Blame Abba

I stood up, turned and looked in the big mirror. The first thought was again one of disappointment. I looked a fool. I looked stupid, like a boy in a dress. But then I looked more carefully, at my body and not at my face. The shape was there, the figure, the protruding breasts, the long legs, the gorgeous ankles and shoes. I was impressed. I was excited. This was fun!

Then the make-up boxes on my mother's dressing table caught my eye. Yes. That could be good too, maybe. Just how good-looking could I be? Could I really look like a girl? An attractive girl? A girl who could make men 'hot' with desire. Maybe I could look like the girls on the TV the night before, the prostitutes, the dancers, the girls who put themselves forward as objects of desire, who dressed provocatively and flaunted themselves? It would definitely be fun to try.

Since I was going to be on my own all day, maybe for another five hours, there was certainly enough time to try this out. I sat down at the dresser and inspected my mother's 'armoury'. Creams, powders, lipstick, mascara, eye make-up. And nail-varnish, wow.

'This could be fun,' I thought.

I was in a bit of a daze as I continued, taking care not to disturb things too much. I spent some time looking at the colours and feeling the textures, steadily building up a 'picture' on my face, foundation cream, blusher and so on. I was very careful with the eye-shadow, trying not to make it too heavy, but I loved the heavy black mascara, coating my own lashes, thickening and darkening them.

It took me an hour. I realised the time had flown as I stood up to inspect the results. Then I realised - I hadn't done my nails. So I did. I was a little wary at first, but I spotted Mother's varnish remover, a big bottle of, about half-way full. I was pretty sure she wouldn't notice if some was used up.

That was a real thrill, the rather sensuous feel of stroking the brush over my own nails. I watched them take up the deep red colour, the feel, the smell, the texture, it was so stimulating. And the end result was gorgeous, my nails were just about due for trimming. They weren't long, long enough for Don and looking quite good on - who? I realised a female name might be appropriate, but what? Doni? Donni? No, Donna. That was it. I looked in the mirror - at Donna.