A new woman

Diana Thomas’s transgender diary

I sat down in front of my MacBook. I wriggled my shoulders and rolled my head to get myself nice and loose. Then I opened up my Gmail page, created a new message and addressed it.

Next I needed a title, something attention-grabbing that would stand out from hundreds of others just like it.

I thought for a moment, nodded to myself as the right words came to mind and wrote, ‘In which I get on my knees and beg…’

Yes, that would do nicely. Now for an opening line to satisfy the expectations I had just created. It took a few goes, but then I came up with, ‘Have I ever said what a wonderful, fabulous, saintly human being you are?’ Excellent!

So began a couple of hunof dred words shameless, 100 per cent dignity-free grovelling. I threw personal principles and professional ethics to the wind. And I did so in an outrageously exaggerated fashion, hoping that I might, with any luck, get a few laughs along the way, thereby increasing a feeling of goodwill towards me.

Any gentlemen reading this might wonder who or what could possibly induce me to behave so pathetically, with such a total lack of pride or selfrespect. Ladies, however, will surely require no explanation. They will sigh, ‘Well, obviously…’ when I reveal that it was the bookings manager at my hair salon.

For the time is coming near – and, Boris, if it isn’t, you can forget about getting my vote in 2024 – when the greatest stampede in British hiswill tory take place, as 52 per cent of the population fight tooth and nail for space in their hairdressers’ seats. Forget sisterhood, this is every woman for herself.

As with so many other aspects of female presentation, however, being trans brings added complications. My hair is a mind-blowingly expensive melange of transplants, weaves and extensions. The effect is incredible, though jolly hot when striding across the South Downs on a glorious May aftereven noon. so, I don’t regret a single penny. But… BUT…

The bits of my ’do that aren’t actually my own hair, are attached to the bits that are. My weaves are like a tent, with my real hair as guy ropes. As time goes by, my hair grows, taking my weaves with it. So eventually that tent starts to lose its grip and flap around.

The whole shebang is taped down at the front, along my hairline. I can tighten it by pulling everything forward. But this, of course, moves my hairline a little further down my forehead.

Each time I tighten, a little bit more facial skin disappears as the tide of hair rolls inexorably onwards. If I have to wait much longer for my weaves to be professionally adjusted, my descending hairline will meet my surgically lifted brows.

Should we get as far as midsummer without professional attention, my hair will be over my brows, halfway down my nose and I will only be able to see by cutting eyeholes in my mind-blowingly expensive hair-mask.

Nor is this my only hair-related crisis. In the absence of regular laserzapping and electrolysis, my facial and body hair – so painfully removed at, yes, such considerable expense – is also staging a major comeback.

We’re talking upper-lip stubble, hairy nipples, goaty legs, an appalling agglomeration of head-to-toe horrors. What with the vanishing forehead, I look more like a yeti with every passing day. But I have not come this far to give up that easily.

I recently bought myself a handheld Braun ‘Silk-expert Pro 5’ device that fires blasts of Intense Pulsed Light (IPL) at my rebellious follicles, punishing them with quite a satisfying level of sting. (Quick tip: if your chosen hair-removal method doesn’t hurt, it isn’t working.)

It’s still not enough to clear the last black beard-hairs clinging to my face with dandelion-like tenacity, but it’s left my legs and chest so satisfyingly smooth that I’m moving on to arms, pits and, uh, lower abdomen as well. This enables me to feel that I am still driving the transition process forwards, despite the total cessation of civilised life as we know it.

Still, my efforts will all be in vain if I don’t get my hair fixed. My email seemed to do the trick. I successfully barged my way on to the appointments list. When the salon opens, I will be there. If it ever opens…

When the greatest stampede in British history takes place, 52 per cent of the population will fight tooth and nail for a space in their hairdressers’ seats