle arc. She repeated the process on the next nail, clipping away nearly an inch of plastic. Still, what remained seemed long, extending beyond my fingertip by at least half an inch.

"So, are these professional length," I tried to ask casually.

"No, they're a bit longer than that. Your wife said 'at least' professional length, according to you, and that I should select the style and color. It's not like I'm leaving them full-length, is it?"

"No, I guess not," I agreed. These would definitely be hard to hide. She finished trimming them to shape, then carefully buffed and filed the edges smooth. Then she applied two coats of clear liquid. Was I going to get off that easily? No, it was just a base coat.

"Now for the color. Let me think," Jeri said aloud, as she browsed the rack of brightly colored little bottles. "I was thinking something soft earlier, but I still think that your little bet was one-sided. I'd like to even it out just a bit. Those nails look so good on you, we should make them stand out more. Maybe a rich "Tidal Wave" like mine?" she waggled her blue-green fingers under my nose. "Or Purple Passion? Very Cherry? I think that I have just the thing. Close your eyes."

I did. I could barely feel the stroke of the cool liquid going from base to tip on the middle of my left index finger. Other strokes, still base to tip, covered the nail. "Open them," she said.

I did. And I looked. "It's called Pink Diamonds," Jeri said. "It really sparkles in the light, doesn't it? It glitters even in a darkened room—it doesn't really glow in the dark, but you'd almost think that it does." As she spoke, she moved from nail to nail, turning each one to a vivid pink glow. When she finished my left hand and started on my right, I moved my left hand out from under the intense glow of the lamp. It didn't sparkle quite as much, but it was still a color that would attract one's eye from half a block away.

"Okay, I guess. I asked for it," I muttered. Glancing up, I noticed Sarah smirk just a bit.

As she finished the last nail, Jeri informed me that this was just the first coat. When it dried a bit, she'd add another coat to make it richer, then a glistening top coat to protect the color underneath.

"It is really nice," I had to admit. "It'll make it much harder for me to pass as a man just by keeping my hands closed, but you probably figured that out."

"Mr. Bowen," Sarah said, "I was wondering. If your wife wants you to do a little gender bending, maybe you should even go farther than just the nails. Show her that you're a good sport. Have you considered getting your ears pierced? We have a sale on—two starter kits for the price of one."

"That would look great on you, Marc," Jeri agreed. "And it is a good deal. Sarah does the piercing for free, so it's just the jewelry that you'll buy. And starter kit earrings are just little studs, nothing big or long. And Sarah could do it while we wait for the next coat of polish to dry."

I was confused. Starter kits? Maybe a starter kit for a man only had one earring in it. Why would they sell two kits for the price of one otherwise? "In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess," the words almost surprised me as they came out of my mouth. In my teen years I had thought of getting my ear pierced, but had never done it. Now more and more men had both ears pierced if they had any. "Do you want me to come look to pick what I want?" I asked.

Sarah was already moving away. "No," she called over her shoulder. "That won't be necessary. There's not much variety in the unisex designs. Besides, if your wife wanted Jeri to pick out your nail shape and color, she'd probably want me to pick out your earrings." Soon she was back, carrying a tray, at the right side of my head, just beyond my peripheral vision. "Hold still, please," she said. The cooling feeling of alcohol wetted my earlobe. As it dried, she held up a hand mirror, pointed to a spot on my earlobe, and asked if that was okay. I nodded yes. Then I felt the touch of a marker pen. "Hold still," she said. The little electric gun clicked and I felt a sharp, sudden pain, but less pain than I thought there might be. "Stay still, please. I'm not done quite yet." Another click and sting, and some quick manipulation of the rings and my lobe. "Very nice. Wanna see?"

The two stings had made me suspicious, and my suspicions were confirmed as I looked into the mirror. The second stud was behind and above the spot she had originally shown me, about a quarter of an inch. It was incredibly tiny, scarcely bigger than the hole, I thought. The second was larger, slightly larger than a normal stud, and it was a multifaceted bright pink crystal, almost matching the color of my new nails. "Wait a minute," I said. "You did a double piercing? That's not what I thought I was getting. And if those are unisex, I'm a six-foot tall invisible rabbit."

Sarah had the advantage, as she was standing looking down at me sitting at the nail station. She smiled. "Each starter kit has two earrings, and the sale was for two starter kits for the price of one. And, like I said, the unisex selection wasn't very good, and you gave me permission to choose what I liked. Let's just say that like the nails, this just evens up the terms of the bet a little. Now can I do your left ear, or should I march the other two in a nice little line up your right ear?"

"Just finish with the left one, please." I muttered. She showed me the studs left in the two boxes, so I could see them more closely. The tiny one had a design where simple etched lines suggested an opening rose bud. The crystal, cubic zirconia, I found out, was attractive, pink, and sparkling. Either, even without the nails that Jeri was applying a final coat to, would get me bashed if I tried to walk into a blue collar tavern. Both would get me killed. Unless, of course, I successfully passed as a woman.

Click, punch. Click, punch. Now I had the complete set. "To keep infection from setting in," Sarah explained, "you will need to wear these all week. Take them out twice a day, douse them in alcohol or other disinfectant, and put them back in. The holes will heal better with the posts in. I'm sure that you're wife can help you." Again, I turned my head as she showed me both sets of earrings, riding just behind my beard-shadowed face.

"Was all these extra little treats because you didn't like the idea of my wife's haircut if she lost? Women sticking together against the mean guy?" I asked.

"Maybe a little bit," Sarah admitted. "But you come in here and want artificial nails, and say that you're to spend a week in a feminine role, our job is the same as it is for all of our customers—to make you as attractive as possible. By the way, you're not looking much like Marc anymore. Should we call you Mary, like we thought when you first came in? Or Marcia?"

"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," Jeri giggled, ala Brady Bunch.

"I don't feel much like a Marcia," I said. "My wife and I talked about this, and we decided on Emily. My initials are M.L.E., for Marcus Lawrence Edgar. Say the M.L.E. together fast, and it comes out as a woman's name, Emily. So I guess that I'm Emily now."

"Hi, Emily," Sarah said.

"I like that, it fits you, Emily," Jeri smiled.

"Now, Emily, are you just a little bit worried about going out with all these girlie peripherals but that dark shadow of a beard showing your manhood?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, that does make me nervous. Scared to death, really."

"We do offer cosmetic makeovers, and I'll be glad to work on your face, and of course, to sell you the makeup that you need for your week as a woman."

"Sure," I said. "This is much more than I thought about happening to me, but sure, why not?"

"You're a dear, Emily," Sarah said, smiling. By then my nails, even more glistening, were done and I could stand up from the chair at Jeri's station. I moved to a tall chair in front of a lighted mirror and watched my beard shadow disappear under a subtle foundation. The eyeliner came next, and made me nervous. Then Sarah brushed more color onto my eyelids, and brushed mascara unto my lashes. I certainly looked all girl, even before the application of a bright pink lip coloring. "Wow," was all I could say. "I certainly didn't expect a total transformation."

"I wonder what your wife will think? I hope that it's not too much gender-bending for her," pondered Geri, evaluating my new face.

"Gee, I hope so too," I stumbled.

Sarah totaled up the bill—it was a lot, but not in relationship to the work they had done. My credit card took care of it.

I was thanking them again for their work, and Sarah interrupted. "Emily, I'm dying of curiosity, and would like to ask you a personal question. Please be assured that you can trust me not to judge you or mock you. But was there really a bet?"

I deflated, and tears started to form in my eyes. After some silence, I whispered, "No, there is no bet. No wife, either. I had one, but she left me last month. She couldn't deal with a transgender husband. The vacation part is true—I'm spending some time away in a cabin, and I'm going to experiment with living as a woman. With her gone, I have nothing else to lose. This must sound sick to you. I'm sorry, but I'm also so grateful." By this time, tears were flowing down my face.

"It's okay, Emily, it's okay," Sarah said, hugging me. "You could have trusted us. Matter of fact, when you come back, we'd love to have you as a regular customer. We're getting a new employee in a few weeks who does laser hair removal, so if you decide to stay as Emily, she can zap your beard. Now come back to the makeup chair. No way I'm sending you out with your makeup streaked." It looked like Pretty Peripherals was going to be part of my life from now on.

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2006 by Emmie Dee. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.