Author: Calypso
Title: The Transformation of Evelyn Thomas
Part: Chapter 1
Summary: The erotic journey of a young man through transgender transformation to a new female self.
Keywords: MF, MMF, TG, cons, reluc, oral, anal, rom, 1st

Send me your comments at calypso93<at>gmail<dot>com

THE TRANSFORMATION OF EVELYN THOMAS
CHAPTER 1

        The military has been making a big deal for the last five or ten years or so about something they like to call Transformation. This is more or less defined as the use of technology to do things in ways that had never been possible before. It's generally translated into practice as changing everything from the way it had been done into new versions that often look very much like the old ways, but more attractively packaged. Well, if that's Transformation, then it certainly applies to me. You might even call me the poster girl for Transformation. Of course, I started out as the poster boy for Transformation... and that's where this story should probably begin. (Although you can probably see where this is heading... <grin>)

	I'm an Army officer. I always wanted to be in the Army, ever since I was very little. It's mostly altruism, to be honest... I'm very patriotic, although I don't make a big deal out of it, but I'm also attracted to the austere glamour of it all... the uniforms, the ceremony, and the professional ethic of selfless service.  The problem is that when I started on the professional path I wasn't very good at it.  Not that I couldn't grasp the concepts or absorb the professional skills... I'm actually quite smart and a very efficient thinker and decision maker, all prized skills. The problem is that I was, well, not exactly the best physical specimen. I was medium height, 5' 8", but quite slender (about 140 lbs) and not very muscular. This is a bigger problem than you might think. The military makes a big deal out of being athletic, and while I could make the minimum standards, it was always a struggle. I generally do well on running and sit-ups (my legs and abs are quite firm) but pushups and chin-ups have always been a terrible struggle, not matter how much I try. 

	So whenever it came time to be evaluated, my otherwise excellent performance was always overshadowed by my marginal physical fitness scores. The Army is a rigid meritocracy and very competitive, so this caused me some professional trouble. I did well in ROTC and so I had a head start of sorts, and I had a big sister who had preceded me into the Army and done very well for herself, so I was following a good example. But my constant worries that no matter what I did I would still be dragged down by my physical performance always nagged at me. To make matters worse I had bad luck with women. An early "starter marriage" ended more or less amicably and without obligations after two years of unspectacular sex and increasing emotional distance; since then I had gone on a few dates but nothing had clicked. My parents had been killed in a car crash during my senior year in college and my big sister only had time for occasional phone calls from her military assignment in Korea. To add it all up I felt isolated, lonely, and unhappy with myself and my life. I loved my career, but apparently it didn't love me back. 
	
	Then everything changed. It all started when I transferred to a new base in the desert of southern California. While my good grades in college and ROTC had got me training as a Military Intelligence officer, my last commander had graded me at the bottom of my competitive peer group since, as he had put it less than eloquently, "there ain't no room in my Army for wimps." (Sometimes the support branch officers in the Army feel the need to act more aggressively than the combat ones. He was one of them.) So I had received a less-than-desirable assignment to the "installation management staff," which is the organization that operates and administers the bases on which Army units are based and trained. Since it's a routine, dull, non-demanding, unimaginative, and unexciting assignment track, with little room for exceptional performance or distinguishing you by achievement, such assignments are generally given to those who are preparing to retire or have failed to make the grade in some way. Since I was only 26 at the time and a brand new Captain (the Army was promoting everyone who met the minimum time in grade requirements that year due to a shortage of Captains) and thus not due to retire, apparently I was one of the latter. 

The First Day

	I had departed quietly and unceremoniously from my last assignment and was driving to California. It was a pleasant summer evening and I had the top down on my convertible (a 2 year-old Sebring) while I drove and thought about my life, choices, and careers. At this rate I was going nowhere. I had decided it was time to for a change. But what? It was going to be very hard to give up the only career I had known or wanted. Then my cel phone began buzzing in my pocket. I hauled it out and looked at the window. It was my sister, Karen! This will cheer me up, I thought, as I hauled it out, popped the earpiece into my ear, and pressed the `receive' button. "Hey, sis, what's going on? Where are you? Back in CONUS?" (CONUS is the "Continental United States," shorthand for the 48 contiguous states). 

	"Yep, I'm back! Did you miss me? What in hell is all that noise?" 

	Since I was having trouble hearing myself, I pulled over to the shoulder. As I slowed I answered, "Hey, I'm driving here! Wait a minute... how's that?" I pulled to a stop and set the transmission to park. 

	"That's better... it's great to hear you! Guess what? I made Major!" 

	"No way," I answered, "That's great! Why didn't you tell me? I'm on 30 days PCS leave, I might have been able to make it out there for your ceremony!" 

	"Don't sweat it," she answered, "It was under the zone, so there wasn't any advance notice... they managed to keep it secret and surprise me in the middle of an exercise. Guess what? I'm back in CONUS to stay! We're gonna be on the same post!" 

	That really was great news. We chitchatted about that for a while, I told her about my poor ratings and bad assignment, and she sympathized. I felt better already. At least one thing in my life had improved. I could tell, though, that she was trying to work her away around to trying to talk me into something. I could always tell. When we were kids she was always talking me into something that, while it usually got me in trouble, was almost always a lot of fun. She had been something of a rebellious tomboy and had loved babying her kid brother as much as I had loved the attention from my glamorous and charismatic big sister. 

	"I have more good news," she blurted suddenly, when I paused in the middle of telling her how dull my drive had been. "Rick and I are engaged!" This was no surprise to me. She had been seeing Rick, an Infantry Major, with steadily increasing seriousness and consistency, since she had arrived in Korea a year ago. They had met when they were both transferring in and had hit it off and improved on things from there. Karen had sent me a photo: they were a great looking couple, my sister the glamorous and outgoing brunette with her mischievous grin and sparkling eyes, looking up adoringly at a tall, broad-shouldered, rock solid Airborne Ranger who was gazing at her with a tenderness that bordered on worship. I envied them their happiness, but I couldn't grudge it. My sister and I have always been very close. I had been hearing "Rick stories" for the last 11 months. Then she interrupted my brief reverie, "But I, um, have a, uh, little problem I need you to help me with." 

	"Uh oh," I thought. When she draws it out like that and calls it a "little" problem, it generally means trouble. "What are you trying to talk me into this time?" 

	"Well, it's like this," she started and went on. I was amused at first and then shocked, and then realized that I really wasn't that surprised after all. It was typical of her. Impetuous as always, she had arrived in Korea, met and been attracted to Rick, and immediately had a fling with him. Attracted to Rick, but unsure of whether the relationship would last she had continued a friendly and fun, if non-committed, affair with another Army officer in Hawaii, her last assignment before Korea. As it turns out, the guy in Hawaii had been a senior officer and married, so it had been strictly for fun for her but she had to keep it very quiet to avoid running afoul of military fraternization and adultery rules. To keep Rick from being suspicious as her relationship with him blossomed, she had told him she was going on trips to Hawaii to visit her "sister." Eventually she had ended the Hawaii relationship and settled on Rick, so at least she was settling down honestly with one guy. One small problem: we don't have a third sibling, let alone a sister. It's just the two of us. Now Rick was coming to the same post as the two of us, and was looking forward to meet his beloved Karen's "sister," about whom he had heard so much. 

	I had an odd sense of detachment as I thought this over after Karen paused nervously, waiting to hear what I had to say. It wasn't as far fetched as it sounds. Our parents had been literature professors and had saddled me with being named after their favorite author, the English (and male) author, Evelyn Waugh. So my name was Evelyn, pronounced "Eee-vuh-lin," which had earned me no end of trouble from less than humorous jokesters across the Army and strange looks from people reviewing my drivers' license, military ID, and personnel records. Many assumed I was female before they met me. I had taken to using a nickname, "Ike," and just signing my initials "E. W. Thomas" rather than explain myself over and over again. So mail to her from "Evelyn" and personnel and insurance records listing "Evelyn" as a next-of-kin had generally been assumed in her last command to refer to her "kid sister." Since our parents were dead and we had no other close family, there hadn't been any other complications for Karen to face. 

	"So, what exactly are you trying to say," I said slowly, expecting the answer but hoping it would be something else. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. How was I going to get out of this? I couldn't let my sister down, but if she was going to ask me what I (correctly as it turned out) thought she was about to ask, I was going to be in a really difficult situation.

	"Bro, I need you to be my `sister' for a while... just until I can get this mess straightened out. I can't just dump it on Rick without some time to prepare! I just can't! I couldn't bear to lose him... I love him so much! He's the love of my life, but he just wouldn't understand that I was boffing some other guy after we met, even if it only lasted for a little while... he's really old-fashioned about that kind of thing! Please, you've got to help me! I need you to be a girl... but just for a little while!" She rushed that last bit in, realizing how what she was asking me to do sounded now that she had said it out loud. I almost laughed... it was so typical of her to get into a bind like this and then devise such a hair-brained scheme to try and dig herself out. Sometimes her schemes worked, more often than not to be honest. She was really good at crisis management, which was a good thing since her life was an almost perpetual state of near crisis. Sometimes, though, they didn't. Which one would this be? But I already knew what my answer would be. 

	"Look, Sis, you know I can't say no to you..." she started thanking me but I cut her off... "... but there's no way this could work. I mean really! Come on now! Fool a guy into thinking I'm a girl? No way!" 

	"Look, it'll work, just trust me," she said quickly before I could protest any more. "Really, I've got it all planned out. What are you, about a day from California? You have 30 days leave before you have to sign in? Meet me at this hotel in San Diego; I'll take care of everything. We have about two weeks to get ready before Rick gets here, that's plenty of time." She gave me the address of a hotel in San Diego; I quickly scratched it down in my day planner while she thanked me over and over again. I had to grin; despite what she was getting me into... her enthusiasm was always infectious. We said our `Love ya's' and hung up. I sat there in the hot desert sun under a clear blue sky on a long, lonely stretch of highway and thought about what I was getting into. 

The Second Day

	A day later and after a night spent tossing and turning on a too-hard mattress in a cheap highway motel I pulled into the hotel parking lot in San Diego. I was impressed... it was not what I had expected. Apparently Sis had decided to go expensive on me (probably in the hopes of keeping me buttered up, I thought cynically). This looked like 3 or maybe even 4-star Michelin territory. Neither Sis nor I had any troubles with money; the insurance and indemnity settlement after Mom & Dad's death had set us both up, if not exactly wealthy, then at least `well off' so long as we didn't start buying Maseratis or private jets or something. The front desk was expecting me, although the "Evelyn" gave them the usual bit of confusion, and a concierge marshaled a crew to collect my luggage while a valet took my car keys, even offering to get my car detailed for me. Nice place. I took the elevator to the floor, found the room, let myself in, and WHAAM, was hit by the Karen hurricane, who proceeded to lift me off my feet in a terrific bear hug.

	"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou," she squealed into my ear as I struggled to breathe. "You don't know what this means to me!" She plopped me down on my feet. So, how ya doin?" she grinned. 

	A little about my favorite (and only) Big Sister and me: She's my height or so (within an inch, anyway), and weight, and with some common facial features so you can tell we're from the same parents. We have actually exchanged some (unisex) clothing, like sweats, t-shirts, and so forth. But the resemblance ends there. Facial features that look strong and sexy on her, just look weak on a guy... the oval face, the turned up nose, and the big eyes. She is small chested (I guessed a B cup, but there are some things a guy doesn't ask his sister) and athletically slim, but with the slightly heavy looking legs and waist that military women tend to get from the emphasis on muscular fitness over aerobic exercise. She got her skin and hair from Mom: slightly dark skin (Mom had some Italian ancestry), brown eyes, and dark brown hair; while I got Dad's Anglo-Irish side of the family: pale skin (that burned unless I used SPF 45 on every inch), green eyes, and cinnamon-red/auburn hair. Throw in the dusting of freckles that multiplied in the sun and you have an idea of what a contrast we made. I hated my red hair and skin. Apart from sunburns, what looked good on women looked pale and weak (I had always thought) on a guy. Well, I mused, maybe now I get to see if it looks any better on a girl. 

	"Hey, it's good to see you too, Sis, although I can't believe you talked me into this. I still don't see how you're gonna pull it off." We chatted for a while, me trying to find some way to talk her out of it, and her breezily brushing aside my protests with her plans. She had everything planned out, starting the next morning. Well, I thought, no turning back. 

	The rooms (a suite) were very nice. Really nice, to be precise. Karen had the suite adjacent to mine and the connecting door turned it into a sort of mega-suite. Both sides had the same layout, reversed: a small foyer with a coat closet, a sitting room (almost a small living room, and bigger than most hotel rooms on its own) tastefully furnished in Queen Anne style, and a large bedroom with an enormous King-size bed (I found out later that it was a King-plus, called "California King" on the West Coast). I tested the bed... just right, not too soft, and not too hard. Not like the usual hotel mattresses that feel like they're made of plywood. Apparently you get what you pay for. There was also a walk-in closet, and full size dresser, and with the room electronics tastefully concealed in a faux armoire in the corner. There was a set of French doors that opened onto a small terrace that looked out over the absolutely beautiful San Diego Bay. The bathroom was even more impressive... marble, gold plated (or so it seemed) fixtures, a sunken tub big enough to lie down in, with water-massage jets and foot pedal hot and cold water faucets, and a separate 2-person sized shower with two shower heads and little marble seats set in the walls. Nice. It's a good thing Karen was paying for it. 

	We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening ordering some really excellent room service and cracking open the mini bar and getting just a little drunk... what I like to call `happy.' Karen chatted away about her plans, how great Rick was, how everything was going to work out fine, about how much fun we'd have, and so on, while I got sillier and sillier, suggesting ludicrous ideas like having me pretend to be black and so forth. We must have been drunk because it seemed funnier the longer we went. We finally said our good nights, hugged, and slid between the sheets of our respective beds around midnight. I slept like a baby for the first time in months. There was something about Karen that just made everything seem it would turn out alright. 

The Third Day

	Karen was shaking me awake the next morning, with sunlight and air tangy with the sea streaming in. She must have opened the drapes and French doors first. "Come on, sleepy head! I already got up and ran three miles! Up and at `em! We've got a big day ahead of us!" Apparently she had also showered and changed as well, since she smelled like flowers and was wearing a very-West Coast looking outfit of sandals, faded low-cut hip-hugger jeans, a pastel yellow T-shirt, and with her hair held back by matching yellow cats-eye sunglasses. Did I mention she's also a morning person? Ugghhh. I felt like I had been dead for at least three days. I staggered to my feet nonetheless. I also had a headache, I discovered, and was desperately thirsty. Karen had gone into the bathroom and was doing something or other. I staggered over to the dresser and opened it. Nothing. I opened the closets. Also nothing. 

	"Uh, Karen?" I called. 

	"What?"

	"Where's my, um... all my stuff?" 

	She walked out of the bathroom carrying a white terrycloth hotel bathrobe and slippers. "You're not going to need any of that stuff, so I am having the hotel store it for you. We're buying you all new stuff later, but first you have an appointment in the spa in about 15 minutes." She helped me into the bathrobe and handed me a glass of water. "Drink that, then another with these two Tylenol, and then ditch those nasty boxers of yours in the trash can. I'll have some coffee waiting for us in the spa." And with that she hustled me out of the room. What I had started to think of as `my transformation' had begun. 

	The spa was a palatial suite in the back of the hotel, adjacent to the fitness center and pool. We were met by the manager who ushered us back to what she assured us was a "completely discrete and private" personal room. She actually winked at me as she left! As the spa people got set up Karen quietly assured me that she had tipped the staff "a little something extra" for complete discretion and privacy, which was just as well as, on top of the hangover, I was feeling a bit jittery about everything. Luckily, room service arrived with a hot café latte and some biscotti. "Is this it?" I asked Karen, as I munched biscotti, hoping it would settle the butterflies in my stomach. 

	"Yep," she said, as she sipped her latte. "You're on a diet, Evelyn. Or would you prefer Eve? Or maybe Evie?" She raised her eyebrows at me, with just a hint of a smirk. 

	I hadn't thought about that... I thought it over for a bit while trying a sip of latte. I seemed to be feeling better. "Uh, Eve, I guess. Yes, Eve. I like Eve." And so it was done. I officially became Eve. They had set up a padded table, so I sat on it and waited for what would be coming along next. Karen had gone all out with the spa treatment. I caught a glimpse of the scheduled services, and spotted prices ranging from $75 to $150 per hour... I was impressed. Karen really did want to make this work. It must really be that important for her. Well, I thought, I guess I can at least so my best if it means that much to her. 

We started with a massage... and what a massage! I was stripped of my bathrobe, leaving me nude on the padded table except for a white towel for modesty. I was nervous at first, but my nervousness soon departed. I had never had one before, not a serious one, anyway. A professional Swedish massage makes you feel like your whole body has dissolved into a warm relaxed pool... for the next hour I felt like I was dissolving. I was in a pleasantly warm state of bliss when the masseuse left and was replaced by a chirpy young girl in a white coat and what looked like a rolling service tray. "What's next?" I murmured, sleepily. Karen, reading a magazine on a chair in the corner piped up, "Hot wax treatment, Eve honey!" 

The hot wax treatment managed, over the next hour to dispel my feelings of warm relaxation... Have you ever had it done? It seems simple enough. The girl started with a warm lotion that she spread all over me (creating an inevitable physical reaction that she politely ignored). Then she began pouring on the hot wax. Waxing is apparently the longest-lasting hair removal method, apart from electrolysis which, she informed me, takes a lot longer. The wax is applied and covered with cloth strips; the wax is warm enough to be just on the edge of discomfort but not enough to burn. When the wax is warm, it enters the follicle, allowing the hair to be pulled out from the root when the wax cools. The best part, as the chipper girl with the wax informed me as she chatted while yanking my hair off, is that the hair doesn't grow back for at least 3 or 4 weeks. Mine, she thought, might last as long as 6 weeks since my hair was so fine... and would be more fine afterwards since waxing generally causes hair to grow back more finely than it was originally. 

Ouch! The girl tried to console me by observing that the wax was the finest organic wax and was mixed with aloe to sooth my skin, but it didn't help much. Karen, predictably, thought it was all very funny. I thought it would end with my legs, but nope... Karen had paid for the whole treatment. I got, in succession, a full face wax (except the eyebrows), underarms (very sensitive!), the full arms and legs, the full chest and back (I didn't have more than a few strands here and there anyway), and finally what the wax girl called a "Brazilian bikini wax." This turned out to be the nearly complete removal of all hair in my crotch, except for a tiny toothbrush-shaped tuft above my cock, which she trimmed neatly with scissors, causing me no end of embarrassment. Then she had me flip over face-down so she could wax my ass crack! I tried to protest that I really wouldn't be letting anyone see that part of me, but Karen shushed me and the torture continued. All told the whole waxing took about two hours. By the time it was over, I was feeling itchy and a bit irritable. So much for the relaxing effects of the massage. 

I must have looked annoyed because Karen ordered Mimosas (champagne and orange juice) and melon slices "as a snack" before the next ordeal. It was about 11 am anyway, and I was a bit hungry and quite thirsty, so I knocked back several Mimosas and a couple of melon slices after which I was feeling very warm and relaxed again, which was Karen's intent, no doubt. The next event was a bit less stressful; a 30 minute "Exfoliate and Polish" body scrub with a compound made from honey and almonds. It felt a bit odd (like being sandpapered with glue and fine sand), but it smelled nice and doubled as a light second massage. It left me feeling tingly instead of itchy; that plus the Mimosas made me actually cheerful as Karen announced a break for lunch. 

As the scrub lady packed up and I shrugged on my hotel bathrobe, I noticed myself in a full-length mirror and paused to inspect the progress. I looked, well, odd. You could see my cock and balls hanging down, so there was no doubt I was male, but the smooth and hairless body and the tiny scrub of shaped hair above my cock looked more like a woman... albeit a slender and un-shapely one with a flat chest, decidedly unfeminine short hair, and an apparent rash of tiny red dots (from the waxing) all over. Well, I sighed to myself, we still have a ways to go yet. To my surprise I was kind of enjoying all the attention and pampering, hot wax and all. Karen noticed my inspection and came over grinning. "What do you think?"

"I think we have a long ways to go... and even then, I don't know. I mean, come on! I look like a hairless boy, not a girl!" 

"Don't worry, Eve, honey..." she said, still grinning. "You'll see. Just trust your big Sis." That, I thought to myself as we walked out to lunch, was what had apparently got me into this mess. She had even wrapped a towel around my head, turban style, despite my lack of hair... commenting that it would look more "natural." It did, actually... it transformed an oddly hairless boy in a bathrobe into what could passably be a woman in the middle of spa treatment. With that image I attracted no attention as we took the elevator, even with a couple that got on and rode with us to the third floor. My faint fragrance of skin lotion, almonds, and honey no doubt added to the female image. 

Lunch was green salad and more Mimosas on a semi-private terrace overlooking the bay. We sat under an umbrella and chatted, drank Mimosas, chatted some more, pecked at our salads, and drank some more Mimosas. Sure she was getting me a little drunk, but what the hell... I was feeling more relaxed and happy than I had felt in months. Maybe years. Sure some of that was probably the champagne talking, but feeling good was enough in itself that I wasn't going to question it. 

	"Back to work" after lunch (it was about 1:30 pm when we went back, giggling with the champagne as we rode the elevator) was a much less grueling regimen than I had gone through in the morning. First I got to recline on the padded table, my head on a small pillow and my entire body covered with a skin-softening and soothing seaweed wrap that was kept warm by heat lamps. I dozed lightly under the moist warmth for an hour. Next I sweltered in a sauna for 30 minutes, drinking bottled water as I sweated all the champagne out of my system, followed by a brisk and refreshing (and nude! Very fun in a slightly naughty way) plunge into a warm pool that felt deliciously cool on my heated skin. As I climbed out I noted that my skin felt amazingly smooth and soft, yet tight as a drum, as if it had been gathered in and reconditioned. Maybe it had, come to think of it. 

Feeling refreshed, I felt as if I was entering the last lap in a race. The next event was a detailed manicure and pedicure, during which my cuticles were methodically reshaped into perfect half moons and my nails were delicately trimmed, filed, polished, buffed, and finally given a coat of amazingly glossy clear lacquer. Karen, predictably, argued for fire-engine red nails, but I felt that I had to make at least one decision for myself and opted for clear. Besides, Army uniform regulations prescribe clear nail coatings. This last was more of a whimsical thought, although time would show that it was a good decision given later events. But that is in the future. 

It had been a long day (it was nearly 4:30), and only service remained; an appointment with the hairdresser. Still in my white robe and slippers I sat in the chair with an amazingly well-informed and scientific hair stylist and considered my options. My hair was short. Not shaved or a crew cut, or anything like that... in fact it was a bit longish by Army (male) standards: about 2" on the top and growing out to about an inch or so on the sides, trimmed around the ears. But it was till quite short by female standards. I could stick with my current hair and have some minor shaping done to result in a very short female style, perhaps layered with bangs. I could try a tomboy-ish pixie cut. I could try shaping my short hair, in layers or even spikes, with gel. I was considering these while examining pictures in a catalog when the hair stylist suggested simply lengthening my hair. I wasn't sure I'd heard right. "How can you lengthen hair?" I asked. 

It seems that stylists can attach extensions, made from real hair that has been color matched to your own, by a method that involves weaving individual hair extension strands onto your own existing hair, holding it in place by means of what is basically super glue. According to the stylist I could have it virtually any length, down to about my shoulder blades, that it could then be styled, washed (with some care), and even go in the pool or the ocean. And it would last for four weeks or more. I was sold. I hadn't really liked any of the short styles; I was worried they would leave me looking too much like, well, me... and that I would feel like a guy in drag. If I am going to be a girl, I thought to myself, I might as well go the whole distance. 

I finally settled on a style that intrigued me and even earned a compliment from Karen. It was a neck-length cut, bobbed and with a simple (and easily done, according to Karen) inward curl at the jaw line. The best part, though, was gloriously full bangs that would tuck back over my ear from a part, or cascade forward into a "peak-a-boo" wave over my eyes. I liked it because I had always been a fan of a similar look in old movies on 1940s film noir actress Veronica Lake. This was going to take a bit longer than just styling, though. Karen sent out for takeout Chinese while the stylist got started. It took almost four hours, plus stops for tea, kung pao chicken, and lo mein, but at about 9 pm the stylist handed me the mirror, straightened the seat back, turned the chair to the wall mirrors, and asked, "what do you think?" 

I was amazed. Looking back at me was... me. But not me. I gazed silently at the face that looked back at me, her eyes wide. I moved my face and the mirror from side to side in silence. My face seemed... smaller, smoother, and softer. My chin seemed smaller and the hair hanging on both sides brought out cheekbones I hadn't known that I had. The hair was lustrous and full and was exactly the color of my own, except that this hung to below my joy in thick, shimmering waves that shifted from copper to cinnamon as I turned my head under the lights. My green eyes seemed to sparkle in contrast. My light freckled skin seemed milky against the deep hues that framed it. It was truly astonishing. I ran my free hand through the hair... my fingers combed through soft waves that coiled and fell and weighed on my scalp exactly as if it had grown there. Except for the unaccustomed weight hanging from my scalp (it seemed mildly uncomfortable, like having your hair pulled lightly, but I assumed it would fade as I grew used to it) it was as if I had always had such hair. "Well?" Karen demanded impatiently.

"It's... amazing," I said softly. "I had no idea."

"But do you like it?" Karen demanded again, coming over behind me to look over my shoulder in the mirror. "I think it looks great!" she prompted. 

"I... love it," I said simply. "It's amazing. I look so good. I had no idea." The hair color I had always hated was perfect on the woman who looked at me from the mirror with the stunned expression. I thought absently that I looked more than a bit like the actress Penelope Ann Miller... the same upturned nose, the same red hair, the same oval face and fine features. Isn't it funny how things and features that look awful on one sex look great on the other... even when it's the same person? It makes you wonder about our perceptions and if we see only what we expect to see. Maybe this was going to work after all. I felt an odd thrill, deep inside, like a little warm glow in my belly. 

Pleased with my compliments, the hair stylist left Karen a sheet of instructions on how to best care for and style the extensions in order to make them last, while I continued to inspect myself and play with my new favorite feature. Leaving, and again on the elevator, I got admiring looks from two women and a man, lack of makeup, flat chest, and apparent skin rash notwithstanding. The woman in the full length elevator mirror looked like a tired, flat-chested, but pretty redhead who had apparently scrubbed her face a bit too hard with a washcloth. It all seemed unreal, like a dream. 

That night we went to bed almost immediately. I was surprisingly tired after a day where I felt I hadn't done much except lie around... but I was exhausted nonetheless. Nude between the sheets my last thought that night was of how amazingly smooth my skin seemed. 
