Remembrances

by Silvia Mendoza

as told to Ilean Anne Jerque

  

For all my life, I have been fascinated and excited by the prospect of turning little boys into pretty girls. Although many knew of my fetish, I was careful, always soliciting the co-operation and involvement of a parent, and keeping the event in closed quarters, with others who shared the same enjoyment. It was not until I met Ilean, and discovered that she was male, that I had ever spoken with anyone who was not directly involved with one of the boy's feminizing in some fashion. It was after Illean asked me to relate some of the events to paper that I had ever considered it, and after viewing the many stories on the web and getting the permission of the girls and the parent(s) involved before I agreed. There were many over the years but a few I remember better than others.

Living in a huge city assures one many opportunities to view pretty boys, and if one plays her cards right, many opportunities to put them into curls and dresses. I studied economics in college and practiced what I preached. I knew the dangers of junk bonds but played them well, and by the time I graduated, my portfolio was worth almost three million in solid stocks and I was only a few thousand short of having a million dollars in the bank. I was taking a summer vacation before working on my masters when my granddad died and things began to get rosy.

Gramps had bought a lot of real estate over his years and willed out his holdings to his offspring. I was given a twenty acre plot, recently re-zoned for business, across a busy farm road from a well-to-do urban sprawl area. It didn't take a bunch of wheeling and dealing to get the lot improved, adding a showy strip mall. I was not only a landlord but I also opened a lady's and girl's boutique.

One of my new tenants was a salon. The owner was a friend of a friend and a reasonably good business risk, so I loaned her some money for equipment and added it to the lease. Unfortunately, Beth was killed by a drunk, coked-up ex-boyfriend. I took ownership of the salon.

I had a very reliable staff running the boutique, so I spent much of my time learning my new endeavor. After a couple of months, I noticed several women dragging their sons with them to the salon and also noticed that two girls, Sandy and Claire, spent extra time with the boys, often coaxing them to get a perm or try some make-up or some other thing that was so feminine that the boys routinely refused. However, the prospect of the possibility of what could be done with those boys intrigued me. I devised a simple plan.

Taking over the front of the salon, I controlled the flow of business. As women came in with their sons in tow, I would delay their appointment until Sandy or Claire was free, then offer the woman a stylist and a free shampoo and haircut for the boy as an apology for the delay. There were many takers and Sandy and Claire began to find themselves with many young boys in their chair. I would charge the girls to wash and cut the boys, making sure that I mentioned to "fluff-up the boy's hair and give it some style."

It wasn't long before the boys began leaving the chairs with soft, flowing waves, and haircuts a little to the sweet side of unisex. Of course the mothers always had a comment about their son's hair, but it was the women that expressed delight, that I invited back. They almost always accepted.

With each subsequent visit, the boy's hair was trimmed a little longer and bangs were often incorporated into the style. "Contests" were used to draw customers back, and without fail, one of the mothers with a son, in a third trip into the girl's chair would "win" a free set of nails. We timed the finish of the boy's haircut to coincide with the beginning of his mother's nail set and allowed the boys to watch. If the boy showed any interest, the girls would offer a set of french manicures for the boy, for free, of course. Again, there were many acceptances.

One of our first boys was Robbie DuMont. His mother kept him fastidiously clean and neat. Yet his hair, though gel-ed into place, was a bit long for his frame. Also, his clothes were not quite what other boys wore: the first time we saw him, he was in white dress shorts and a turquoise and red plaid shirt, the shirt tucked into the pants, with what appeared to be white tap pants over the tails to keep them from showing through.

Once away from the sink and in Claire's chair, it was discovered that the boy had naturally curly hair. Claire trimmed his hair so that it was long on top and in front, shorter and touching his ears on the side, and with a long, v-cut tail. After his hair was blown dry over a round brush, it waved smoothly back from sitting high and forward of his forehead to slightly curly on the back, well pronouncing the feminine cut at its nape. Robbie was glad it wasn't glued down but his mother was pleased that it was more natural and still neat.

After three weeks, Mrs. DuMont called, almost demanding that something be done her son's unruly locks. She accepted an appointment five days away with my assurance that we would do something to keep it looking neat with a minimum of care.

They showed at the correct time, the boy in khaki shorts, sandals, and a v-neck, pastel blue t-shirt. His hair was somewhat disheveled, not clean, and in need of a trim. Again, Mrs. DuMont complained that he could not keep his hair neat and natural looking as it had been after the first cut. Claire jumped at the opportunity, offering that the original shape was due to the blow drying and that, while she could teach him how to achieve the same result, a mild body perm would provide the same full, natural look with only simple blow drying and little skill. The mother agreed.

Robbie didn't like all the fuss nor the curlers and was relieved when all that was left was the cut and blow dry. Claire lightly trimmed the top, shaping bangs to bounce high on his forehead, sides that would curl around and out from his ears, and bountiful curls to dance around the back of his head. He argued that he looked like a girl but Claire dissuaded him, saying that the curls would relax in a few days. His mother accepted this and left, playing the boy's curls on her fingers.

Another month passed and Robbie was receiving another body wave, his mother pleased with the performance of the last. The boy arrived in white shorts, with legs wide enough and long enough to classify them as a skort, and wearing a white and peach striped, sleeveless top. Robbie waited patiently while his mother was started, and complained less when the curlers and set were applied, saying that his mother threatened to warm his butt if he put up a fuss and embarrassed her again. As Claire cut, Mrs. DuMont discovered that she had won a free set of nails.

This time, Robbie's bangs were clearly just that, curling out and hanging to brush his eyebrows, curls to bounce around and into his ears, and a bounding mane of curls in back, square cut at the bottom to pronounce the curl's bounce. There was no doubt of the femininity of the cut.

Robbie was directed to his mother who, while obviously enthralled at the boy's feminine curls, told the boy not to fret, the curls would relax in a few days. Robbie then drew attention to his mother's hands and Sandy offered the french manicure. His mother accepted for him. She did have a condition, though: it would seem that she felt that a french manicure was wasted on short nails, that they should not be displayed on anything but medium length, square tipped nails. His hands were soon as feminine as his hair.

Between us, we could not imagine what the boy was going through at school. Surely there were boys that were teasing and bullying him. And so it happened that we bumped into the pair after school one afternoon. Robbie's hair was gelled back, pasting down the curls but his nails still carried their manicure. He tried to keep them curled around his books, hiding their length in the folds of his clothes. In the bright sunlight, something else about the boy struck me as quite feminine, he was quite pale, in fact, his skin was alabaster and far smoother than any boy's I had seen.

A week before Halloween, Mrs. DuMont called with a special request. According to her, Robbie's step brother was going to the carnival as Tony Nelson, the USAF officer from the I Dream of Jennie show, and Robbie had agreed to go as Jeannie. An appointment was made for the works early in the morning, well before school. When he arrived, Robbie seemed less than agreeable to the costume. He pleaded, "Please don't do this to me. My mom is trying to turn me into a girl and she only needs this excuse to succeed."

"Don't be silly," Sandy assured him, "This will be great fun. We'll make you so pretty that no one will know that you are really a boy."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he sadly moaned, yet he hardly complained as his legs and brows were waxed, nor while his hair was died blonde, nor when the bouncy ponytail fall and little pink hat were attached. When his nails were extended into delicate teardrops, he suggested that the color of polish his mother chose wasn't pink enough to match his Jennie outfit. He sat quietly while his face was painted into alluring female beauty and winced only slightly as two diamond studs were set into each ear lobe.

His mother produced the pink harem outfit and Robbie dutifully disrobed. We were shocked at the almost glowing whiteness of his silky soft torso, the clearly female curve of his waist, and the rounded appearance of his chest and his oversized nipples. As his mother slipped a wonder bra containing two mastectomy forms around the boy, he lifted his arms, as he obviously had before. Squeezing the hooks to set, the boy dropped his arms and cleavage appeared on his chest. His mother reached into the cups, grabbed a handful of skin, and pulled it upward. His face crushed in pain as he asked her to be careful of his nipples. As she released, breasts appeared on her son's chest. Soon, fully dressed in the skimpy feminine outfit, his mother fastened a pearl choker around his slender neck and dabbed some super glue onto a large diamond cut crystal and planted it into the boy's navel.

He sat quietly and slid his delicate feet into the tiny slippers. Looking at us with an almost expressionless face, he asked, "Was it worth getting up this early to do this to me?"

Claire leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, "You look like a beautiful young woman. Go and enjoy today like any pretty girl would." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Hurry-up, Jennie," his mother called from the door way, "You have already missed first period."

He exhaled, "Mom, can I please not spend the day at school looking like this?"

"Nonsense," his mother scolded him, "You look absolutely flawless. All the girls will be jealous of your hair and costume. I'm sure the boy's will just love you, too."

"Oh, god," he whined. Sandy leaned and kissed his cheek and sprayed him with Red.

I still remember how his mother beamed as her little boy's pearl-wrapped ponytail bounced around his chiffon covered shoulders. Now, many years later, Jennie and his wife have opened a new restaurant. There are no prices on the menus, I am told.

 

Gilude was a very special child. He had incredible cobalt blue eyes; they viewed with an innocence, but the mind behind them worked very well.

Leading his mother, they entered in an air of royalty. His hair was a boy's cut but hadn't been trimmed in some time. Black and slightly red in iridescence, it flowed thickly around his head as if one were watching a red hot iron furnace flicker in the dark. Beneath that glowed bronze skin and those deep blue gems.

April was estranged from her husband and the boy's father. Her features were reddish and dark, Seneca, I believe she said, but it was Native American. Her soon to be ex, owned a Finnish corporation but she owned oil.

As Gilude moved into the salon, those cobalt gems played along the walls but he seemed to be focusing on the women in the room. After stepping a short distance into the room, he stood with knees tilted in and feet at a gentle stance, and read into the work area.

April glided next to her son and stroked his hair, "I'm April. This is Gilude. Have you something to keep his attention while I have my hair styled?"

I offered the magazines that lay on the tables.

"Of course," she grinned, "he'll behave."

Gilude sat quietly, looking at first at Vouge and then at several hair style magazines. We gave April a break and sodas for herself and son. She sat next to him for a while and soon the conversation turned to the hair styles he had been looking at.

Sandy called her to the back so that Claire could finish and at the same time let her know that she was free and would give the boy a styling at the children's price. She agreed and Gilude was sent to the wash basin. While there, April gave Sandy one of the hair style mags and indicated a short style that she thought would look good on the boy if it were shorter. Sandy gave the boy the cut, trimming a bit closer only in the back, but gelling it down a bit to keep it from looking so feminine.

April thought the cut "sweet," but Gilude didn't share the sentiment. He said that it was a girl's cut, which it was, and that his mother was always wanting him to do girly things. As his mother paid the bill, the boy told us of how she had dressed him as some kind of girl for the last three Halloweens.

About a month later, April was hosting her sister's lesbian wedding. There were to be no males in the party but Gilude was to be a bride's maid, as he told me, agreeing to it only after his mother, aunt, and Terri, the "groom," had pounded him for days, eventually plying him with the promise of a bicycle. Arrangements were made with us for several wedding day do's, Gilude's among them. We closed that afternoon to prep all the bridal party. The boy, just twelve, was turned over to us.

His hair had grown quickly, falling into his ears, and easily long enough for something very pretty. April had also found a fall that was a very close match for the boy. Sitting in the chair, he confided that he was tired of fighting off his mother's efforts of making him look like a girl and hoped that by allowing her this opportunity, she might get over it. He suggested a wedge cut but wasn't aware of the attachment waiting for him.

After a wash, and while his body perm was being applied, Claire set about waxing the boy's legs. The bride's maid dresses were above the knee and the boy agreed that his dark leg hairs would be unsightly under the light nylons that were paired with the dresses. Once his hair was cut and set, he had to wait on a dryer. While his new nails were drying, Claire literally sat on his lap and plucked his eyebrows into thin and delicate arches. He objected but didn't fight.

Once the curlers were pulled from his dry hair, Claire set to work on his face. His cheeks were high and still slightly swollen with pre-adolescence. Some muted green and purple shadows, almost black, purple eyeliner, and long, fake, black lashes, along with long bangs, parted off center and fluffed well out over his face, made those blue eyes stand out like back-lit gems. Once attached, the fall curled against his shoulders and he made such a lovely girl.

His mother and aunt glued small breast forms on the boy and then dressed him in the pale green and white lace, short gown. He had never been in heels before but even though they were three inch, they had a thicker heel and ankle straps and he walked remarkably well in them. They added some dangling jewelry and rings, a small shoulder purse containing all the make up used on the boy, and some Intimate perfume. He was a dazzling bride's maid.

The shop was invited to the wedding also, and we attended, anxious to see the lovely boy charade as a young woman. Although there were no males in the wedding party, save the femininized Gilude, there were plenty of men, and boys, around. At the reception, Gilude tried to hide and skirted the perimeter until Claire drug him onto the dance floor. Apparently he didn't mind dancing with a girl, but a young man of perhaps fifteen tapped Claire out and took her place dancing with Gilude.

At first the lace trimmed boy tried to escape but Claire advised him to stay as the suitor obviously didn't know that Gilude was a boy. They danced two dances when the boy was tapped out by another. Before the evening was over, the boy in the white heels had danced with just about every boy there and was clearly having a good time. April was overwrought with joy at the sight of her dazzlingly feminine son waltzing with the boys.

A few days later, Gilude came into the shop, wearing a light peach sun dress, his hair and make up not perfect but very female. He asked to speak to Claire, wanting to know how to get the breast forms off. April claimed to have lost the solvent. Claire advised him that they would come off on their own soon but not to try to force them off because they could rip his skin, especially the way that the glue had been so heavy applied by his mother.

Two weeks later, we again were waxing his legs, and restyling his hair so the fall would no longer be necessary. He had pretty much given up forcing off the "boobs," as he now called them, and had reconciled himself to spending a couple more weeks in girl guise until they released.

As summer rolled on, April managed to keep her son femininized. His breast forms had been replaced several times but by late August, Gilude said that his mother was turning him into a girl and he couldn't stop her. On the day that he came in for another waxing, he confided that April had been dragging him to see a Dr. Carl and that the doctor had been giving him a shot every week and that his skin was getting very soft and the moustache that had started to show above his lip had receded.

April was successful in having a daughter. June, as was his name now, attended MIT and was working on her engineering doctorate. As you might guess, June is doing well. Returning my call from Nevada, I learned that she works for Lockheed as project manager. She said that she and her girlfriend would be getting married in the fall and that our services would be needed again. Apparently his girlfriend has a son that has agreed to be the Maid of Honor.

 

Quite a different story was Darrel Williams. We first met him as his dad, Dan, drug him into the salon. The boy was fourteen, dressed somewhat grubby, and had stringy, dirty hair that hung past his shoulders. His dad explained that the boy wouldn't cut his hair, much less keep it clean, and that he wanted it fixed like a girl's and washed every other day until he agreed to get a man's haircut.

Sandy smiled at the prospect, and explained to the dad that to get proper "girl's" hair, simply washing and curling it wouldn't be sufficient. Dan eagerly agreed to a perm and cut. Soon she had the boy, who obviously had some fear of his dad, through the steps and in her chair for a comb out.

She talked sweetly to the boy, assuring him that she would give him a nice boy's cut once the pressure at school got too great for him. He assured her that he wasn't going to knuckle under to his dad's embarrassment of him and that he would wear his curls with pride. The boy's hair waved out nicely, curling around his neck and shoulders and framing his face softly.

Holding to the agreement, the boy came in every other day for a wash and comb out of his very feminine hair style. Dan came in during the second week, saying that the boy wasn't humiliated enough and that he needed some long red nails to go with his feminine hair. Claire applied the nails, empathizing with the boy, and suggesting that he should "slap his dad in the face" with the long nails. Darrel said that would piss him off too much but that he would like to do it. Claire then suggested that he could do it another way, that if his dad wanted him in feminine nails, that he should pluck his eyebrows to rub the femininity in his dad's face. Darrel agreed and his brows were shaped into female arches.

Dan wasn't amused and was in two days later instructing us to paint Darrel's face. Naturally we complied. The boy wasn't heavily into puberty yet and he made not an unattractive girl.

Another two weeks passed. Darrel had become somewhat a martyr, and received little chastising from his peers and much attention from girls. His dad was pissed that he was achieving acceptance, and Darrel appeared in the store in a skirt and blouse.

Claire was attending to his nails and suggested that she thought that he should try rubbing it his dad's face again and wax his legs. The boy didn't agree at first, seeing as the first effort now had him in Max Factor, but Claire was able to persuade him that it was an appropriate thing to do and it was done. Dan was flustered with his son's smooth legs and insisted that the boy wear heels and nylons. Darrel agreed in antagonism. This upset Dan more, and he confronted Claire as to what else he might do to further humiliate his son into conforming to his desires.

True to form, Claire simply suggested pierced ears. Dan nodded and put in the order. The next day, Darrel not only sported the piercing demanded by his father but also two additional piercings in each ear and one high on his right ear, each decorated with diamond studs.

Dan began to follow his son around, ensuring that his feminine masquerade was not being compromised behind his back. Darrel was, in fact, quite popular, surrounded by girls as well as boys, and he displayed himself openly and proudly. Dan confided to me that he was at his wit's end and that he was about to give in as nothing seemed to humiliate Darrel into his required masculine roll. I suggested that he should stay the course, assuring him that this was just a show on the boy's part and that Darrel was as near to giving in as he was. But I added more, saying that, except for the piercings which boys were beginning to do then anyway, Darrel felt no real danger of femininity as everything that had been done so far was only window dressing and was easily reversed. If he was going to force his son's hand, he should go see Dr. Carl and see what else could be done.

Although I had never met the doctor, his reputation was already beginning to be well known to us. The following week, school was out for summer and we didn't see Darrel. The week after that, Dan arrived with Darrel in tow, a splint taped between the boy's black eyes and a set of C cup breasts predominantly showing in the v-neck blouse the boy wore.

Once in Sandy's chair, the big breasted boy explained that his dad had gone nuts and that he had gotten this doctor to put those big implants in his chest and give him a girl's nose and cheeks. Sandy asked why he didn't give in. Darrel explained that his dad wouldn't let him give in now, and that he was making the boy live as a girl all summer, too. Sandy tried to sound as if she were sorry for him and asked why he didn't go to the police. Darrel explained that he had two sisters and his mother had run off a year ago. He was afraid that if he went to the police, the family would be broken up and his dad would be jailed. Agreeing that he was right, she pressed for the boy's plans. He explained that in addition to the breast implants, transdermal hormone dispensers had been placed in his groin and that his dad would only let him take them out after he spent the summer being as much a girl as was possible for the boy. He was very afraid of his dad now and didn't want to do anything else defiant to piss him off more, shuddering at the prospect of what female thing he was liable to have next.

As the summer progressed, we only saw Darrel every couple of weeks but his sisters had become regular customers as well. As the family visited us, we watched the fear leave them, and they seemed much happier as school neared. During a pre-first day of school appointment, Darrel was in for a fresh perm and cut. Sandy asked the femininized boy why he seemed so happy. He said that he was getting along with his dad far better than he had before and that he was going to stay a girl a little longer till the family was more stable.

Darrel graduated last spring and looked absolutely radiant in her low cut gown, with her D cups proudly showing. Seems that the family never reached the stability Darrel wanted and it Darrel's fault. Apparently she could never find a boy to bring home that Dan could like.

 

Another boy that we treasure is Martin. He was a sweet child who loved to dance and had a very girlish face. His mother, Trisha, was a frustrated non-pageant winner who fell in love with the show. She had brought in her daughter, Diane, for some pre-pageant work, but had eight year old Martin in tow.

Diane wasn't that attractive a little girl, not ugly, just rather average of face. We would work and work on her but she never seemed to win. In fact, the only thing she had going for her is that she is a wonderful piano player--she plays for the Boston Symphony these days. But back to Martin.

This day that Trisha brought them in, Diane was balking against the beauty regime. She was tired of losing and didn't want to go through another pageant. While she and Trisha argued, Martin busied himself, dancing in the waiting area. It was apparent that he was doing a routine even though we couldn't hear the music in his earphones. His movements were studied, graceful, and well timed. As it turned out, he was doing the routine of one of the girls in he had met in a pageant.

Sandy was standing next to the mother and daughter as I was trying to intercede and quiet them. Suddenly interrupting, diving between the warring ladies, she pointed to the boy. Boldly she said, "Why don't you let him go to the pageant?"

All eyes turned to the boy, who, after a few moments, realized that he was being watched. He wasn't flustered, instead, he smiled and went on with the routine with more effort, bigger sweeps, more flair, and a big smile on his face. Gracefully he twirled, his sneakers amazingly not holding onto the carpet, and finished the set with a flair and curtsey. Trisha stood in shock at the sight of her son. Sandy pushed her again, saying that the boy was as graceful as any ballerina, and pretty as any girl, and that if Diane played as he danced, he would probably stand a better chance of winning than his sister would. Trisha crossed slowly to the boy, knelt before him, and asked him if he would like to take his sister's place at the pageant.

Taking a moment to think, he asked if he would have to be a girl. Trisha nodded but Sandy answered the question, saying that he would only have to look like a girl because it was a girl's pageant. After a few moments of thought, he asked if he could wear a wig because his hair wasn't long enough to look pretty on stage.

While Trisha wore out the buttons on her cell phone, making calls to get her son costumes and all those things necessary for a pageant, Sandy set to work on Martin. Filling his nails, plucking his eyebrows, waxing his legs, and piercing his ears twice-- Trisha's request-- it wasn't long before we had him looking quite feminine. His mother wasn't paying much attention as we pinned a curly, strawberry blonde wig to his head. Martin thought it was pretty and gushed at how much like a girl he looked.

Finally, Trisha was off the phone. She stood overwhelmed with her "new little pageant winner." Quickly they were off. Martin, or Michelle, as he was registered, was able to enter the pageant that night, and, although Diane didn't play, he did well enough to take a very close second runner-up.

The next pageant was two months away. Martin was enrolled in a local dance school and charm school. Dresses were crafted by Christine Chandler, a wonderful seamstress that I had found for my boutique. In addition, I sponsored Michelle from both the boutique and salon. As the pageant day arrived, Michelle was quite the young lady.

Gone were his boyish edges, his voice was clear and he spoke as a girl does, with demure, well chosen words. Reaching for something, his fingers would flair and contact was first gracefully made with his middle finger and then with a gentle grasp. His hair was still short but hadn't been cut in a while. Sweetly he explained that he was going to have to let his hair grow out because he wouldn't be able to fool the people much longer if he didn't have hair like a girl's. We permed and trimmed his locks into a feminine style. Trisha was pleased.

Twin Oaks Mall's pageant was surprisingly well attended. Sandy, Claire, and I attended, helping to ensure that Martin was as feminine as possible for the pageant. He was smashingly female, taking the sports wear and the swimsuit competition, thanks in part to a tiny gaff built by Christine.

Coming into the talent portion, there were two other girls that were strong competition. One was a cute black girl who could belt out a song pretty well and did Landslide, which everybody liked. The other was a big girl who did a twirling routine with batons and streamers, and she did well.

With Diane at the piano, playing a Chopin number, Michelle took to the stage wearing a butterfly costume. It had big blue and white wings that were attached to her elbows with elastic so that she could move her arms freely but the wings would flap. Her number was well received but right at the end, despite her big smile, we could see that she wasn't sure that she had the pageant in the bag. Then, near the end of the routine, she was to cartwheel in a circle completely around the stage. As she started across the back of the stage, Trisha gasped because Michelle was going too fast, pushing the wheels wider to maintain the tempo. Making the turn to cross the front of the stage, she pulled her arms to her sides and continued the wheels without her hands. Everyone was on their feet clapping as she swirled to her gentle wing beating end. Truly, she had the competitive spirt. The gown competition was merely a formality, Michelle had already won.

Martin's dad, Blake, wasn't exactly enthused that his son had just won a beauty pageant but he was pleased, nonetheless. He kept the faith, not disclosing Michelle's true identity and even allowed a picture to be taken of himself cradling his beautiful son in his arms.

Over the next year, Michelle won several more titles, culminating in his being crowned as America's Little Miss of Georgia. It was shortly after this that someone complained that Michelle was a boy. There was a big stink over it all, but since no one actually contested, he was never stripped of his title. Unfortunately, the family was advised that Michelle would not be allowed to compete again. There was one loop hole, if the child was transgendered and under a doctor's care, she could still compete.

By now, Martin was pretty much living as a girl. His hair was femininely cut, he wore mascara day and night, and he spent his weekends in dresses. When asked if he would like to be a girl so that he could continue the pageants, he didn't hesitate to answer yes. At my suggestion, Michelle and her parents visited Dr. Carl.

Another year had passed and Michelle had come into being as a full-time girl. Promoters were satisfied that he was indeed a she under the skin and she was again allowed to enter pageants. She took several more titles over the next few years. Finally, she was running for Junior Miss America as Junior Miss Georgia. It was a grand affair.

On the night of the pageant, Michelle was resplendently beautiful. Several years of hormone therapy had molded the boy's body into a spectacular young woman. Against some very strong competition, Michelle was confident, self assured, and perfect in appearance, form, and execution. Going into the national competition finals, she was tied for first place up to the talent portion.

During her imposed hiatus, Michelle had added ice skating to her repertoire. For her pageants, she converted the skill to roller skates but seldom used the routines in pageants, as they were strong presentations and her dancing talents were usually sufficient to win. Here, in her final performance, she needed to nail the talent to ensure her win.

She had been working on a skating routine with Diane at the keyboard, playing David Lanz's Return to the Heart. Christine had teamed with Blake, who was an engineer, and they had made a commanding costume of a red and orange bird. The chiffon and taffeta costume would flow and ripple around Michelle's body as she raced on the skates, giving credence to the appearance of a bird in flight. But, what was really spectacular, were the wings. Wire forms were covered in hand dyed chiffon and attached to her wrists, but they didn't stop there. From her hands, the wings extended on a frail tube and wire form, allowing the wings to be pulled in for spins or flips or extended to a twelve foot span for dramatic effect. The costume was strong enough to pull many points by itself, but Michelle hadn't used the routine because the ending was weak, cramped by stage space. That night, she needed her strongest ever performance: the "Heartbird" would fly.

Within moments of rolling onto the stage, she had hushed the audience, their attention stolen away by the fluttering wings and shinny, flame haired bird that twirled and dipped and spun on stage. Through the performance, all motion stopped in the room. Hushed awes were heard as she played the wings in and out, capturing a bird in flight. Moments later, the finish loomed. The routine called for Michelle to do several high speed circles and finish with extended wings raised as if reaching for altitude. But the competitor had seen the winning move. As she turned into the circle pattern, she suddenly broke and shot toward the front of the stage. Down the catwalk her wings spread to full and her speed multiplied. Leaping hard, she flew out over the audience, covering nearly the length of the hall, over seventy feet, she came down in the aisle, spun with her wings raised, and folded onto the floor at the stroke of the final note, her wings stretched toward the stage.

People began screaming and shouting. Standing on chairs, they applauded and cheered. Michelle didn't move, save for rasing her head to look for her father. Her eyes were wet, tears streamed the red and orange shadows into scars down her face, a face contorted in pain. Her right ankle had been shattered in the landing and a thigh muscle torn. Her foot was turned at an impossible angle under her and she could not move her right leg.

Needless to say, she couldn't finish the pageant but there was no doubt who really had won. The crowned Junior Miss hushed the crowd before she took her walk. She called for a microphone and told the audience, "Tonight I take this walk only acting for the true winner of the pageant. Michelle, this crown belongs first to you."

Michelle kept the Junior Miss Congeniality award she had already been presented with. She had two surgeries on her ankle and one on her leg. Her limp is barely perceptible. She is graduating this summer with a degree in choreography. You might know who she is, they play her flight as part of the opening of the pageants these days.

 

Sitting behind the front desk, taking notes as Sylvia spoke, I was somewhat awed that she had a hand in conspiring these boys into femininity. As I furiously wrote, the door alarm sounded and a well dressed woman entered with an eight or nine year old boy in tow. Sylvia greeted them, explaining that one of the girls had called in sick again and that there would be a short wait. Mother and son sat in the waiting area. Sylvia caught my eye and nodded knowingly toward the twosome.

I broke from my notes and examined the waiting pair. Mother was fussing with the son's shoes, retying the pink and green laces of the glitter trimmed, white canvas Keds. Leaning forward, the boy pulled at the pink trimmed, shorty socks. Bangs draped into his eyes and his hair fell forward along his ears, exposing the tier cut nape, defining what was clearly a wedge cut.

Sylvia grinned at me, picked up a bowl of folded paper pieces and sashayed toward the mother, "Mrs. Dinsmore, this is your third visit with us. On a third visit, our clients have an opportunity to draw for a free gift or service. Would you like to try?" She held out the bowl.

"Oh," Mrs. Dinsmore said without conviction, "let Casey draw. I never win anything."

Sylvia redirected the bowl to the boy, "Casey, would you like to try to win something?" The boy nodded, reached into the bowl, and retrieved a pastel purple slip of paper. Taking the paper, Sylvia unfolded it and announced that the boy had just won a set of nails. There was some laughter from the women. "Look," Sylvia said to the boy, "since little boys don't normally get nails, why don't we let your mom have the nails and we'll give you a french manicure, too. Would that be alright?" The boy nodded in innocense.

Guiding the pair to the rear of the store, mother and son were seated at the nail table and mom's hands were started on. Their session lasted for nearly three hours. When they left, the mother's hair was curled and styled with class and the boy sported a fresh body perm, fluffing the wedge into it's proper feminine form. Pink, half inch nails flashed from the tips of both of their fingers.

Watching them leave, I remarked, "That's pretty amazing. I never would have believed that he would have left with those nails. They both seemed to really appreciate that the boy's hair was so soft and fluffy. And she made such a big deal of how it made his eyes look attractive."

Sylvia grinned, "The bangs did make his eyes stand out, but what she really liked was the arch that Sandy plucked into his brows. It won't be long before we get some earrings into his lobes, and soon after that, we'll find him in a dress. Did you notice how full his lips are for a boy?"

  

  

  

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