A new woman

Diana Thomas’s transgender diary

Off I drove to London to have my flapping tarpaulin of weaves and extensions tied back down, nice and tight to my skull. But I swiftly discovered that a lot had changed at the Lucinda Ellery salon since my last visit in February.

This was a hairdresser’s… but not as we know it. I couldn’t get through the door without signing a form confirming that I was Covid-free. I couldn’t get past the hall without sanitising my hands, and putting on gloves, a plastic apron and a face mask.

The receptionists were sitting behind screens. The salon staff all wore PPE. There were far fewer clients than usual, and they were either kept at least two metres apart, or separated by more screens.

When my mask slipped a little while my extensions were being redone, I was instantly instructed to replace it in the correct position. The in-house coffee bar, which had been the social centre of the salon, was closed. The only available drink was water in paper cups, and I had to fetch it.

Of course, I understood that rules must be obeyed. Staff and clients need to feel safe. I was incredibly grateful to the women who had come so cheerfully and competently to work. It was lovely to see my beloved stylist Emilia, even if she was forbidden from giving me more than a basic brush and a few haircare tips. And, oh, the deep, confidence-building joy of having hair that felt and looked as it should after all those weeks of flapping about.

But still, driving home in blazing sunworried shine, I that this will become the new normal. Might an excessive fear of Covid keep us all in a sanidistanced, tised, ecodevastated nomically half-life, long after any actual threat has disappeared? Very possibly, but for now I had another more urgent problem. My sister and four of my beloved fellowwere choristers coming to my place at 5.30pm for cakes and prosecco in the garden. And a serious social crisis was in the offing. Knowing that I’d be spending all morning out of the house, I’d done my baking the afternoon before. It seemed like a good plan. It was actually a disaster.

I put regular flour in a chocolate and banana cake that required selfraising. My sponges were stodgy. My can’t-fail-never-fails soda bread was an inedible failure and my guests were due in two hours. Crisis management was required.

I found half a loaf of successful soda bread in the freezer and zapped it in the microwave. On went lashings of smoked salmon and – trust me, this works – sharp, acidic sauerkraut.

I took one of the unrisen sponges, called it a flan base and covered it with an improvised mess of homemade raspberry jam, macerated strawberries, whipped cream and Greek yogurt, pink meringues and a hastily confected raspberry coulis.

Funny how hot you get, making a cold pudding. And I still had to carry the food, booze, water, plates, glasses and cutlery down three flights to the garden.

By 5.15pm I was exhausted, sweaty and reeking. I had a speedy wash, slapped on some make-up, brushed my hair and decided that the linen top I’d been wearing all day (sleeveless, thank heavens, so not too malodorous) would have to do for the party as well.

Then the panic was forgotten as my guests arrived and greeted one another like the long-lost friends we all were.

As the scorching afternoon drifted into a balmy summer evening, we sat in the shade of a huge old tree. The fizz was still cold. The food was not entirely disastrous. Even my botched chocolate and banana cake was borderline delicious.

Above all, we talked and laughed. I basked in the wonderful atmosphere that six women who like, and even love, one another very much can create. This was the fellowship that lockdown had denied us, and it was followed later that evening with a Whatsapp chat that was almost as much fun as the party. The only things missing were the hugs and kisses with which we should have greeted one another and said goodbye.

I desperately felt the lack of that human contact. But at least I’d had hair, cake, fizz and friendship. And for now that was more than enough.

We talked and laughed. I basked in the wonderful atmosphere that six women who like one another very muchcancreate