Face, Part II
T-minus 29. My surgery is in four weeks and a day, which means we are past the point of no return — the time when I could have gotten my money back if I’d asked for it.
I didn’t ask for it.
There was literally no chance I was going to reject this procedure. It does feel like it’s soon. But why would I wait? What would I be waiting for?
Let’s talk about where I am now.
I live as a woman, full-time. I think I have three male dress shirts left. I saved them for when I need to teach a class. I have three more classroom sessions, each two hours long, during which I will be known to my students as my previous identity. Those classes are difficult — my gosh, is it hard to get into that character. It feels like fraud. I tell them my name. It’s not my name. I dress down — I don’t actually wear those male shirts, but I do choose something that’s at least androgynous. I don’t wear much makeup, but I always wear some.
(Demi was on with me just before I was going to teach a class in Zoom.
“Do I look too femme?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.)
I teach the class as if I were the former person because that, I think, is what people expect. Do people think that way? Do they expect me to be male? I don’t know. That said, my business name includes my dead, obviously-male first name. From the beginning, I did not love the name of the business. Now I’m living with the worst of the consequences.
Whether they care or not, I’ve got three classroom sessions left during which the kids might expect me to present as male, because of the name of the business and maybe because of my reputation, if I have one. So there’s that.
Now, I’m out and about as Amie, all day, every day. Meanwhile, I have the face and mostly also the body of someone who went through a male puberty. My brow is obvious. My upper lip is thin-to-invisible. My hairline is decent for a man but high for a female. My trachea is visible.
The effects of estradiol are notable. Your musculature changes, as does the distribution of your fat. But estradiol does not affect hard tissues, like your bones and your cartilage. It never will.
Through my efforts — wardrobe, makeup, posture, speech — I appear to be a woman. From my hard tissues, I look like a man.
Let’s fix that.
My friends who have undergone FFS report that it will change my life. “It will change your life,” they say, with eyes that are wide open with delight for the possibilities for me.
I try to imagine it. What will it be like to wake up and look like a girl? What will it be like when everyone assumes I am a woman?
My biggest question: screw everyone else, am I ready to be a woman?
The fact that I have spent nearly a year walking — I don’t have a car, so definitely walking — around San Francisco, Oakland, and now Los Angeles as a woman is promising.
Do I act like a woman?
I’m working on it.
I’ve been taking voice lessons since before I started HRT. My goal is to sound femme without sounding like a trans person trying to sound femme. I’m getting there. When it’s working, my voice is on par with some of the best of the trans girl voices I have heard. I just need to become more habitual about it —start to do it full-time.
I’m learning how to walk. Corey started teaching me in Las Vegas. She shot videos — they’re sweet. I’ve been taking lessons from Monica. She’s a private teacher with a gig at Kaiser where she helps girls like me become more feminine.
What standard am I trying to reach? It’s a dangerous word, but I want to be passable. I want to look like a woman. I want straight guys to want me. That’s not the only thing I want, but I do want that. I want to tell people my name is Amie and have none of them react with any delight or surprise.
I just want to be me.
And that’s why I’m having reconstructive surgery on my face.
