A Kind of Justice by Renee James

Author:Renee James
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2016-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

15

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24

WHEN I WAS transitioning, Marilee used to tell me that my adolescent urges to dress like a slut and constantly examine my body and fantasize about lovers just reflected the fact that as a female, my emotional development was that of a teenage girl even though I was well into my thirties as a human being.

This is one of those times where I think I haven’t come very far. I’m doing hair in the SuperGlam stand at the Chicago Beauty Extravaganza. I have poured my muscular, oversized body into a tiny pink dress, stiletto heels, and fishnet stockings. One of the other hairdressers gave me a big sexy up-do, and I’m wearing heavy black eye makeup with false lashes big enough to squash flies. Most street walkers would consider my presentation too outlandish for humanity’s oldest profession. It’s especially gauche for a woman in her forties. I’d never dress like this in my personal life, not even in the edgy atmosphere of the salon. But it’s the SuperGlam uniform of the day, and I’m luxuriating in complying with company policy.

I’m having a great time. I love doing hair in front of an audience, I love the theater of the show. People stop and gawk. I hear the occasional nasty remark and cruel laugh, but mostly I get silent appreciation and serious questions about my technique. I’m doing formal hair, and I’m worth watching.

The crowds on the display floor start to evaporate in the late afternoon as people head for a special show in the main theater. It’s a welcome break. My feet and lower back are aching from wearing heels all day, two days in a row. We take a break. The models fade away to the other exhibits or watch the big show. The SuperGlam staffers do the same. I kick off my heels and enjoy the cloudlike sensation of walking on my bare feet.

I head for the exhibitor lounge where it’s okay for me to sit down. I’m looking forward to getting off my feet, having a long cold glass of water, and maybe reading the paper or chatting with other show people. I am still deep in thought when someone overtakes me from behind and slides an arm through mine. As I look to my side to see who it is, she gives my arm a playful hug.

“Hi, cutie.” It’s Jen. My first lover as Bobbi. We met at a hair show when I was transitioning and had a torrid affair for a year or so. It was a long-distance relationship, and that was hard. She lived in Indianapolis, me in Chicago. After the novelty wore off, we sort of drifted into a friendship, then a distant friendship.

“Hi, gorgeous.” I smile. Our familiar old greetings. I loved being called “cute” because I’m so self-conscious about my size and masculine features, and Jen loved to make me feel good about myself. She liked being called “gorgeous,” too, because she knew I meant it, though when she presented in a butch outfit, I called her “handsome” with the same results.

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