And the favorite part of the makeover: a trip to an old-fashioned barber to get my first manly haircut.
My whole life before that day, my hair was shoulder-length and never out of a ponytail. Boys would tease me by stealing my hair tie. I would chase them around, holding my hair back with my hand. I couldn’t stand my hair down, not even for a minute. It was too girly.
My sister drove me and quickly befriended the barber, Mikhail, who spoke almost exclusively Russian. I didn’t know what to ask for, so she instructed Mikhail on my cut—low skin fade with side part. He got out the electric razor and went to work.
During my cut, my sister typed sentences into Google Translate and played the Russian translations for Mikhail. He would listen and laugh wildly. I still have no idea what she was telling him.
Twenty minutes later, Mikhail spun the barber chair around to show me the finished product. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I gasped.
For the first time, the person in the mirror was a guy.
I was about to jump out of the chair—ready to show the world the new me—when my sister put her hand on my shoulder, keeping me in the seat.
“Can you give him a hot shave?” she asked Mikhail.
“Not necessary,” I said. There was no hair on my face to shave.
“No hair, no need, no hair, no need,” he said.
But she stood her ground and typed something into her phone, then played the Russian translation. He laughed and started prepping the shaving cream.
Mikhail leaned the chair back until I was completely horizontal and spread hot foam on my face. He sharpened his blade and rested a perfectly folded white towel on my shoulder. I gripped the chair, nervous, but his hand was steady and precise. In one movement, the razor would drag across my face, collecting the foam and whisking to the towel with a practiced flip of the wrist. It was all so methodical. Mikhail had mastered every movement. He shaved guys all the time, and now he was shaving my (nonexistent) beard. In a way, it was a rite of passage.
After Mikhail finished my shave, he rubbed some cooling oil around my jaw and face. The mint burned my nostrils but felt refreshing, like I had jumped into an ice bath. He popped the chair up, took off the drape, and said, “Ta-da! Brand-new man! No. Brand-new boy!”
I think of Mikhail now, as I put my phone in my pocket and set off to find my first class. Brand-New Boy, indeed.
GEORGIA, 8:58 A.M.
I’m headed to first period—miraculously early—when muscly arms wrap around my waist from behind, stopping me just inches from the door. I look down at the attacker’s wrist and spot a Rolex.
Jake Carter.
He’s lucky—I was about to throw an elbow. I still might.
“Hey there, Georgie,” he says, letting me go. I turn around to a big dopey smile. I wish I could be mad, but he’s simply too good-looking. I blame his chiseled face. And curly eyelashes. And broad shoulders. I could go on. Jake is like the sun: you shouldn’t stare directly at him for too long.
When it comes to the clichés of Texas high school quarterbacks, Jake Carter checks every box. Popular. King of the keg party. Smart. Perfect hair and teeth. His family is stupid rich. He looks like a young Chadwick Boseman. And his face is nearly symmetrical, which is way more important than you’d think.
Jake and I should be a sure thing, but it’s complicated. I promised myself that I wouldn’t date my senior year after what went down this summer. And my ex-boyfriend, Anthony, was captain of the football team last year. (I’ll admit it: I have a type.) Isn’t there some football bro code Jake is violating?
“What happened to you last night?” he asks, upset. “You didn’t text me back.”
“Oh, right . . . I am so sorry, but my dog . . . gave birth . . . to kittens last night! We didn’t even know the pooch was pregnant, and then out popped, like, thirty kittens. Medical miracle. It’s going to be in the paper tomorrow!”
“You have a dog?”
“I do now,” I say. “And baby kittens. I’m going to be really busy with them all year, actually.”
He raises one eyebrow, clearly not enjoying my ruse. “Georgia, you and me? We are it. Just give me a chance.”
I should say no and end this. That’s what a decent person would do.
Instead I say, “It’s you and I, Jake, not you and me,” and walk into class.
Clearly, I’m not a decent person.
Jake yells behind me, “That’s a very mixed message, Georgia!”
I walk into class a minute late—damn you, Jake Carter—and find a desk in the back. Mrs. Lunsford is calling attendance: Jenny Fitzgerald, Soo Park, Orion Thompson. I know all these names. I look around at all the familiar faces. We have grown up together, and I will miss them after we graduate. This morning was too chaotic, but it finally sinks in while I’m sitting here—this is the ending of a huge chapter of my life.
I spent most of the summer dreading this day. After what happened with Anthony, I haven’t felt like myself. But it’s my last year of high school, and I am going to make the best of it. If I can stay away from dating, this could be a fun year.
The classroom door swings open, and in walks an unfamiliar face. He hands Mrs. Lunsford a slip of paper. Wait, that’s him. The guy from earlier. Our eyes have been to first base.
Mrs. Lunsford looks up from the paper. “This is your real name, son?”
“Yes,” he says, ignoring a few laughs.
“Class, say hello to our new student, Pony!”
Pony?
We welcome the new guy with a few claps and neighing sounds. He’s surprisingly chill for walking into a new classroom for the first time. I’d be a bumbling mess.
“Pony,” the teacher says, “tell the class about yourself.”
And nothing. He just stands there, frozen. “Son?” Mrs. Lunsford asks softly.
“Sorry,” he finally says, and the class nervously laughs. “Not much to tell, really.”
“No?” Mrs. Lunsford asks.
“I’m from Midland High School. We moved to Addison this summer.”
I’m happy to get a closer look at this dude. He’s slim, medium height, in a black short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up and a pair of bright blue Vans. Freshly cut and styled black hair. He’s cute in a soft way, like a young Leo DiCaprio. I’m talking babyface Leo before the Titanic went down.
Mrs. Lunsford claps her hands. “Welcome to Hillcrest, Pony. Take the desk in the back beside the cheerleader. Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite.”
“I can’t make that promise,” I say, and the class laughs.
PONY, 9:07 A.M.
I walk back to my desk and feel every eye on me. Sizing me up. I try to remind myself that it’s my first day: they’re looking because I’m new, not because I’m transgender. They don’t know I’m transgender.
I sit down and think of what I said in front of the class. What a mess. The teacher starts into the lesson, and I slowly feel the attention shifting away from me. I relax my shoulders and secretly text my sister: Smooth sailing so far.
I hit Send and almost instantly get a reply: DON’T FUCK IT UP, BRO!
My sister has a way with words. She doesn’t agree with what I’m doing, but she knows it’s what I want.
I turn my head and catch a cheerleader looking at me. Not just a cheerleader, the cheerleader. I perk up, remembering to square my shoulders and push my chest out. I probably over puff. She’s too pretty to be looking at me. Or maybe she can tell I’m trans? I play it cool by immediately turning away.