The wrong trousers

David Thomas’s transgender diary

Not long ago, my haircare routine went as follows… Step into nice hot shower. Use shampoo (any will do) on short, balding crop of hair. Rinse. Step out of shower. Rub hair vigorously with towel. Job done. What carefree, innocent days those were!

Today, as I look at my dressing table, I see a hairdryer, a curling tong, a hot air styler (which, for the uninitiated, like me, is a combination brush and dryer), six different types of brush, a Click N Curl set of rollers, a comb with a wicked-looking metal detangler on one end, eight hair clips, one hair claw, several scrunchies, 50 hairbands and goodness knows how many pins.

To go with that I have special shampoo and conditioner, two pre-blowdry conditioners (one cream, one spray), hairthickening spray, antifrizz spray, Moroccanoil and a gigantic canister of actual hairspray.

And the truly mindbona-fide boggling thing is this: I actually do need this stuff.

Yes, that’s right. To the personal maintenance madness of depilation, hormone replacement, vocal training and assorted surgeries, we can now add the acquisition of a head of thick, shoulder-length hair (roughly 60 per cent my own). It’s a dark, reddishbrown, spookily reminiscent of my mother’s natural colour, artfully enlivened with paler brown and honey-blonde highlights.

The process of getting it took 12 hours, spread over two days at the Lucinda Ellery salon in west London. On day one, a lady called Michelle, who grew up just around the corner from where I used to live in Fulham back in the ’80s, coloured my own hair to match the stuff that was going to be added to it on day two.

That took around three hours, and by the time that Michelle had given me a proper, professional blow-dry, the results looked so good that I almost said, ‘That’ll do nicely,’ before cancelling everything else. Then I remembered the size of my pre-paid deposit and decided to stick with Plana.

At 9am on day two, I reported for duty again, and a lovely lady called Maria laid down the complicated pattern of meshes, weaves and extensions with which my own hair was combined.

In the afternoon, Emilia – an actual, genius – styled it all into a proper hairdo.

The whole event became quite a social occasion. A friend of mine, Suzy, who has long suffered from hair loss, was getting her problem fixed on the same day, so we sat at adjacent chairs and chatted the hours away.

We broke for lunch – a large, mayonnaisey, chicken and avocado sandwich, with a delicious banana smoothie for me; a few bits of apple and cheese, plus water for Suzy – before returning to the afternoon session. Then, towards the end of the day, as the final blowing and spraying was going on, my friend Amanda, who lives just around the corner from the salon, popped in for a gossip and a glass of prosecco.

Everyone agreed that the finished result was a-may-zing. But when I got home that night, the bouncy, flicky, super-feminine gorgeousness of my hair seemed to point up all my facial failings. I had yet another one of my mini-meltdowns.

Now, I know that my inability to see my face as others do has a neurological basis. My brain is simply used to seeing a particular image of me in the mirror. It could take months for it to adjust to the new reality. Even so, by the time I went to bed, I was seriously contemplating calling the salon and telling them to take it all out.

The next day was my birthday, which I was celebrating at a local restaurant with Nik, Corina and Margaret, who are fellow choristers and three of my absolute besties.

I fought the desire to cancel the whole thing, told myself to tran-up, put on a little black dress and took my hair to dinner.

It went really well. My friends loved my new look, and showered me with compliments, cards, presents and champagne. It was a lovely, warm, mood-lifting occasion.

Towards the end of a delicious meal, the waitress came to tell Corina that the soufflé she had ordered for pudding hadn’t risen and it would take 10 minutes to make another. She then turned to the rest of us and asked, “Would you ladies like your desserts now, or would you prefer to wait?”

And, as my heart did a happy little dance, I decided that I might just keep my new hair, after all.

To the personal maintenance madness, we can now add theacquisitionofaheadof thick, shoulder-length hair (roughly 60 per cent my own)