“How does she know all this stuff?” Peter thinks as he hangs his head. Margo begins running a comb through his hair and snips away at it bit by bit. He dare not look at his reflection. Instead he stares at his lap and casts his mind back to his childhood and the occasional days he spent wearing a dress. Just like today, he didn’t see those days coming either. He had no idea what was being done to his hair, and he didn’t want to know… but curiosity got the better of him and he glanced in the mirror. “What are those?” he asks, seeing a myriad of flat oblongs of silver foil covering his head.

“They are your highlights.” Margo replied. “There’s just a few more to go.”

He wanted so much to fight, to spit, to curse but he knew it was futile… the best he can hope for is to make a run for it as soon as they untie him. Once the last of the highlights were put in, a plastic cap was placed over his head and the chair was reclined again.

“How much shall I take off his brow?” Margo asked, wielding a pair of tweezers.

“Well… as much as you need to give him nice feminine arches.” his mother replied.

“Please don’t mum.” Peter pleaded.

“Nobody’s asking you Peter.” his mother replied as Margo wasted no time and took to his eyebrows with expert precision.

“Ah!” Peter said occasionally as his brows were plucked. But apart from that, he offered no further resistance.

After five or so minutes, Margo said “How does that look?”

“Perfect.” his mother smiled.

Peter’s shower cap was removed and his head hung over the sink once more. The foil was carefully removed and the highlighting solution rinsed out. Margo sat him upright again and towel dried his hair. He didn’t want to look but couldn’t help it. His mousey hair hung damply, with definite streaks of blonde making it look altogether more feminine. But this was nothing in comparison to his new eyebrows. Two thin arches made his eyes look brighter and wider than before. Margo began running a comb through his hair and snipped away at it some more before winding various sized rollers into it.

“Oh please not curlers.” he moaned, again sounding on the verge of tears as his transformation progressed.

“Oh yes… curls too… you’re going to look beautiful once Margo’s finished with you.” his mother grins.

A solitary tear runs down his cheek as one by one, his head is filled with rollers. He hangs his head, unable to remove the tear. His mother picks up a tissue and gently wipes the tear before it reaches his jaw. “One for sorrow…” she says, “…two for joy.” she adds, catching a second tear. She gently takes hold of his hand and assures him everything will be OK. “You didn’t mind your dresses so much once you’d got used to them did you?” she reminisced.