Black Friday, rainbow Saturday

 Two US festivities they've gone for here in Italy are Hallowe'en and Black Friday. I went out yesterday to start my Christmas shopping early so that the festivities don't become too stressful nearer the event. I really don't cope well with deadlines these days!

I got a lot of good discounts: 25% off a Christmas tree, 15% off books, 30% off decorations... That's how we like it! And it's more like how sales used to be - something off everything two or three times a year rather than the almost perpetual offers that have bedevilled shops in big cities over the last quarter century, where the only bargains are the unsaleable junk that nobody wanted to buy in the first place.

One of my earliest jobs was in London's well-known Harrods department store, shortly after Mohamed Al-Fayed had bought the shop after a notorious takeover battle with equally dubious businessman, Tiny Rowland, CEO of Lonrho (now Lonmin), an African mining conglomerate (the one that shot 100 striking workers a decade ago). Nice people both! But that's all history now. As are Al-Fayed's sexcapades, which were well known even then. Immediately he took over he started sending scouting parties to the Harrods sales floors to spot the most attractive female employees and invite them to work in his secretariat. Having pretty staff around him made him a better manager, apparently. I wasn't pretty enough, thankfully. I was there just to work over the winter sales period, when sales were on just twice a year because everything was discounted (i.e. reduced to what would be a typical high street price rather than the Harrods' markup). To be fair, there could be some genuine bargains on discontinued lines, which explained why some eager shoppers would queue for a day or even two beforehand. The unlocking of the doors on Day 1 of the sale saw a most undignified stampede very uncharacteristic of the well-heeled locality. I wonder if the poor doorman got a suit of armour and a cattle prod to protect himself! 

Harrods is a fascinating place, with an underground city to serve it. Our department's deposit was a good ten minutes walk from our sales floor by underground streets (with street names), with a constant traffic of electric buggies, loaders and forklifts; you'd go up and down in passenger lifts and goods elevators. Harrods has a vast staff canteen,  enormous staff bathroom with shower cubicles, lines of basins and dozens of stalls (with graffiti that expanded my English vocabulary considerably). Staff are forbidden from using the customer toilets (and a good job too if the staff graffiti is anything to go by). Harrods even has its own well to draw up the water it uses in its bathrooms, fountains and taps. ...I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this; maybe it's interesting, topical .... ah yes, because retail sales used to be a worthwhile thing and I got that feeling again this weekend.

On my way home with my bags yesterday, this glimpse of Venus above the palms looked so much like the star of Bethlehem of a million-and-one Christmas cards that I couldn't resist snapping it.

Next week I will be in Milan where the Christmas lights are always pretty, especially in the Quadrilateral (the fashion district). There's also a jolly Christmas market around the cathedral. So I hope to post some nice photos when I'm back. I will be seeing a family member so there will be no fem time, unfortunately. But I will be looking for a Christmas cosplay outfit as I enjoyed my Hallowe'en witch time last month and want to repeat the fun.

 

Rainbow solidarity

Thanks to Stana of Femulate for posting the photo I sent for her regular Femulating Out and About feature. I sent it for solidarity with my US trans sisters who are worried about the future. We are with you and will support you all the way. American trans bloggers like Stana, Hannah, Marian and others should be thanked for maintaining their trans blogs in the face of provocation.

I sent this pic as it's perhaps my favourite from this year and is similar to the one that has been the background image to my blog since its inception. I just feel at my most relaxed, happy and authentic among the quiet greenery in beautiful parks with trans friends with me. 

 

This was taken at Dunrobin Castle in the far North of Scotland in May.

The friend I was with on that occasion, Roz, has sent me a photo of her training as a conductress on the trams at the National Tramway Museum that I described in my last post and I've added it there as their trans-friendly recruitment policy was noteworthy. There are quite a number of trans women I know (at least three others in addition to Roz) volunteering at these heritage sites so they're obviously a bit of a haven for us. For me it was the art world that was a haven for my female side.

As this trans memorial month ends, I remain optimistic that most people are OK with trans people when they actually meet them. Governments (especially those brought in by Russian interference) may not be, but governments need a scapegoat or distraction from their own incompetence and machinations and it seems to be us this time. I hope those of us who are more out than average can find solidarity. The overwhelming majority of trans people are in stealth anyway, which means that any persecutions will miss that majority but could end up uncovering a lot of leading government and authority figures who were trans all along but were themselves in stealth mode. How embarrassing!

Sue x

Stealthy conspirators, kitten cuddles and bone rattlers

 As an agent of the gender bender agenda to turn everyone in the world trans (as the righteous, true and oh-so-noble phobes insist) I need to meet with fellow conspirators from time to time so we can plot domination. So when I was holidaying in Britain in September, as well as Brighton, Bolton and Manchester, I went to the East Midlands to catch up with a couple of trans friends, Emma who has featured many times in these pages, and Lynn of YATGB and Nottingham Chameleons fame. What is truly sinister about us trans agents is that we don't always present in our preferred gender and can disguise ourselves as bona fide 'normals' and no-one can tell. We're that good at disguise. How can the anti-trans police deal with us 'pretenders in suspenders' if we won't make ourselves known at all times? It's a fiendish plot, eh readers?

Anyway it was very nice to catch up with these two stalwarts over brunch in a café in Leicestershire. Lynn mentioned this meetup at the end of this blog post of hers (and it took her less time to report back on it than it's taken me ...what? I've been busy!) It wasn't all trans plotting, of course, but chat about music, comedy, and other things of mutual interest. I hope to be back in that area again soon.

I also went to stay with a family of friends in Nottingham who have just acquired three very sweet kittens, and the kittens and I got along very well. It's not always easy to drink a mug of tea when you are the new designated kitten mattress, or you are trying to dress but the kittens are turning your bedroom into a playground, but we managed somehow.

I took a trip with my friends to Derbyshire. Cromford is a charming village with a mill pond and dramatic scenery, and a bizarre multi-storey bookshop, Scarthins, more or less built of bookcases groaning under the weight of tomes, including one case that turns to reveal a secret room behind, like the sort you'd find in some Scooby-Doo haunted mansion for Velma to fall behind. In this case the secret room is the café (with garden) where they cook a fine homity pie (potato, leek, onion and cheese). It's mad and fun. And, appropriately enough, the manager is one Mr Booker!

A short distance away is the National Tramway Museum where a large number of historic trams are nicely preserved in tramsheds and several double-decker bone-rattlers trundle up and down the tracks for visitors to ride. You get an old penny as an entry ticket, hand it to the uniformed conductor and they give you a proper ticket in exchange.

This was a lot of fun and in addition to riding the old trams there are some rather nice paths through the woods, a sculpture park and a 'village' with pub, post office and shops. 

I note that the museum has a very LGBT-friendly recruitment policy and a trans friend of mine is in training there to become a conductress. She's hoping eventually to become one of their tram drivers, which looks fun. Sadly, she wasn't working the weekend we went there. 

[Add 30/11: Said friend Roz has sent me this photo of her as a trainee conductress in uniform on a Blackpool tram that was running the weekend before I went. ]

My journey back to London the next day was appalling, with long train delays and alternative routes required and I lost a lot of time which prevented my doing some things I'd been planning to do which were rather important. Although I did get a full refund on my ticket from East Midlands Trains - and good on them for that - it doesn't compensate me for the overall losses. I have honestly to say that I think UK transport systems are broken. In the four trips I've made there in 2023 and 2024 barely any of my journeys around the country were trouble-free. Even the taxi to the airport the day after picked me up thirty minutes late and the security staff at London's Heathrow Airport were their usual officious, abusive, contemptuous, racist selves. It's certainly the nastiest airport of any I've ever been to, even more so than New York's JFK which employs the second most unpleasant staff in the world. I had hoped to maintain a presence in Britain but I honestly feel it is a lost cause and so I am winding down there. It's a great shame but political, societal and systemic failures there need to be addressed very seriously and swiftly.

That concludes my description of my trip to England in September. It was a joy to meet up with old friends and, for the most part, be out fully femme or be seeing trans friends in stealth mode. Thanks to everyone who met up with me and I'll try to catch the ones I missed next time.

Sue x

Passing frontiers

I went to the frontier, intending to be awed by the dramatic scenery. I was, but I also suffered gender dysphoria. You might ask how.

Well, I took the train from Italy to the first town in France, which is Menton. It's a pretty place sometimes referred to as "the pearl of France". From the town centre, where I took this photo, it's a little over a mile to the Italian frontier. You see that crack in the mountain towards the right? That's the frontier.

The viaduct on the left a third of the way up the mountain carries France's A8 motorway that melds seamlessly into Italy's A10 motorway. It's all part of the E80 route from Lisbon, capital of Portugal, to Mount Ararat on the Turkish-Iranian border where it joins Asian Highway AH1 to Tokyo. So if you fancy taking your bored kids on an 18,000-mile long car journey next Sunday afternoon, you could consider this. I mention the road as it will be part of the story. And also because a route 18,000 miles (29,000 km) long is a pretty awesome thought.

On the very far right of my photo, in Italy, are the famous Balzi Rossi, the "Red Cliffs", with their beach of curious egg-shaped pebbles (which you are forbidden from removing), the famous Michelin-starred restaurant of the same name, and the especially famous caves that have been home to mankind for an estimated half a million years.

The French frontier post is right at sea level. I was splashed by the churning waves as I approached. But it's an open border under the European Union's Schengen agreement* and despite my feminine attire and shoulder bag, spattered with salt water and flecks of seaweed as they were, the police didn't even look at me. My face is my fortune here: I am white, you see, and obviously a local. 

(*The border is not as open as the law says, as we shall see.)

It is exciting here. Political geography fascinates me. Why do we plot borders where we do? Furthermore, I was brought up in the Cold War and I can't help thinking of borders as ultimate heart-stopping moments where your escape or mission will meet with success in safe haven ...or in recognition, failure and possibly death. I have my ID card in my pocket. Could it be a forgery? It might fool the uniformed cops but will it fool the snoops in their macintoshes and homburg hats? Agent Sue sashays towards freedom, attempting nonchalance ...

I digress. Here is the dramatic frontier landscape I have come to see. I am a few yards into Italy, standing on the San Ludovico bridge over a small torrent that meets the sea just behind me. The Italian border post is the red-orange building up on the right of the upper, San Luigi, bridge.
 

I cross back into France to take the upper road. 

I am now approaching that narrow San Luigi bridge. The white triangle marks the frontier for the benefit of ships at sea. The fruit lorry is in France, the tiny wine shop perched over the chasm is just within Italy. Their only customers are French - Italian booze is cheaper, you see. 

The space is too narrow for me adequately to photograph the terrifying defile by the bridge, that crack in the mountain you saw in the first photo. It is over 100 metres (330 feet) from the path above to the torrent below.

 

But the near sheer drop to the sea from where I'm standing is also hair-raising.

The old smuggler's route across the border is called Paradise Pass. There's a similar Bandits Pass at the top of the mountain I live on.

But Paradise Pass is also known locally as the Pass of Death (Passo della Morte). It's even beginning to appear as such on official maps now, like the one I am carrying.

Why would Paradise Pass, that sounds idyllic, end up being called the Pass of Death? 

Because so many people die trying to cross the border. I can cross at will as I am a European Citizen. If I wasn't, I'd have a Schengen visa. I actually crossed six times that day! But refugees, mainly from war-torn Africa and the Middle East, do not, so crossing into France is illegal. This is the end of the migrant conveyor that begins in Southern Italy on boats, at least for those who have survived the journey across the Mediterranean. They make their way up Italy, some obtaining permission to stay, others not. They want to get to France as much of Africa is former French colonies, they speak French and usually have relatives and friends already in France. A new, better life awaits. 

Despite the Schengen agreement, the border is not, in fact, open. Not to them at least, and to a degree, not even to me, as the French police are crawling all over the frontier. Every train across the border must stop at Menton Garavan to be searched. They usually barely glance at me. But anyone who is not white gets asked for their papers. There is always a handful of people hauled off, charged, and then minibussed back to Italy. I pass the Italian border post and a young soldier and I exchange good days as I go to a bar for some tea. On my way back I witness a handover. The same soldier accepts paperwork from a plainclothes French police officer, whose tall muscly colleague is bringing along three migrants all handcuffed to him. The young Indian on his right is trembling as he brushes past me. They are not mistreated, but the adrenalin and worry tell.

They are the lucky ones. Others, not able to cross by train, try more dangerous methods. They pay a passeur, a person to smuggle them across, on foot, by lorry or van. The price is high to reflect the illegality of the move. Not everyone can afford it. Some try to ride under trains. They usually get sniffed out by the Italian police and troops crawling all over the last station in Italy. Some migrants discover there's a nice hiding space under the pantograph on top of a train. Electric trains are a rarity in Sub-Saharan Africa so they don't know that when the train starts, the current will kill them. Others try to cross by the motorway viaducts and tunnels. There are no pavements, the drop into the ravine is immensely deep, the traffic fast moving. Many have died one way or the other. You could swim, but the currents and eddies here where the mountains tumble into the sea are treacherous. Olympians only, therefore. One man recently made it, only to be apprehended by the police as he crawled exhausted up the beach. You could try crossing higher up the mountains which rise steeply for the next 300 miles to the three-mile-high massif of Mont Blanc. The clothes you wore in the tropics are no use here in the snowfields of the high Alps; many freeze to death.

The rest try crossing the border on foot here at Paradise Pass, the Pass of Death. By night, of course. Once at the high point of the smuggler's path your instinct is to make towards the lights of Menton. But that instinct is fatal; no-one has ever survived the 300 foot sheer drop. Counterintuitively, you must follow the path away from apparent salvation, you must scrabble through undergrowth, clamber up the rocks, cut through the barbed wire fence at the top and scramble down the other side of the mountain. On the Italian side, kind people have put luminous markers, placed planks and hung ropes at strategic points. You mustn't assist an undocumented migrant directly as that will land you in trouble with the law. They are undocumented by now as they shed their clothes and papers in the ravine, and their old names and identities with them, and put on smarter clothes to enter a better life, leaving the old one behind, the life that didn't work.

As a trans woman, that last bit of the story hits me in the gut. As did sight of the rock monument by the French border post to those who didn't make it, titled "The Third Paradise". 

 

It is neglected and weed-ridden, the plaques with names now half hidden and some broken. Names that are known, that is. Others are never known, those of people who have simply ceased to exist, unknown to anyone.

 

At this point I cry. The next day will be Transgender Day of Remembrance, another testament to those who didn't make it to a better life. Maybe it is unsuitable to associate the story of dead migrants with trans people dying for having transitioned but I cannot help the parallels striking me. But many of these migrants leave home because they are LGBT+ and fear for their lives. I myself am wearing women's clothing, but I am not presenting as female here. There is a difference, and it's a barrier that I don't feel secure enough to cross yet.

A piece of graffiti in France says quite simply: la frontière tue. Not so simple to translate. It means both the border (i.e. this border) kills and borders (in general) kill. Barriers of all kinds do kill. And to think that plenty of people rejoice at that.

I go home awed by the scenery as intended, and sobered by the suffering. 

Take care.

Sue x

You jump out of bed like a cute little Pop-Tart

 Say what? Lady, I've never jumped out of bed in my life!

This description of how a TGirl's day starts was a well-intentioned attempt at trans-positive meditation by a vlogger. I have some alternative trans Pop-Tart positives below, but here's how my day starts... 

My day begins by finally realising, after much meditation, that I really cannot justify lying in bed any longer, oozing myself out from the sheets, attempting to sit and put on my slippers which the mischievous monster under my bed has invariably swapped about in the night so they're on the wrong feet. I then try to put on my dressing gown that the sniggering elves have bunched up so my arms won't go in the sleeves. I blink bleary-eyed out of the window at the unpromising dawn and stumble to the bathroom where I gasp at my unmade-up face in the mirror and sidle away like Dracula would from his reflection. The bathroom is a den of lurid potions and ablutions, the laboratory of Doctor Frankenstein preparing body parts for coherence. My roughly-assembled frame then clumps stiffly to the kitchen to boil a kettle to make tea, the first stage in the revivifying process. It will be many hours before full consciousness is achieved. Whilst awaiting active life status, I surf social media till a sense of futility overcomes interest. Pop•Tarts™ have never attained existence in my kitchen cupboards; the place where they might have stood stands empty, accusing, mocking, making me aware of my lack of full connectedness with the modern world; I am an underachiever in consumer desire. From here on, there can be only more such inadequacy and loss, accumulating till the grave. I realise have become the subject of my own Werner Herzog documentary. The horror of that thought awakens me ...to begin an extended meditation on whether I can justify lying in bed any longer or whether I must ooze myself out from the sheets ...

Look, if you can jump out of bed voluntarily like a cute little Pop-Tart, be my pretty little guest! Either that, or your electric blanket has just short-circuited and the shock has hurled you out of bed like the said tart from a toaster. ...Actually, maybe that's what the vlogger meant all along!

The point is, your experience may differ. As may your electricity bill.

Today I thought I'd talk of a few other slightly random things that might interest readers that have been suggested to me by comments here or that I have found via other blogs or vlogs like the above or that are left over from earlier posts. Dysphoria warning, mind: these trans/CD items are very cute.

I did do some more photos as a silver witch at Hallowe'en after I had posted here. I had tried various combinations of hair, footwear and hosiery. My final change after blogging that day was to wear straightforward sheer grey tights.

Cute enough, but not so inspiring. These tights were matt when gloss would have worked better. By now I was too sleepy to continue so I called it a day. Still, it was a very fun day and I must do some more cosplay soon. Mother Christmas, maybe, if I can find a suitable dress and hat. No, I won't be dressing as an elf!

Just to note that the dress and hat were €20. One of those cheap costume combos. The hat was quite good quality but I can't see the dress outlasting a party.

 

I don't see any reason why the dress shouldn't do double service as a silver fairy. They're much more associated with cobwebs than witches (who have quite wrongly been said to live in dirt and squalor when actually, I am told, cleanliness is essential to a witch's healing craft, hence the traditional broom. My sardonic take on the local witch trials of the past and their similarity to present-day transphobia is here.)

The silver wig was €9 from the supermarket and you wouldn't believe how many nylon fibres it shed, singly and in clumps! But it remained intact and was worth it for the fun. The webs with three plastic spiders were €3, again from the supermarket.

Continuing the cosplay theme, thanks to Susie for alerting me to the Alice Cos Group from Shanghai, China ... all boys who are a crossdressing dance group. I don't know enough about serious cosplay or far eastern cutesy culture to comment adequately, just that I wish I was able in some way to wear lovely little costumes and dance for a living. Try this video which shows several different outfits all at once: 

My friend Helena is an amazing cosplayer. Check out her Flickr images here. This is what we aspire to, but she sets the bar very high.

(c) Helena Love

And continuing the idea of random stuff online, here's a new feature on Sue's News and Views that might become regular:

 

Learn languages with Sue

Here are three expressions I've come across recently online that I had to look up and I share them with you to improve communication in English, or what passes for English:

 

- Schrodinger's douchebag: 

According to Urban Dictionary, this is defined as "someone who is a jerk and decides whether they were joking or not depending on how people reacted." 

Thanks to Hannah McKnight for that one.

 

- Brolita: 

A boy who dresses in lolita fashion. Gothic Strawberry explains.

Thanks again to Susie for using this term.

 

- NED or just ned: 

A Scottish term signifying "Non-Educated Delinquent". Rather like the gopniks of the former Soviet republics, these differ in that the gopniks gorge on sunflower seeds and favour full tracksuits, whereas their ned cousins guzzle Buckfast Tonic Wine with less co-ordinated sports gear on. I mention this subculture because of the Buckfast wine. 

Buckfast Abbey is in beautiful Devon in South-West England and I have visited it many times. Indeed, a friend of mine became a monk there in preference to being an accountant. Presumably accountancy was a little too fast-paced for him! The monks sell various home-made products, such as honey from their specially bred bees. The real moneyspinner, though, became the tonic wine after endowments, investment income, charitable gifts and school fees were insufficient to maintain the establishment. If you have never had the 'pleasure' of drinking Buckfast Tonic Wine, I have so you don't have to. It's made of cheap French red to which 'secret' ingredients have been added, so secret that the holy brewer whispers the secret to his saintly apprentice only on his deathbed. And also to the labelmakers since listing ingredients is the law. Blessed are the labelmakers, for they shall be informed. But it tastes like cheap red plonk with flat cola added. In other words, pretty awful. I have no idea why it's been so successful but it has brought the monks closer to mammon than ever and has earned the community the new name of Fastbuck Abbey! 

Buckfast Tonic Wine has the unique and very strange property, but one well-attested by others in addition to myself, of rendering you harder of hearing the more you drink, so that Buckfast Wine parties get louder and louder they longer they go on. Scotland, therefore, must be bedlam! 

Thanks to Ruth Aisling and her interesting Scottish travel vlog for that one.

Welcome to the world of subcultures.

Next on Sue's News and Views

It's blowing a gale out there tonight, as it was two nights ago when a lot of damage occurred. This time I have tried to protect my garden furniture from blowing away. I couldn't get to sleep the other night with all the howling and banging going on, like Dracula was trying to get out of his coffin. Finally, at 3 am I'd had enough and went out to close the door to the communal back stairs that was banging in the wind, praying that nobody else would do the same and see me in my pink nightie. I didn't forget my house keys. Getting locked out in that attire would have been awful - I'd have been like some mad pink bat flapping about disconsolately in the breezy dark!

I kept this post lighthearted as it is sandwiched between Transgender Day of Remembrance yesterday and my next post which I plan to be about my trip this week to the Italian-French border with it's dramatic landscape and its human tragedy. The former was awe-inspiring, the latter upsetting.

Have a good weekend.

Sue x

Transgender Day of Remembrance 2024

 Today we remember all those people who have died in violence because they were transgender.

I am frightened by violence and hate. Maybe you are, too. But fear validates the courage needed to be ourselves and to push towards the juster world where no one dies because of hate for their existence.

May all my trans sisters and brothers remembered today rest in peace.

Sue x

My makeovers and photoshoots

 It's twenty years since I had my first proper makeover and some quality photos done. It was the first time I'd ever worn a wig and had my makeup done professionally. It was a revelation and marked another milestone on my road to authentication. I wrote a description of my time at the Boudoir makeover service here. Instead of repeating those details here I'd like to share more of the photos now that I have got them all together in one place.

I've spent a lot of time downloading the hundreds of photos from my first three makeovers and selecting 37 of them to post here. I confess I got quite emotional in doing this: reminders of an amazing time in life, a lament for lost youth maybe, a feeling that I can be beautiful too ... and knowing that there is nothing more blissful than being your authentic self. No wonder I have a knowing smile.

The photos were taken by Jodie at the Boudoir, who's not a professional photographer and they haven't been doctored, apart from some cropping, because I don't know how! So they are 'as is'. 

As much as possible I've tried to include one close-up, one seated and one standing pose from each look.

The point of going a dressing service was to get advice on doing makeup, seeing what hair would suit my face and what styles of clothing would look best. We homed in on a best look over three sessions, a dozen outfits and several hairstyles and here I explain our approach.

Losing weight between session 1 and sessions 2 and 3 helped a lot. 

For my first session, Jodie dressed me in a black semi-sheer striped shirt with flower details picked out in silver, a berry-coloured knee-length skirt and silver jewellery. The patent stretch boots are my own as are the sheer black glossy tights. Underneath Jodie fitted me with a corset, which was a new experience for me - when you're overweight, as I was here, breathing and bending become challenging with that constriction. 

You can see how nervous I was to start with ...

I did relax a bit as the session progressed, though. 

Jodie explained that a wig can work more than one way. She put the hair up with pins.

 

I'm less convinced by this look, as it happens. 

We took some photos standing up ...

... and sitting down in the famous arched window. How many TGirls have sat here? Only the internet knows!

John Lewis 15 denier run resistant sheer gloss tights win my top prize for best hosiery ever! Sadly, they're no longer made. We will be seeing more of these marvels a bit later. The boots were a very favourite pair but, with much heartache, I had to throw them away earlier this year after a good 25 years service due to faux leather fatigue, a subject I intend to talk (complain) about in another post.

Anyway, armed with my photos and new-found wonder at my transformation, I vowed to return and learn more about makeup, hair, styling and so on. Just after this session in mid-November 2004 I started a relationship with someone who wasn't so keen on the whole trans thing and so my return wasn't until April 2008 after I had broken up with her. But I was a lot slimmer and that opened up greater possibilities, as did longer sessions.

I tried four looks in my second session. The first was a cute pink top and a long black skirt with a very high slit. I wore my own 20-denier black hold-up stockings (M&S) and black court shoes (which might well be the same ones I wore as a silver witch the other week). The corset felt a lot more comfortable this time. The wig was quite a big one, the jewellery a bit more noticeable, and this time I had the time to have my nails done. I loved the colour!

A bit daring, that leg. A bit Sixties bouffant, that wig. Brigitte Bardot, maybe? Well, you can pretend, eh?

The one thing I'm cross about is that instead of waxing down my brows like last time, we tried to grey them out, without success. Well, it's part of the learning process.

Sadly, we took no photos of me standing up in this outfit.

Jodie pointed out that with my petite stature (I'm 5'4" or 163 cm), I'd do well in short skirts because showing off my legs would make me look taller. Does a TGirl need encouragement to wear short skirts? I don't think so! And she was right. And, if I say so myself, I think I have quite nice legs.

Close-up:

And sitting:

I was getting relaxed and confident by now. And we tried a complete change of look with hair that was more shoulder-length, a bright floral top and denim miniskirt. Again, the opaque black tights and the knee-length leather boots are my own. (The tights are the second best in the universe: Falke Seidenglatt 70 denier. I still have them after 25+ years - they are immortal! I also still have the boots - they are ideal for when I'm fatter as they have a cutaway at the calf with chain detail.)

Well, it's OK as a look. What do you think?

I hadn't perfected smiling so I look a bit severe, I think.

I've always loved bob hairstyles so we thought we'd try one. 

 

Quite cute. But bobs are always cute.

And we tried a new outfit of sleeveless sequinned black top, chunky belt and shiny red three-quarter length skirt. The boots haven't changed - knee-high boots are recommended with this skirt length.

Actually, the outfit is a bit weird. That skirt certainly doesn't work with the corsetry poking up under it. And I'm not sure a short bob is right as I have quite a thick neck. Longer hair seems better. My shoulders are not large so the top is not too bad. How about sitting down?

I left enthused but with a lot to consider. I think the second outfit worked best and the advice on shorter skirts was now firmly in my head. Shoulder-length hair is good, too. But those brows need dealing with and maybe the makeup may be a bit too thick.

In some ways I got another dressing session just after this by volunteering to be a model for an artist and she dressed me in her clothes with dramatic makeup. I really enjoyed the modelling sessions but it's just as well the films she took of me never made it to any exhibition as she turned out to be a crook! So that doesn't really count as a makeover and photoshoot since there's no evidence!

Six months later, again in mid-November, I was back for my third and final session with Jodie, this time with fewer nerves and a determination to find the best look for me. There are seven looks, all bolder than before. Well, five looks with one of them simply involving a change of skirt and another a change of footwear, but these changes made a huge difference. And this is the point: it's often just the little adjustments that lead to homing in on what really works.

The short bob in the previous session was cute but not right for me. So we tried a longer one, and lighter too. This was much more of a statement hairpiece.

I find the outfit weird, though - a seethrough pink batwing top that shows my practical and not sexy longline bra, a vast patent leather bow belt, and a denim miniskirt. 

 

Here again are those very perfect John Lewis glossy black tights, and my own gold and black shoes. I brought my own shoes to the sessions as I have very small feet (5½ UK size, 38 European, 7½ US) and most trans dressing service shoes are larger. You can't get 5½ in men's sizes; even a 6 is hard to find so I have actually worn women's shoes most of my adult life even when I have presented as male! 

I suggested changing the skirt to a black one, which I am pretty sure is one of mine which I still have. I think this worked better.

You've seen this photo before. It's by far my most popular one, to judge by stats on Flickr and here. I am honestly not sure why. 

Seated in the famous window ...

... and close-up again. I liked the hair a lot but it does make my face look more angular.

OK, time for a change. The skirt and tights stay but the top is now a leopard print, the belt is chunky and the knee-high boots have a block heel. And the hair as now shoulder-length, wavy with highlights.

Hmm, this is working better than that previous outfit. I liked the previous hair but this is better for my shape of face. And I'm working on my smile. That glossy lipstick helps set it off, too. I like the nail colour Jodie picked for me. And that bust ... that's really working for me, even though it's artificial. The legs are my own, mind.

 

How about close up?

I used this as my profile picture on various sites for years. I really think things are coming together now.

This was only the second look, though, and there was plenty of time for three others. So we went for something brash and bold, a biker chick look. But the hair felt so right I insisted on keeping it.

The soft patent knee-high boots of my first session are back and I've layered Jonathan Aston sweet roses patterned tights over my sheer tights. This is not exactly my normal presentation but the fun of a makeover like this is that you can experiment.

I'm really enjoying myself by this stage. That wig really suits. Better than the dead cat I could otherwise have had! (Not really! That's Spike, Jodie's cat, asleep on the left - more on him another day.)

I know I can't go blonde because my darker brows would give the game away but I asked how light my hair could go. This is the suggestion.

A bit too full, I think. We've changed outfit to a black dance skirt with lots and lots of frills and froth, a gold sleeveless top that leaves my shoulders bare and a black cincher belt that really pushes up my boobs. 

Cute but over the top. Well, why not?

Those boots are fabulous and work with the biker chick but not with this outfit so I put on the black and gold shoes I had at the start of the session and these match the rest of the outfit You could actually go to a 1980s retro prom in this now!

Looking quite cutesy in this pose.

Hi!

I was having such fun by this point. I'd booked five hours at the dressing service and there was time for one more look. Totally different and just for fun to see if it's possible to transform a middle-aged trans woman into a teenager by the power of makeup and clothes alone. This is what teenage girls in 2008 were into: long hair, hair bands, coloured tops, microskirts, footless leggings and ballet flats.

I think we pulled it off.

Happy youngster!

 

Jodie let me try on her own black Ugg boots as we have similar shoe sizes. They were certainly comfortable and warm and very trendy then. But I felt the flats were more the look I wanted as they show that the tights are footless. A number of the items worn here were Jodie's personal items rather than from the general racks so, between the two if us, we mixed and matched to create these looks. 

What a blast! In three sessions, I learnt the rudiments of trans makeup, I learned that short skirts work well on me, and that shoes work better than boots, I found a really good hairstyle (I came back a few days later and bought the leopard girl/biker chick wig). Just what I wanted, and the gain in confidence was amazing. Shortly after, I joined the UK Angels forum at Jodie's suggestion and, after ensuring my makeup bag and skills were up to the job, and with the encouragement and example of other girls, I started going out. A recommended experience for those who need help to get going.

I have had various other makeovers and photoshoots over the years and many sessions with wig stylists. More on those another time. This post is just about how I found my way.

Tomorrow is my official trans birthday. A lot of trans people choose a birthday connected with a major event, such as their GRS. The timing of these sessions at the Boudoir is one reason for mine.

Thanks for reading. I hope this post was fun or inspiring.

Sue x