RELUCTANT PRESS

passed me by in the hallway without saying anything. But several girls who I was friendly with, and even a few I hardly knew, commented on my "cute new haircut". By the end of lunch in the cafeteria I had relaxed and was beginning to enjoy the favorable comments from the girls.

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Mom finished up school and started her job. It took a lot out of her as she worked long hours and so I volunteered to take on more of the housework, but on the condition that Mom not tell anybody about it. I felt it was such a threat to what little manhood I had. During the week after the hairdressing contest I found that the two pairs of panties I had worn that weekend showed up in my dresser drawer, freshly laundered. And the nightie was hung on a satin hanger in my closet. Mom received a framed, 12x14 copy of the picture of us at the hairdressing school with her holding her trophy. I almost blew a gasket when I found it prominently displayed on top of the TV one evening. I talked her into removing it to her bedroom, arguing that all her friends knew she did not have a niece and that the resemblance to me, despite the make-up and hair style, was too close not to raise questions.

There were several times over the next few months when Mom would hold the picture in her hand and comment on how pretty I looked.

"Would you like to dress up again, Danny?" "NO WAY!" I responded, too forcefully.

In fact, there were times when I would love to have changed back into Danielle, and there had been a few times when I had come home from school and put on the panties while I did my housework. Since I now did the laundry, I could wash them and return them to my dresser without Mom knowing. I could not understand my feelings, especially getting an erection every time I even thought about putting on the silky underwear. I was so afraid I was "queer" which was something I did not really understand but which seemed to be the worst thing in the world for a boy to be, at least according to the way the other boys at school talked.

Eventually Mom stopped mentioning me dressing as a girl. I did continue to set her hair every night, learning new ways to style it and even how to put it up in French twists or chignons or curly up-do's. But there was no longer any ex-

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RUFFLES & CURLES

By Kammi Morton

cuse for her to set my hair which was disappointing. I was afraid if I asked her to do such a thing she would think there was something wrong with me and send me off to a doctor to be treated. After all, what boy enjoyed getting curlers put in his hair? I did allow her to cut my hair in the style she wanted and to keep it frosted.

In summer I even let her go a little lighter. While most of the guys let their hair grow long, they did not take care of it properly and let it hang straggly and dirty. I, on the other hand, shampooed my hair every morning and used a cream rinse so it was always clean and shiny. Girls would often comment on how nice it looked and some even would ask me what I did to keep it looking so nice.

I found I had more friends. Increasingly among the girls rather than boys, though I did not have "girlfriends". I was not the sports type and found it easier to talk to girls and

vice versa.

I found myself sitting in class studying the girls' hair styles and thinking about what setting pattern and size rollers they would have used. I would think about how another style might be more flattering and how some subtle highlighting or change in color might be better. And I would study their clothes, admiring a well pressed pleated skirt and blouse and, when I really let myself drift off, wondering how a particular outfit would look on me.

When I discovered myself thinking like that I would actually blush in class and tell myself not to have those thoughts. I was a boy!

I should be admiring their breasts or their legs! But when I tried to force myself to think like this it would lead to wondering about what slips, bras, and panties they were wearing and remembering fondly those few days when I had been similarly attired.

I began to wonder if I was indeed "queer", now knowing just what this meant. But when I thought about it I decided I did not have any feelings toward boys and the idea of kissing one or doing other things repulsed me. So what was I? I did not know who I could talk to about this. My mother? The school counselor? The minister? Surely there was not another boy in the whole world who got aroused thinking about getting his hair curled and wearing girls' clothes!

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