Miss-Tress

Once in a while, a new problem comes to a head.

Natalie had gone out for the day with a bunch of her old school friends. She’d left me behind. I was more or less recovered from some bug or other – but going out with a six or seven excited girls wasn’t my thing.

I wasn’t really snooping. But I was having a look-round to see what was what and so on. I’d hardly even been alone in the flat for more than an hour or so. Boredom got the better of me. By hindsight, some foresight would have been a good idea. What I did was very dim. Actually stupid.

It was finding the wig in the top back shelf of her wardrobe that hooked me. I loved hair. I loved long hair. I really loved long hair on girls. I wanted my own hair to be longer but the male-rules prevented it. Yes. I’m a male. And I want long hair for myself – just like the old days of the Georgian Dandy or especially the Cavaliers of the Civil War [about 1630 to 1645 mostly). If this means the full load of frills, ruffs, lace, velvet, satin. stockings and whatever – then I’d just have to go along with it.

But the first step was finding this wig. In a dusty bag, so therefore long unused, it had been carefully put away. It was gorgeous. Long, long, brown hair reaching to at least the shoulder-blade, only slightly curled. Glorious, wonderful.

I had ventured into a shop, just once, and asked about wigs. The lady had been unusually kind – it helped that the shop was completely empty apart from the two of us. She showed me how wig-caps were needed; how to slip a wig on and adjust the fit. It had been wonderful. And she had not made a fuss when I asked to try a ladies wig.

So – me – alone – with a lovely wig. Would I, could, I should I?

I knew how. I wanted to.

I did.

To get the full effect, I took off my shirt so that the hair would softly, loosely, beautifully touch my naked skin.

I was enraptured, in raptures, happy.

The door opened.

“Would you please inform me exactly what I am supposed to think, Martin, darling."

“I was just ….

“I don’t think you were ‘just’ doing anything which normal people would think polite, reasonable or decent. Unless you were daydreaming about being a stick-insect-thin bare and barely-breasted heroine of a some Victorian bodice-ripper. You …. I don’t know what to say.”

There was a lengthy pause. I was in no position to speak in my defence.

"Why are you wearing MY wig? Why are your shoulders bare? Exactly whom do you pretend to be? {I admired the 'whom} What sort of woman are you trying to look like? If this is your particular perversion or fetish, then you can get dressed, very fast, and leave here at once. And you won't be coming back."

"It's not a fetish, at least I don't think of it as one. I just love long hair. And I'm not pretending to be any sort of woman. That's not it at all. And Im not perverted either. I'm not a transvestite, and there's no way I'm losing my, and your, favourite toy."

"No. Then tell me why you're wearing MY wig, and what or who are you pretending to be?"

“My daydreams for a wig like this would be of a Cavalier officer or, less so, a Georgian dandy – not of a woman thankyou. I told you long ago I used to do these military re-enactments. Those were the periods and people I wanted to be like. There’s a Van Dyck picture of two young Stuart boys – they look so, um, gorgeous.”

“Well, my darling – that’s not going to happen is it. You’re not using my wig to look like a Cavalier Lord – however royal or lordly they might have been. That’s my wig. I own it. It’s mine. You’re wearing it and if I say that’s a lady’s wig – then that’s the only way you’re going to wear it. Cavalier Officer, huh.”

I said nothing. It seemed safer.

“If you’re EVER going to wear that wig or anything like it – then I get to choose the costume that goes with it, yes.” And she waved her hand showing the phone which, undoubtedly, now had a swarm of photographs stored away.

“Erm, what I am supposed to say?”

“Try saying ‘Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear’.”

I put my hands up to take off the wig.

“Did I say you could take off MY wig? Did I suggest it? Did I ask? Wait, while I decide what’s happening next.”

She sat, looking down at me in her wig, with my shoulders as bare as the aforementioned heroine.

“I'm still thinking. Meanwhile stand up, I want to see how that wig looks on you. Now, head up, so that it hangs properly over your shoulders. It’s important that you have good skin when showing this amount of, um, flesh. It looks alright. Chin up, so that I can see the shape of your neck. It’s good that you only have a tiny adam’s apple. Nice long neck too. And not a trace of double chin, you skinny thing, you. Now, we actually have to consider the neckline of anything you wear with this. I need to look in my wardrobe. I think I know what will suit……..” mumble, mutter, fumble, “Ah ha.”

“Yes, and this will help emphasise your neck and reduce any concerns about insufficient boobage.”

“But I don’t want to wear any of your dresses.”

“Do you have much choice? And I’m not looking for a dress, just a blouse. So stop being a scaredy-cat. Although since you mentioned it, perhaps one of my dresses does have a better neckline for you than this.” She waved a gorgeous (oops) dark green cotton blouse with satin edging and pale green embroidery. At her distinct command, I put it on. She was right, the neckline did plunge but not enough to display a lack of boobage. And I did NOTn't tell her that it felt lovely. The telltale wriggle as it slithered over my skin probably gave that message.

Nat smiled. I could tell from her tone of voice. “That looks quite good. Now, when is the next series of reenactments. If we’re going to get involved then we need to plan. And you have little or no input into what I plan for you. It will not be good for you to disagree or to complain or to whinge, whimper or even grumble. You want to wear my wig – then it’s my rules!”

“And if I don’t want to wear it?”

“Then why were you trying it on? And even more so, why were you looking so happy about it. Give me a better answer than ‘I wanted to and I loved it’ and I’ll consider alternatives.”

As it turned out – there really were no alternatives.

We talked long into the evening – me still wearing the wig and the blouse. And gradually feeling more and more relaxed. Natalie lay leaning on me with one hand on my thigh and the other twirling a curl of my, her, hair.

Natalie said she didn’t have a clue that I was that into history, or costume.

Gradually I revealed what I loved about old costume. How much I loved the old pictures with the men smartly and fashionably turned out with their lace and ribbons, their velvet, satin and silk. I told her about the many elements of modern women’s fashion that had once been only for the male.

Nat was quite surprised at some of it. Then she said, “Oh, of course, the new stuff is more expensive so of course the men are going to take it first. The women only got it later as part of being display models owned by their men. If I could summon the energy I’d be outraged on their behalf. It still doesn’t seem right that men got to wear stockings and high heels first. That’s so funny. And that’s what you would like to be wearing.”

“Um, yes. But that’s as a historical Cavalier-type. Didn’t I make that clear.”

“You did, and you didn’t. What you did make clear, one – was that you wanted to wear this abundance of frills and follies and, two, that while men USED to wear it, nowadays lots of women do. And it’s my wig and I make the rules. So instead of being the gallant Cornish Officer Martin Tressilian, you will rather be the demure and elegant Miss Martina Tress.”

Natalie worked me hard over the next months. We’d never had more fun once the initial shocks had worked through.

Needless to say, Natalie refused permission for me to use her wig and I had the painful-exciting experience of going to the salon for various improvements. We discussed me having a shaven head so that the wig wouldn't get too hot. I was now wearing it almost every weekend, every evening - all the time when not at work. And my own wardrobe was expanding steadily. But not with any of the drab grey-black-brown-blue-beige boringness of the typical male outfit. I was being allowed colour. I was being allowed frills and all the wonderful fancies. I grumbled now and again about not being able to be a proper Cavalier Lord but it no longer seemed to be an argument that I had any chance of winning.

Then Nat took me to a corsetiere for her variety of improvement and, of course, to the wig-specialist, Madame Perruque, for the purchase of, eventually, two beautiful wigs.

--------------------------

“And what is the name of Milady and her Friend.”

“I am Lady Beaux-Doigts (Pretty Fingers) de Boudoir and this is my friend Miss Tress which suits her for her beautiful long hair.”

“You are indeed two beauteous maidens. Welcome to our gathering. I durst hope that you enjoy all we have to offer.”

So was I introduced to a new troupe of re-enacters as Miss Martina Tress. And, as is always the way with such addicts, I was pressed and persuaded to join them for many weekends over that summer. I became used to the constriction of the necessary corset, used to the wondrous feel of that long hair around my shoulders. I got used to the quantity of, erm, underpinnings, long-drawers and petticoats. I loved it all. And my Lady Pretty Fingers loved me too.