RANSVESTIA

The hour that followed was one of the most torturous I'd ever spent in my life. But at the end of this time I could only look at the results in the mirror and say, "Wendell, you're a cotton-pickin' genius."

"I'm a professional." he said.

"Well, yes...

―

"You talk too much and also too loud. Not so much through your nose. Try a throaty whisper or you won't fool a soul."

I looked back at the mirror and tried it. "Yes," I breathed, “I see what you mean."

"Now you sound like you have asthma, but work on it, while I get ready."

"Ready?" For some reason I hadn't thought about what Wendell was going to do.

Cinderella must have an escore

"Yes or she won't get in the door. And I'm the only one here with an invitation." He went into an adjoin- ing room, leaving me alone with myself a pretty unnerving experience by this time. I went back to the mirror and tried to make voice sounds to match the image.

What I said about Wendell being a genius was true enough. He had given me a very long, full wig that rippled down over my shoulders, fram- ing my face. As for the rest, he had selected a tissue-thin gown of the palest blue satin that reflected and revealed every curve of my body. This was truly astonishing, because I hadn't any curves worth talking about before we had started. I tentatively moved about on my dancing slippers, made of some clear material that had been cut and sculptured to reflect a thousand points of light. I began to feel a very strange feeling sweep over me, so that I wanted to laugh and jump up and down and cry all at the same time. "Marvelous,” said a low voice from the doorway and I whirled about, the full skirt clinging to my legs.

"Who are you?" I asked the figure standing there wearing a dinner jacket and cummerbund.

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