I still remember the first time I walked through the door of Transformation like it was yesterday, even though it happened years ago.
My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. I’d spent nearly an hour sitting in a café across the street, clutching a cold coffee and trying to talk myself into it. Thirty years of dressing in secret, thirty years of hiding every trace of “her” the moment anyone might see. And now here I was, a middle aged man in boring jeans and a hoodie, about to step into a shop that openly welcomed people like me.
When I finally pushed the door open, a little bell tinkled above my head. Two women behind the counter looked up and smiled not the polite, professional smile you get in most shops, but a warm, genuine one that immediately made my shoulders drop an inch.
“Hi love, come on in,” one of them said gently. “Take your time. No rush at all.”
I mumbled something that probably sounded like “thank you” and hovered near the entrance, pretending to look at a rack of scarves while my brain screamed at me to run. But they didn’t hover or make me feel watched. Instead, one of them Betty, I later learned wandered over casually and asked if I was looking for anything in particular or just browsing.
I swallowed hard and managed to whisper, “I… I’m not really sure where to start.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t look surprised. She just nodded like this was the most normal conversation in the world and said, “That’s perfectly fine. Lots of girls feel exactly the same when they first come in. Why don’t we start with something small and see how you feel?”
That single word “girls” landed softly, like a blanket around my shoulders. No judgment, no weirdness. Just… acceptance.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on a comfortable stool while they brought over different wigs for me to try. They showed me how to tuck the hair properly, how different styles changed the whole shape of my face. One of the assistants, Irene, tilted her head and said, “That sandy blonde brings out your eyes beautifully what do you think, darling?” And for the first time in my life, standing there in boy-mode with a wig on, I actually believed I looked… nice.
They helped me choose a pair of breast forms that felt natural, not ridiculous. They explained the different shapes and weights without ever making me feel embarrassed about asking questions. When I admitted I’d never worn anything like this before, they just smiled and told me stories about other first-timers who’d felt exactly the same way. I laughed actually laughed for the first time that day.
I left the shop two hours later with a carrier bag containing my first proper wig, a beautiful pair of size 11 heels that actually fit, and the most comfortable breast forms I could have imagined. But more than the items, I left with something I hadn’t expected: the feeling that I wasn’t strange, or broken, or a freak. I was just… one of the girls.
A week later further breast forms arrived in the post (I’d ordered a second pair online because I couldn’t stop thinking about how good the first ones felt). The parcel came the very next morning. I opened it in my living room, hands trembling, and when I slipped them on and looked in the mirror… I cried. Happy tears. The kind I hadn’t cried in years.
I sat down at my computer and typed out a short message with shaking fingers:
Hi Girls,
I just had to write and thank you for your kind help and attention when I visited the store on Saturday morning. I was made to feel most welcome and relaxed, and your advice was worth more than money could buy! The shoes were fab, the wig just right, and the make up spot on. I shall be back in a few weeks for more, I’m sure.
Kindest regards
H
Then I paused, looked at myself in the mirror again still wearing the breast forms under my hoodie and smiled.
I deleted “H” and typed something else instead.
Kindest regards,
Hanimefendi
I hit send, closed the laptop, and for the first time in three decades, I didn’t rush to take everything off and hide it away.
I just sat there, feeling the gentle weight against my chest, and whispered to the quiet room:
“Thank you.”
And I knew without any doubt that I would be back. Not just for the clothes, the shoes, or the wigs.
But because, for the first time, I’d found a place where I could simply be me.
I still remember the first time I walked through the door of Transformation like it was yesterday, even though it happened years ago.
My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. I’d spent nearly an hour sitting in a café across the street, clutching a cold coffee and trying to talk myself into it. Thirty years of dressing in secret, thirty years of hiding every trace of “her” the moment anyone might see. And now here I was, a middle aged man in boring jeans and a hoodie, about to step into a shop that openly welcomed people like me.
When I finally pushed the door open, a little bell tinkled above my head. Two women behind the counter looked up and smiled not the polite, professional smile you get in most shops, but a warm, genuine one that immediately made my shoulders drop an inch.
“Hi love, come on in,” one of them said gently. “Take your time. No rush at all.”
I mumbled something that probably sounded like “thank you” and hovered near the entrance, pretending to look at a rack of scarves while my brain screamed at me to run. But they didn’t hover or make me feel watched. Instead, one of them Betty, I later learned wandered over casually and asked if I was looking for anything in particular or just browsing.
I swallowed hard and managed to whisper, “I… I’m not really sure where to start.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t look surprised. She just nodded like this was the most normal conversation in the world and said, “That’s perfectly fine. Lots of girls feel exactly the same when they first come in. Why don’t we start with something small and see how you feel?”
That single word “girls” landed softly, like a blanket around my shoulders. No judgment, no weirdness. Just… acceptance.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on a comfortable stool while they brought over different wigs for me to try. They showed me how to tuck the hair properly, how different styles changed the whole shape of my face. One of the assistants, Irene, tilted her head and said, “That sandy blonde brings out your eyes beautifully what do you think, darling?” And for the first time in my life, standing there in boy-mode with a wig on, I actually believed I looked… nice.
They helped me choose a pair of breast forms that felt natural, not ridiculous. They explained the different shapes and weights without ever making me feel embarrassed about asking questions. When I admitted I’d never worn anything like this before, they just smiled and told me stories about other first-timers who’d felt exactly the same way. I laughed actually laughed for the first time that day.
I left the shop two hours later with a carrier bag containing my first proper wig, a beautiful pair of size 11 heels that actually fit, and the most comfortable breast forms I could have imagined. But more than the items, I left with something I hadn’t expected: the feeling that I wasn’t strange, or broken, or a freak. I was just… one of the girls.
A week later further breast forms arrived in the post (I’d ordered a second pair online because I couldn’t stop thinking about how good the first ones felt). The parcel came the very next morning. I opened it in my living room, hands trembling, and when I slipped them on and looked in the mirror… I cried. Happy tears. The kind I hadn’t cried in years.
I sat down at my computer and typed out a short message with shaking fingers:
Hi Girls,
I just had to write and thank you for your kind help and attention when I visited the store on Saturday morning. I was made to feel most welcome and relaxed, and your advice was worth more than money could buy! The shoes were fab, the wig just right, and the make up spot on. I shall be back in a few weeks for more, I’m sure.
Kindest regards
H
Then I paused, looked at myself in the mirror again still wearing the breast forms under my hoodie and smiled.
I deleted “H” and typed something else instead.
Kindest regards,
Hanimefendi
I hit send, closed the laptop, and for the first time in three decades, I didn’t rush to take everything off and hide it away.
I just sat there, feeling the gentle weight against my chest, and whispered to the quiet room:
“Thank you.”
And I knew without any doubt that I would be back. Not just for the clothes, the shoes, or the wigs.
But because, for the first time, I’d found a place where I could simply be me.
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