The years at Uni passed so quickly. Reflections of my life beforehand come flooding back, together with those from my years of academic study. I reached graduation with the greatest sense of gratitude for the ending of my life in the classroom/lecture theatre. Ready for a new life, I had some decisions to make about my special interest, my “Major” (in fashion, haircare and beauty)!

Chapter 18

The first decision was whether or not to purge my habit completely. Sadly, I had dressed only rather infrequently at Uni — so much for the freedom I had hoped for; there was still very little freedom in a conventionally-run system like the British Universities of 1968 to 1971. But nevertheless, I cherished my time as a girl, whenever I could make the time available in the degree of secrecy I needed. Not for a moment, yet, had I shared my crossdressing with others who might (or would definitely) enjoy the same past-times as I.

My girlfriend was still the same girlfriend at the end of my course as she had been at the start. A little older, for sure, and a little heavier, if I dare to mention it. But I had grown to love her. It hadn’t been a sudden “falling” for eachother, but rather a growing together. She was in total ignorance of my love of feminine things. I was pretty much convinced of that.

She didn’t know that, when we made love, I would often be imagining myself as a girl, doing things to a girl that I’d love to have done to me, if I was a girl!

Looking back, I must question myself about how fair it was that this situation had developed while, at the same time, our relationship moved inexorably towards marriage.

Should I have told her my secret? Conventional wisdom in the 21st century is that I should have done. But this was the late 1960s. Still hung-up! Loosening up… sure! But still hung up about something as ‘different’ as crossdressing.

I fancied the idea of being married, of sharing a home and a life together. She felt the same. We talked a lot about it from mid-way through my absence on the college course. We informally began to start saving money as best we could for a deposit to buy our own home on a mortgage. This meant really that it was she who did the saving. I had no regular income and there was only a small government grant for (squat-like!) living and Uni course expenses. My parents, luckily, were prepared to pay for my living expenses. Therefore, such money I had or could earn could be spent on dating, drinking and having fun with the two of us as equals.

Should I, could I, risk all of that for the sake of not having a guilty secret? I decided not. I had to keep my secret. And that meant agony over whether to purge myself or not.

--oo00oo–

Before marriage, my mind wandered back through what I would be giving up if I did thoroughly cleanse my life of all things to do with dressing. Which I concluded that I firmly intended to do.

There were other “Firsts” that I have yet to mention which had taken place either before of during my time at Uni. Here are but a few:

--oo00oo–

Once I had learnt how to apply mascara to my eyelashes, (having stabbed myself in the eye too many times but persevering), I bought eye shadow and eyeliner which, like Dusty’s was kohl black. I made terrible mistakes in those early attempts. Firstly, I fell into the trap of ignoring the guiding principle of “less is more”. Less make-up is more impactful, I know now, but took a long time to realize. (Well, there was nobody to tell me so!)

One time, I recall, I covered the entire upper and lower eyelids with black powdery shadow before lining the upper limits of both eyelids with black eyeliner pencil. I left long tails off away from the outer margins of each eye.

Dusty would have loved me…. But I realized, when I looked back away from the close-up to the mirror, that I looked like I died last week, or alternatively I was a Goth or Vampire! It all had to be washed off and the process started again.

Another time, again a ‘first’ I bought a pair of Eyelure Eyelashes, “falsies” if you like. The fashions of the year 1965 demanded the Mary Quant look from earlier in the decade. Make-up was heavy, eyes emphasized and accentuated. I was surrounded by girls with sharply-bobbed or back-combed hair and huge false eyelashes. I so much wanted to be like them, I HAD to get some of those lashes. Mere mascara was totally insufficient. Little did I know but the glue that is or was supplied with these lashes is like the glue I had made Airfix model airplanes with as a kid. It was glue, ok, but it wasn’t ideal for sensitive tissue round the eye. It peeled off in balls when too much, inevitably, was put on the lashes. That meant the glue would be found all over the eyelid as I tried, incompetently, to fix the lash along the line of my own eyelashes. I really needed help! But who was there to ask for that help. Nobody. At least nobody in my circle of friends, male or female.

So, for the first time, I had to get professional help — like I had done with the cutting and setting of my hair. Like I had so far ignored when buying clothes. I sorted out a story in my mind — it was gifted to me by Titania! I (would tell a beautician that I) was going to appear in a local AmDram performance of “The Dream” and I needed a make-up, including eyelashes!

Where should I go? (Bearing in mind I had no reason to be going anywhere with exaggerated lashes in place!) I just fancied the experience. My story would fit — because I’d already played Titania and could describe the role; I only had to invent the playhouse and company I’d be “working with”. I had therefore to use a Beautician’s salon relatively near to where I was living. That was either in my Uni city or near my parents’ home in north London. This was my final year, so I chose the first of these. There was little time enough to be at home with my girlfriend. At Uni, I did have spare time, for sure.

I chose a salon at random. I stalked the place several times, to see the type of clientele that used the place. Most seemed to be middle-aged, with just a few younger “Glamour Puss” types; you know the type; all tits and no brains. That’ll do, I thought!!

On approaching the salon, I was curiously and extremely nervous. All of a sudden; just like that first time going into the hair salon in Golders Green.

It proved to be totally the right place to choose. The story about Titania didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I was asked if I wanted a full eye make-up, rather than just the lashes… to which I answered “Yes, please” and for the next 20-25 minutes, I sat back and luxuriated in the cleansing, preparation, base foundation applying and colour application to make (what I couldn’t yet see) my eyes more beautiful than they ever had been. Finally, the lashes were stuck in place, with the right theatrical glue, and curled (along with my own sparse lashes). My eyes watered uncontrollably, so unusual was the feeling. My eyelids felt SO heavy.

And then I looked….

Into the mirror……!

Now, Dusty WOULD have loved me! Perfect! I left the salon after the darkness had descended, so I wouldn’t be discovered! I made my way back to my flat-share that had been home for more than a year. And the flat-mates who lived with me!

How to avoid confronting any one of them?

Sunglasses….. After darkness had fallen….??? Yes, that was my way of hiding my eyes, just in case I encountered a flat-mate… which, of course, I didn’t. I got back to the comfort and safety of m own room. Having no clothes with me, all I could do was complete the make-up with the foundation, blusher and lipstick that I had kept with me for nearly three years. Washing it all off, hours later, made me cry over my crossdressing for another……… first time.

Another “first” I remember came about the fourth or fifth visit I made to the hair salon — so I would have been about 15 years old, maybe just 16. 1966. I was travelling home on the bus, tight shortish curls all over my head this time. That Gypsy look of the time. I found myself staring at another woman across the aisle from my seat. Her hair was curly like my own, but it was blonde; bright peroxide silver blonde. And the curls were tight, even tighter than my own. My mousey-brown hair didn’t compare with hers.

I promised myself that, one day, I would be a silver blonde. It took me thirty years before I had the courage to go that far!

Instead, I bought that temporary rinse that I never used that year. It was two years or more later that I started experimenting with hair colour that would wash out less easily than it “says on the can!”

--oo00oo–

I’ll describe some other “firsts” later, Reader dear. Until then, back to the dawning of the real world. Forgive me if the following sounds gloomy and depressing. I don’t mean it to be so; my life was very good in those days.

After arriving home from Uni, with all my worldly possessions thrown into a suitcase spewed over my bedroom floor, I had a final discussion with myself about the decision to get rid of all my femme clothes and stuff. All of it. All of it lovingly accumulated over the previous five or six years. The panties, the bras, the stockings, the suspenders, the blouses, (now three of them), the trousers (“pants”) — but no skirt or dress. The make-up; lipsticks, foundation, blusher, eye liner and shadow.

I couldn’t risk it. Being discovered and having to explain.

We had set the date to get married. We got a loan to buy our first home. It was tiny and, among other things, had no places to hide… anything. I would have to lock my dressing away. Inside my head. I needed to anyway. It was dominating my everyday thoughts.

It’s now said that men think of sex ten times an hour, all day, every day. Well, a crossdresser thinks about his underwear ten times more than that…… and his hair….. and what other women are wearing….. and their make-up… and their hair. Often, we think of nothing else! Joy!! But it gets in the way of the rest of life. I loved to dress….. but all good things must come to an end — for a while, maybe.

Now, life was about getting married and setting up home. I had to think of other things. So I went through a purge. It all was put in a thick plastic sack and I took it away. It was put in somebody else’s trash….. It couldn’t be risked being found in my own house’s rubbish bin. How could that be explained? I don’t think easily!

So, this was the first “first” that I truly hated. I was miserable for days. Far from shutting my thoughts away, they became more dominant than ever. How I loved looking at other women — as I still do forty years later. I love them. I love the way they look. Their animation. Their attraction.

My first purge ensured I would never be free of this. I had thought maybe I would live down my obsession. Maybe it would go. Maybe I’d be normal in my own eyes as well as others’ — I hadn’t felt “normal” for several years. I didn’t hate myself as some of us do. But I didn’t think I was “normal”. Not at all.

I walked down the aisle in Church with not a single strand of femme clothing on. Without a strand of hair set on a curler. Without a vestige of make-up. I was a Boy again.

The one legacy left at the time was my skill in making love a special way. As if girl-on-girl.

Chapter 19, as yet unwritten, will explore the (rare) firsts in my early married life.