Step by Step Feminisation, or How I Accidentally Invented Transness

The funny thing about people is that when they look at you without saying anything, you can often make out what they’re thinking regardless. Paradoxically, the better you know someone, the harder it can be to guess their thoughts; they know you well too, which means they can more easily hide their emotions from you. Whereas with strangers, there’s often something in their eyes, in their frown, in their smile, in the fact that they don't give a shit about what you think, that betrays their mind. It’s got something to do with age, I think; you know how, when a toddler hasn’t yet learned that staring is impolite, they will just look directly into your soul without the slightest care in the world, and there’s nothing you can do about it? I have a theory that it works the same for older people. But unlike babies, they can actually entertain a thinking process, and so they shoot you some manner of paint-stripping death glare when they think your clothes are weird, your hair’s too long, or when they can’t quite make out whether you’re a boy or a girl at first sight. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly fancy being stared at like I’m some kind of public attraction, so really I just do my best to blend in.

For the whole day, I’ve been trying my best. If possible, I’d really like Ash not to think I’m weird. Because this time, I’m not on the receiving end of The Look, no; today I am the one doing all I can not to stare. And it’s not even like I disapprove of the thing that got me into this state; his body is his own, for all I care. So why is it so hard to appear like I don’t give a shit? Sure, he’s my roommate, and I’ve only known him for one year, but I’ve come to think of him as my best friend. I’m supposed to be good at this.

His voice pulls me out of my inner questioning. “Josh? Are you okay? Is this one too heavy? Hold on, let me just…”

I shake my head. I really have been just standing there, huh?

“You look tired,” Ash continues. He grants me a sympathetic smile. “Long summer?”

I lay the huge and admittedly heavy cardboard box on the floor. “Yeah, kinda. Just my family being… my family. But I’m good!” I add, hopefully reassuring him. “I’ve got this week for myself until classes start again, at least.”

“About that… Do you have anything planned? I assume you’d rather rest and get ready for the start of the school year?”

I shrug. “Yes and no… I’ll tag along if you wanna do stuff together. You’re not like them.”

And Ash knows what they are like. As far as families go, mine is pretty standard. My parents, my mum’s parents, some uncles, aunts and cousins, and that’s about it. There are more people, of course, but I barely ever see them. My grandparents live in a stone-built house in southern France that used to be a farm, and I’ve always spent my summer holidays there, with my parents. It's their way of getting away from the city, where they both work at a local TV station. The old summer house is huge, and the garden stretches out until it meets a river. The whole region is sort of a touristy spot, especially during summer, but we have our own little private access to the water, covered with plane trees and hidden from the road by a conveniently shaped hill. Apart from the occasional passing herd of bright-yellow rental canoes, it’s rather quiet. A place in paradise, right? 

Sure, during my childhood, it was. But after spending all your summers in the same place for two decades, you inevitably end up a bit disillusioned — even more so when it’s with my family. They’ve got this whole thing about taking part in group activities, babysitting cousins, ‘being a responsible man in the household now that you’re all grown-up’ and stuff. Which would be tolerable if it wasn’t like that every day for two months, with virtually no internet access or cellular data. Also, I never asked to be an all grown-up man, thank you very much. The thing is, whenever I point out that I don’t really want to spend my holidays feeling like I’m in summer camp anymore, that maybe I want to do something else for once, that I’m starting to notice the irony of being asked to be an adult but still having most of my actions policed, they make a good point: I don’t have anywhere else to go.

I guess technically this year I could have stayed in the flat I share with Ash, even if my parents might have taken it the wrong way. But Ash wasn’t there, anyway. He’d presumably been with his family too, and sure, I could’ve asked to spend the two months gap between school years with him, but that would have been some CIA level intrusion into someone’s life, and we had just spent a whole year living together after all. He was probably grasping for some time away from me. So, since spending the whole summer dwelling alone in a student flat without aircon somewhere in a bleak, deserted suburb south of Paris wasn’t exactly much more of an enjoyable prospect, I had given up, reluctantly boarded the train south and headed off on one more of those annoying family holidays.

Now, at least, I’m back, I have a week of free time, and Ash is here to keep me company. And I’m repaying the favour by pretending not to care in the slightest about the fact that he has painted nails.

It was the first thing I noticed when I stepped back into our small, fourth-floor, two-bedroom flat, and he rushed towards me to give me a hug and help me get the luggage I’d been carrying with difficulty inside. Yeah, he’s the kind of guy to hug his friends, and I usually don’t mind; just don't be awkward about it, Josh, and everything will be fine. Besides, unlike what I wrongly assumed the very first time I met him when we moved together, it has turned out he’s into girls, and very vocal about it.

But now he has painted nails, and it looks great on him, and I don’t know what to think about it, because of course guys can paint their fingernails, but on him it looks distinctly feminine, for some reason, and also he hasn’t gone for a standard black colour, which is the only one I’ve seen guys wear up until now, and—

“Josh?”

I frown, and shake my head once more. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I said,” Ash repeats carefully, “that we need to get something to eat. I suggested ordering pizzas, and I, uh, couldn’t interpret the vague look in the void you offered me as either yes or no.”

I smile. “Have you ever known me to turn down pizzas?”

“Fair.”

I get my phone and call our usual pizzeria downtown, the one that stays open late into the night. I’m always the one to do it, Ash is very particular about phone calls, but I don’t really mind. I swear the guy who always picks up knows my number, because even after two months of absence he greets me with his usual cheerful tone and (probably) genuine accent. At first I didn’t bother pronouncing the dishes’ names properly, but he always read them back to me in flawless Italian, as if he wanted me to at least give it a try, so it ended up feeling silly not to. Today, I order my usual Quattro Fromaggi and Ash’s Napoletana — without cheese and capers, at which point the guy asks me, as he always does, if I seriously want a pizza consisting solely of dough, tomato sauce and anchovies, to which I reply that while I myself have not committed that level of food crime quite yet, my roommate certainly has reached and exceeded it, so we will be ordering that, despite how much preparing these dishes will hurt the cook’s honour and sanity. I hang up the phone and we practically let ourselves fall onto the couch, recovering from the last few hours of cleaning and moving back in.

“What about you?” I ask. “How was your summer?”

Unexpectedly, he blushes. “It was… pretty good, actually.”

“You were with your family too, I assume?”

“I was.”

“And? What did you do?”

“Not much. I… I had to talk to them, you see?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. About… some stuff. And they were really nice about it,” he says, avoiding my gaze, with a smile on his face.

I don’t ask what the stuff in question is. We’ve only been back for a few hours, and it seems important to him. He’ll tell me later, if it’s even close to being my business. Instead, my mind goes back to despairing over how shit my own summer must have been in comparison. Even going swimming in the river, something that I enjoyed throughout my childhood, has long since lost its appeal. In fact, I actively dislike it, nowadays. “Good for you,” I say absentmindedly. “I like your nails, by the way.”

Ash blushes again, and a few seconds pass before I realise what I just said. Fuck. So much for trying to appear indifferent. Well, there is no saving it now. “Thanks…” he mutters, looking down at his frankly cute pink manicure. “I usually do a better job than this, but I guess it’s alright.”

“No, really, it’s great!” I say, surprising myself. “I think guys wearing nail polish is kinda cool.”

He flinches. Wrong answer. Of course. He said he’s usually better at it, which means it’s not his first time, right? He’s probably way past the realisation that yes, guys can indeed look good wearing nail polish, dumbass. Even if it’s the first time you see him wearing any. Hold on, how does that work? When has he been practising, then? During summer? I guess that’s the only possible explanation. His family really must be nice if they let him do that.

Ash is looking at me, and I feel like he’s reading my mind. Am I so fucking obvious? Then his face lights up. “Guys can totally wear nail polish. Do you wanna try some on? I’ve got several colours!”

It is my turn to blush, but I’m saved by the intercom’s loud buzz. Grateful for such a timely way out of this conversation, I smile sheepishly and hurry down the stairs to fetch our order, but on the way back up I’m much slower.

Why did I think pretending not to notice his nails was the right move? I could have simply said ‘Hey, your nails are cool’ upon noticing them, and that would have been it, but instead I had to be awkward about it and now he thinks I want to try it, for goodness’ sake. But at the same time, I feel something else. Almost like… relief? Yeah. I’ve never been bothered by guys wearing nail polish, but seeing someone I know do it feels… relieving. That’s weird.

We eat our meal in silence, watching some random meme compilations on his laptop. He’s been covering it in stickers for the past few months, and I can’t help but notice some new ones he must have added this summer. They’re pretty and colourful, and share the same pink hue as his fingernails.

“My offer still stands, you know?” he suddenly says.

“Your… offer?”

“To paint your nails.”

“Oh.” So he has not forgotten after all. “Uh… I don’t know. It probably wouldn’t fit me.”

“Are you kidding? I guess it would be… black polish, for you. Would go well with your hair and eyes.”

“Wait, you have black polish?” I ask, my mouth betraying my mind. Because, well, guys can wear nail polish; Ash is the living proof of it. It’s not like he’ll judge me for wanting to try it out for myself, and I can just remove it whenever I go out. And black nail polish is way more common for guys to wear than pink, so why not?

Ash smirks. “Huh, so you are interested. Stay right here!” He quickly discards the empty pizza boxes in the recycling bin and disappears towards the bathroom, while I step back into the kitchen to wash my hands. When he comes back, it’s with a little purse, and he dramatically drops it in the centre of the kitchen table, under the crude white light. “Your hand, sir?”

I lay my right hand on the table, and do my best to avoid looking until Ash is done. My mind wanders. There is something new to his behaviour. The way he stands, walks, talks, everything is just slightly different. This version of Ash is more… open? Free? Does nail polish boost your confidence that much? Then he moves on to my left hand, and I look at him. He’s… he’s pretty. I’m not into guys, so like, objectively speaking, I guess. But if I’m honest with myself, he’s not exactly pretty in the way most guys are. He’s never been a paragon of manliness, but right now he almost looks like a—

He’s done with my nail polish.

“Ta-da!”

I look down.

I don’t say anything.

I turn my head towards the mirror in the living room, behind me. I see a guy, with a messy haircut, wearing tattered shorts and t-shirt. His chin could do with a shave, I think, and his arms and legs are equally hairy. And he’s wearing black nail polish.

I look like a dude wearing nail polish. What did I expect, exactly? I don’t know.

“It’s…” My voice cracks. “Uh…”

“Josh?”

“It’s okay, I guess. I’m kinda tired, I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Uh, sure? Are y—” is all I hear. I flee towards my room.

What did I expect? What did I fucking expect? Obviously I look like a guy wearing nail polish. I am a guy wearing nail polish.

Why do I feel so… gross?

I somehow find my way to my bed and start quietly sobbing into the pillow. What even is getting to me like that? Why? And why can I not fight it, for some reason?

A few minutes pass and I hear shy knocks on my door.

“J— Uh, hey? Are you okay?” Ash asks.

I groan as a reply.

“Can I come in?”

Another groan. Not like he hasn’t figured out I’m a mess at the moment.

The door slowly opens, and some dim light spills into my room as Ash steps in and sits on my bed. I’m not crying anymore, but I very obviously have been.

“What do you feel?”

“I… don’t know,” I reply with a croak.

Ash speaks slowly. “If you want to take it off, there’s remover in the bathroom. I can help you if you need it.”

I look at my nails properly, for the first time. Ash has actually done a really good job; the coating is smooth and shiny like glass, and stops exactly where it’s supposed to. “I don’t think… the nail polish is the problem here,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Do you know what the problem is?” he gently asks.

I gather my forces and sit on the bed, next to him. “I don't know… I think… I like how it looks,” I finally admit. “I like the idea of it. It just feels weird with… everything else, I guess.”

“Everything else?”

“How the rest of me looks?” I offer.

“I see.” After a few seconds of apparent thinking, Ash continues. “So… you like having painted fingernails but it feels weird because of how you look?” I nod. “Then — and this will blow your mind — you can change how you look.”

“Why?” is all I can think of saying, at the moment.

He smiles and replies cheekily. “Because getting to wear nail polish and simultaneously liking your appearance is worth it. Trust me, I know. And besides, wouldn't it be a shame to undo such a good nail job so soon? I really outdid myself!”

“But… it’s useless…” I stammer. “Whatever I do, I’ll still end up looking like… a guy wearing nail polish.”

His smile widens. “I think you’re onto something here, Jo.” Oh. That’s a nice nickname, he’s never called me like that before. “Because then, the problem is clearly established.” He’s grinning deviously now, and it’s sort of unsettling. “It’s the ‘guy’ part.”