Workman: Chapter Five - Part Ten

The second the door snapped closed I felt mortified that I’d done that to her.

I wanted desperately to open the door and call after her; to put on the ring and run down the road after her; to take her in my arms. But I didn’t let myself. I forced myself to stay there, pressed against the door.

However uncomfortable I felt being a woman again I knew that I couldn’t go back. It was clearly too dangerous and I was playing with the emotions of that poor woman each time I did it. She was plainly very interested in me – in Geoff. Each time I saw her she would open her heart more and more. I couldn’t do that to her, knowing I was going to have to withdraw eventually.

No part of me wanted to become a man forever. Barriers were what I needed. I had to make it difficult to change again to deter any temptation I might have. For Sangeeta’s sake, if not for mine. I really did care about her feelings and hated to see her hurt.

I set my brow and charged upstairs, went through to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. It was still filled half and half with Geoff and Alison clothes. The Geoff ones had to go. If I threw them away then it would be a statement of intent – a symbol of my desire to remain a woman.

I went to grab out an armful of the men’s items but paused just short of doing so, looking from them to the flouncy airy-fairy dresses and skirts. The men’s clothes were just normal: comfortable and plain. The girly outfits were made from impractical material in garish colours. Being a man for a while had really allowed me to get an objective view of the woman I used to be. I really had been silly and effeminate. It was embarrassing.

But I was procrastinating again. I gritted my teeth and pulled out garment after garment, making a big pile on the bed. I cleared the wardrobe of every offending item and then struggled downstairs and outside with them to the wheelie bin. I couldn’t open it with the clothes in my arms so I dumped them onto the wet ground, threw back the lid then shoved them in, bodging them down with the rest of the garbage.

And then I realised what I’d done.

It had been the women’s clothes I’d brought down with me – not the men’s. The wheelie bin was full of all the brightly coloured silky outfits I’d owned as a woman.

I gaped down into there, stupidly. I gave a little jerk as though I might pull them out, but I didn’t follow through. The idea of taking clothes out of a dustbin was gross. But without them... Without them I didn’t have anything feminine to wear anymore.

“Hmmm.”

That actually gave me a slight feeling of... relief. Intellectually I knew that this was an influence of staying so long as a male, but the fact was, my feelings were telling me exactly what I wanted... and didn’t want.

It felt like my eyes had been opened – like a mirror had been held up in front of me. I had no intention of becoming a man again – I definitely didn’t want to stay one forever – but I was going to make a change in my life and ways. I’d wasted so much of my life mincing about obsessed with my hair and my clothes, tottering on high heels and spending hours to get ready.

That was going to change right now.

I slammed the lid down on the wheelie bin and marched back inside.

I pulled open the kitchen drawer and took out a pair of scissors then went through to the hall mirror, releasing my hair back down about my shoulders in a mane. I glared at it; at my reflection; then I snatched at it angrily, bunching it into my fist and raised the scissors to it. I held them there, my hand shaking slightly. The hair was gripped loosely at the base of my neck. If I snipped off the ponytail it would fall to about level with my chin.

That wasn’t enough.

I tightened my grip on the hair, sliding it up to the back of my head. That would be better by far. I lifted the scissors again to do it.

But was this really what I wanted? Or was it the ring making me think this way? It had to be the ring; that was obvious; but that made me want to go through with it all the more. Being a man had proven just what a waste of time it was flouncing about being feminine – how much more I could achieve if I dispensed with all of that and just got on with things. I might not want to be a man for the rest of my life but I did want to be more that kind of person.

This had to be done so that if and when these feelings wore off I’d be reminded of the kind of person I was determined to be now.

I snipped at the ponytail. It didn’t go right through on the first snap. Part of it felt free. I kept on working at it, feeling a pent up quiver of near hysteria. The thickest middle section took a while to hack through but I kept going, locks swinging free to the sides of my face. The cut hair cascaded down around my feet. This was a mistake – surely it was a mistake – but I kept going, staring with slightly crazed eyes at myself. Then with one final snip, the last of it fell away.

I lowered my hand and the hair I had left fell round my face, roughly level with my ears, hanging very straight but fanning out at the ends.

I stroked it down, smiling nervously at myself, afraid I’d just made a terrible mistake. It didn’t look too bad, though would need neatening up, obviously. I fingered it, turning my head from side to side.

Then I looked absently toward the kitchen. I looked back at my hair in the mirror. It didn’t look so flouncy but it was still very feminine and would definitely require a long washing and setting process every morning to look right. I was tired of that, I really was.

This wasn’t enough. I had to go further.

And I knew where my mum had kept the clippers she used when she cut my dad’s hair. In the kitchen drawer.

I looked again at my mirror image, touching the sides of my new shorter hair. Then I walked through to the kitchen.