Halfway to Heaven and Just a Mile out of Hell

I like spring and autumn. They are what I call transitional seasons. Winter in Minnesota arrives with the energy of a relative that you sort of like but you know they tend to quickly wear out their welcome. Winter lingers. Winter is stubborn. You are never quite sure when winter will end… or begin. Autumn is, well, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Once we limp our way out of a long, hot summer we know that autumn is essentially borrowed time until winter barges in with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

Spring is similar. Winter takes its time leaving. It is not usual for Minnesota to see snowflakes or to see a large snowbank in a Kohl’s parking lot still melting in April. Spring has to share a few weeks with winter until summer comes in fast and hard.

Our state has a reputation for long and cold winters. But we are not thought of as having humid and sweltering summers. We do and it’s unbearable at times.

Thus, I enjoy spring and autumn, the calm, if you will, before the extremities of winter and summer.

And yes, this is a website about, well, whatever this website is about. You have not inadvertently stumbled upon a weather blog.

As a bi-gender person, my physical appearance is either going to be boy OR girl (in the binary sense). In a way, I am either summer or fall. I am Doc Martens or stilettos.

When I transition from him to Hannah, I am straddling the line between two worlds, if you will. I slowly leave HIS life as I take baby steps… and then strut into HER world. This is a physical transformation but it is also an emotional and mental change as well.

Most of the days that I am en femme are Saturdays. Not every Saturday mind you. I tend to plan Hannah’s day, whether it’s for a photo shoot or for meeting up with the T-Girls, for earlier in the day. My wife and I like to unwind after a long week on Saturday evenings so I make every effort to spend that time with her. Thus, Hannah’s day begins rather early. Or, in a more accurate sense, the “process” of Hannah emerging begins early.

Friday nights are a mixture of omg this was a very long week and I don’t want to do anything this weekend and omg I can’t wait to spend tomorrow en femme. It’s a combination of not wanting to do ANYTHING on Saturday AND getting excited about all the things Hannah has planned.

My alarm sings way too loudly and way too early on Saturdays. It’s almost cruel that the first thing I see in the morning is my reflection. I immediately get discouraged about the seemingly insurmountable impossibility of turning THAT into Hannah.

I slip out of my nightgown, put on leggings and a comfy t-shirt, and head downstairs in an effort to get as far away from a mirror as possible.

I have my coffee and start to wake up. Coffee is… hot, comforting potential. A cup of ambition, as Dolly Parton said. I start to feel like MAYBE I can pull off looking somewhat cute. I set down my mug and get to work.

I undress and I am a blank canvas. This is not to say I am about to create a beautiful painting, mind you. As anyone who has picked up a paintbrush knows, a canvas can be the foundation of a masterpiece or a disasterpiece. It could be meh. It could be inspiring.

All I know is it’s time to get to work.

Shaving, foundation garments, my corset, my lingerie, my stockings, my heels, my dress, my wig, my jewelry, my purse… all set.

As I do these things, whether shaving my face, tucking, or pulling the laces of my corset, I am looking into the mirror. I am constantly moving so I don’t have time to really think (or reflect, lol) on how I look.

But eventually the dust (and glitter) settles and… there I am in the mirror.

And I look terrible. But I knew I would so it’s not toooo soul-crushing.

What I mean is that I am wearing a cute dress, my corset and forms have teamed up to do their best in giving me curves, and I have legs for days.

But HE is looking at me. I still have his face. Bags under my eyes, a slight blueish hue on my jawline, every wrinkle and crow feet that the years have given me. It’s not until my makeover that I feel better, that I feel femme, that the transformation, be it physical, emotional, and mental, is complete.

Makeup is amazing. My makeup artist is a gift from God. She is so good that my iPhone doesn’t unlock for Hannah… but as soon as I remove my foundation and eyeshadow it recognizes me.

Hannah struts out of the salon with the confidence of a four year old in a Batman t-shirt, with the confidence of a drag queen in platform stilettos.

It’s a sharp contrast to how I feel when I am leaving my home as I drive to my makeup appointment. I am, like spring or autumn, in a transitional state. HIS face, HER body. Halfway to heaven… a mile of out of hell. Almost beautiful but there’s work to be done.

Now, this is not to say that Hannah is happier than he is. I like both of my genders, both of my lives. Hannah’s world and Hannah’s reflection is one of beauty and bodycon dresses and stilettos. His life is quiet. Both worlds make me who I am. I need both halves to be whole. I will never choose one over the over and I don’t have to.

But goodness do I hate that drive to the salon. I hate catching glimpses in the rearview mirror. I hate the weird, unsettling, and dysphoric reflection.

Going out into the world en femme isn’t easy, especially the first time. It takes a lot of courage to wear makeup and a cute skirt and killer heels. But as hard as that is to do sometimes, it’s nothing compared to what it takes to interact with others in this weird state of girl body and boy face.

As my artist finishes my foundation, contouring, and eyes, she hands me a mirror before she picks up her lip liner and lipstick.

“How does that look?” she asks.

I look amazing. After all, she does amazing work. But there’s also the feeling that every trace of him is gone.

Not that I dislike HIM, mind you. I love him, lol. I like both halves of me. But my goodness I don’t need to see that tired old man when I am wearing a dress.

I tell her I look amazing and I thank her for all the work she is doing.

I’m sure she can hear me breath a sigh of relief.

Love, Hannah