My mother drove me home. I was feeling very deflated about my performance, and, simultaneously, both excited and terrified at the prospect of a shopping day in Galway the following Saturday, dressed as a girl. My biggest concern was leaving our house; I didn’t know how my father would react. I contemplated getting dressed in Niamh’s house. At least all the other participants were now used to seeing me in a skirt and girl’s top. In Galway, no one would know me. Right now, I wanted just to go to bed and let sleep sort out my combination of despondency, excitement and trepidation.

“Not so fast”, my mother responded when I mentioned that I would skip the nightly cocoa and retire.

She went into my sister’s room, rummaged around for a bit and returned with a button up denim mini, a polo neck jumper and some heavy blue tights.

“Here, try these on”, she said, handing them to me.

I took the clothes to my bedroom and changed, hoping that my father was busy outside. Once dressed, and wearing my own slippers, I went back to the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there so I busied myself making cocoa and toasting scones, my earlier decision to retire early and skip this nightly ritual now forgotten.

My mother arrived in, obviously having been out in the machine shed briefing my father.

“Mix another mug, he’ll be in soon.”

My face must have betrayed my discomfort as she quickly added:

“It’s ok, he knows.”

“What did he say?”, I enquired nervously.

“Not much, you know your father.”

“How’s he getting on out there?” If the job was going badly I was afraid that he might be tetchy.

“He’s fine; just finished cleaning the shotgun.”

Obviously the shotgun had seen use earlier that day. My father, a former Army Reservist, always cleaned it after use. I bent down to get another mug from the kitchen press.

“Not like that! You’ve just flashed your underwear to whoever is behind you.”

The denim mini was A line, or slightly flared, not straight. It was very easy to wear, but had one big disadvantage as I had just found out.

“When you need to bend, do it with your legs”, my mother advised.

My blank expression elicited further explanation.

“Like you’re doing a deep curtesy.”

I was still lost; my blank expression hadn’t changed.

“Bring one knee down towards the other heel, like this.”

She demonstrated: I copied and managed not to fall over.

“Good; remember that.”

I mixed the third mug of cocoa while my mother toasted an additional scone. We had just about finished when my father came in, open shotgun across his arm. He looked at me, said nothing, than continued to my parents bedroom where the shotgun resided in the corner of a wardrobe, despite the Garda (police) advice that it be locked away in a gun safe. He came back into the kitchen and, as there were only two high stools at the breakfast bar, we all sat around the table with our cocoa and scones.

I was glad that my skirt and legs were safely tucked away under the table. We all munched away in silence for a minute or so.

“Don’t worry about the rehearsal,” he eventually said. “What’s the point in having one except to see what can go wrong! That way you know what you have to do to get it right.”

It was definitely a good job that I wasn’t sitting on a high stool; I would have fallen off!

“Just remember once you’ve decided to do something, stick out your chin and do it right!”

“Thanks Dad, “I responded.

“Can you get some blackcurrant jam from the fridge? “, My mother asked.

She never had blackcurrant jam with her scones so I assumed she was just getting me to walk around to get used to moving in the skirt in front of my father. I got up carefully, walk to the fridge, fortunately an eyelevel unit, got the jam and a clean spoon and returned to the table. My parents have switched to talking about business. My mother, who did the accounts and managed the finances, was visiting her tax accountant on Friday in Baile Na hAbhann, directly translated as River Town, but Anglicised as Ballyhowan, the closest regional centre. My father announced that he would not be going: the weather promised fine and he wanted to use the good day and work on some fencing. Eventually I excuse myself and headed off to bed, hanging the skirt and polo neck up in my wardrobe and dropping the tights over the skirt hanger.

Thursday passed by as normal and I absolutely blitzed our practice session. It was chalk and cheese compare to my performance the previous evening. I arrived home and responded “it went well” to my mothers raised quizzical eyebrow. As I was heading off to bed my mother told me to tell the teacher that I will be picked up from school at 12 pm on Friday for “a medical appointment “.

“What medical appointment?”, I responded. “I thought that you were going to see the tax woman?”

“We’re going shopping” she responded. “Just don’t say that to anyone!”

“Do I tell the girls that practice is off?”

With the long dark evenings closing in, we were now doing study and practice on Friday nights and over both weekend days as well. I didn’t mind missing school; I definitely didn’t want to miss practice.

“No, I’ll have you back in time for that”.

As a good attender and with good grades, no remarks were passed by the teachers on my proposed absence. The Twins enquired if I was all right; I assured them that all was ok and that I’d see them for study. Duly picked up from school, my mother, unusually, told me to get in the back of the car, a rather venerable Volvo estate. A cardboard box on the seat beside me contained the polo neck, tights and skirt along with a pair of my sister’s Sketchers, a casual walking shoe, although rather fashionable, along with her light blue “puffer jacket”. My mother told me to get changed.

“I can’t go around Ballyhowan wearing these”.

“Why not? All your friends are at school. I’m leaving you off at the beautician’s while I go to the tax accountant. They know what to expect and that you’re doing this for a concert. They’ll get you all made up and your hair done for tomorrow.”

“But won’t they talk and spoil the act?”

“Well, they promised not to say anything so we’ll just have to trust them.”

“But won’t everything be rubbed off by tomorrow?”

“Yes, we’ll take it all off tonight, but once they’ve got a plan ready for makeup and hair, I can redo it in the morning.”

I let all this sink in as I changed. The shoes were a bit loose, but a pair of “invisible” girl’s trainer socks sorted that out. The car was warm so I left the jacket off until I had to get out.

“Brush your hair a bit.” My mother was looking at me in the car mirror.

“Look at the road; you’re making me nervous.” I was always a nervous passenger. “Anyway, I have no brush.”

“I suppose you’re going to be a Ban Garda (female police constable) when you grow up.” My mother knew that I was a nervous passenger and this conversation had happened before. Only this time she had said Ban Garda! It was an old term, only used by older people who remembered a time when Ban Gardaí (plural) were regarded as ancillary to “real policemen”. Why had she said that? Maybe because I’m dressed as a girl? Anyway, I didn’t mind.

“Reach forward and you’ll find a brush in my bag” she continued.

Her bag was on the passenger seat; I leaned over the seat, found a brush, and set to work. This wasn’t easy as my hair was quite long and something between curly and wavy. I usually wore it in a ponytail. It wasn’t red per se but definitely on that spectrum, though somewhat bleached from last summer’s sun.

“Now clean the hairs off your jumper.”

She was watching me again. I decided to say nothing although I thought that the road should demand her full attention!

We parked in the bank carpark in the centre of Ballyhowan. Nobody would be too put out by her using this free parking space as it wasn’t very busy, and anyway, she was a customer. As we were getting out of the car, in my case carefully, my mother asked me to hold out my right wrist. She put a spray of her perfume on it and told me to rub my wrists together. I had often seen her do this so I spread the perfume over my wrists and dried them off behind my ears, as was her habit. I realised that she was looking at me, but she said nothing.

“Remember, keep your knees together when sitting and be careful bending down,” she reminded me as we walked the short distance to the beautician’s.

I was barely able to hear her. I tried not to look at the passers by, imagining each in turn turning around behind me to laugh at the boy dressed as a girl. It was terrifying. No exhilaration, just pure fear of discovery, of ridicule, maybe worse? I might as well have had a big sign on my back saying “Boy”! I was relieved to be brought into the reception area of the beautician’s. For the town that it was in, this was quite a large affair, combining a hairdressers and beauticians, a one-stop-shop. I was handed over to a woman named Mable. Like all the rest of the women working here she appeared quite old to me; at least in her mid 20’s, maybe even 30’s! They all looked glamorous, albeit overly made up and coiffed.

My mother headed off, and Mable took charge of me. The first problem was the polo neck jumper; I would have to take it off. My mother must have been in a hurry or she would have thought of that. Jumper off, I was hoping that my T-shirt didn’t look too masculine: I supposed one white crew neck T-shirt looks much the same as another. I was handed something that looked like a hospital gown and slipped this on. The gown fastened at the back; Mable tied this up for me.

Sitting in a chair before a mirror, Mable and another girl looked at my hair, pulling it this way and that for a few minutes before deciding what to do. Decision made, I was led to a basin for a wash and shampoo. I was a little perturbed that nobody had asked my opinion, however having my hair washed was a luxury and I nearly dozed off as my head was gently massaged. Eventually, hair barely towel dried, I was led back to the mirror seat and Mable started to work. She explained that this time, she was only going to take some of the weight from around the back and sides, and layer it down, so that my hair would look less unruly when not in a ponytail. I wouldn’t even notice it when she was finished. The logical part of my brain wondered what the point was in cutting my hair in a way that no one would notice, but I felt too intimidated to ask.

Cutting finished, some Moroccan Curl added, my hair was blow dried. Mable explained that normally it was better to let the hair dry naturally but today was just too cold to be going out with a wet head. I did notice the difference: instead of flaring out from my head in a confusion of curls and waves, my hair now fell down towards my shoulders, still curly, but not looking like the wild mop it had heretofore resembled.

Hair completed, I was handed over to the makeup team. Another discussion and Louise set to work. First she used a hair band to pull my hair back and started by rubbing some cream into my face. She spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time on my eyes, then back to my face again with an assortment of creams and brushes. I noticed that she was making notes as she worked. I had to purse my lips as she used first a pencil, then some colour and finally gloss, and warned me not to lick my lips! Eventually, she turned my swivel chair back towards the mirror. I must have jumped in the chair as she laughed at my reaction. A girl, maybe 14-15, was looking back at me.

“You like?” Louise’s face appeared in the mirror over my shoulder. I was afraid to talk as my voice might break; I just nodded. Louise handed me a tissue.

“Dab your eyes gently; don’t ruin all my good work!”

Either Louise had noticed that I was starting to well up, or maybe she was used to this reaction from young girls when first given a makeover. Wait a minute; I’m not a girl. I’m just pretending to be one for a show. That’s all!

Next my nails. “They should match your lipstick, honey”, Louise explained as she glued a set of long pink, slightly sparkling nails over my own. The glue was giving me a slight headache and I wondered how I would ever get the nails off. Looking back into the mirror, Louise held a pair of hoop earrings to my earlobes.

“Like these?”

“Won’t work”, I responded. “My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Not yet”, Louise responded. She headed off to the reception desk and I could see her on the telephone. She came back.

“Not this time; it could be a problem in school.”

I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.

Apparently I was now finished as I was brought back to reception to wait for my mother. She arrived quite quickly, came in the door, looked at me and turned quickly away. She must have had something in her eye as she dabbed it with a tissue before going to the reception desk. She spoke for a few minutes with both Mabel and Louise before picking up a large brown paper bag, paid the receptionist and came over to where I was sitting.

“All right young lady; let’s go shopping.”

I presumed that my mother was just teasing me and followed her out into the street.

“Nobody will know unless you tell them.” Having noticed my previous trepidation about being on the street in public, my mother’s reassurance, although welcome, was not required. I was now convinced that nobody would recognise the teenage girl that I had just seen in the mirror, let alone know that she was not what she appeared. Our first stop was at an accessory shop where my mother picked out a set of small clip on earrings.

“Would you consider getting her ears pierced?” The shop assistant asked as my mother paid for the earrings and proceeded to clip them to my earlobes. “Lots of girls her age are getting it done now.”

The piercing was free so the shop assistant wasn’t trying to make a sale. My mother demurred, saying that she would think about it. We walked directly to a clothes shop and to a rack where my mother selected a tan/fawn heavy long sleeved button up cordoroy tunic-dress. She had clearly done a check on the shop beforehand. She held the dress up to me and told me to look in the mirror. The colour matched my hair almost precisely and I was sent to the ladies fitting rooms to try it on. Fortunately the fitting rooms were divided into cubicles. The dress fitted well enough although I felt it to be a bit short: I could fold my hand around the hem. Emerging from the fitting room, I was inspected by my mother and a shop assistant who had joined her. The inspection proves satisfactory and the shop assistant guided us to the hosiery area where two matching pairs of heavy brown tights were added to the basket that the assistant had magically produced. To the assistant’s disappointment, my mother did not accept her recommendation in relation to a winter coat saying that I already had a suitable one at home. I guessed that she was referring to a brown woollen coat that my sister had bought the previous year.

Changed back into my blue mini and polo neck, our next stop was a shoe shop to try on a pair of brown, kitten heeled, ankle boots. Finally, we headed back to the car and my mother drove back to the Black Valley. As we would be passing through Ballymore, I sat in the back where the tinted windows would keep me concealed from prying eyes. We arrived at Niamh’s house just in time for the pre-study snack and I was deposited outside the barn with my school bag. My mother drove back to our house with the purchases.

I opened the door of the barn and stepped into the warmth of the stove. Niamh, Ciara and the Twins were having soup and ham rolls at the table.

“Hi, sorry I’m late…”

I didn’t finish my explanation. Four pairs of eyes were just staring at me and I suddenly remembered that I was made up and dressed as a girl. Incredibly, I had simply forgotten, fixated on the prospect of a practice session, then study. Saoirse was the first to break the spell, jumping up from the table with a kind of squeal of delight and smothering me in a big hug. Aoife quickly followed and even Ciara, much less demonstrative than the twins, came over and embraced me. I was dragged to the table and quizzed on the day’s events as I, not having eaten since morning, tried to answer while tucking into my soup and roll. They loved the hair, loved the makeup, who did it?, what shade was that on my eyes?, the nails are fantastic!, all in an excited babble of loud voices. Eventually Niamh called the room to order and we finished our food and cleared the table for study. It was now 5:30pm and we decided to study first, finish early, then do a longer practice session at the end.

The questioning continued at our break and I gave the girls an outline of the day’s events. They all promised not to tell anyone at school that I did not have a medical appointment and the chatter turned to plans for tomorrow, Saturday, shopping in Galway. Then back to work, finish study at 8:30pm, quickly change into our practice gear, fire up the sound system and go through our six routines.

It was never so easy. Maybe for the first time I felt really a part of the group, not just an imposter masquerading to make up the numbers. I would probably never match the Twins bravura performance, but I was enjoying putting on a show, albeit with no audience. I had forgotten that I wasn’t a girl… no…not quite correct… at that moment I WAS a girl. Maybe my enthusiasm was being felt by the rest of the girls, but we all felt that, if we kept up that standard, we had nailed it. We all had a big group hug when we finished. I was becoming more and more aware that the girls, in particular the Twins who were a year older than Ciara and me, were developing as teenage girls do and was caught between a wish that I would follow the same route, and a reticence to be seen to be taking advantage of my position as an honorary girl. The Twins obviously accepted me as such. Ciara and I had grown up together so the leap was much greater for her.

Practice finished, it was time to change and walk home. Oops, I only had the denim mini, polo neck, tights, sketchers, and puffer-jacket. And I was all dolled up like a girl. What the heck… I changed and headed off on the 15 minute walk. It was not raining, though cool. I felt light headed, feeling the slight breeze around my legs, enjoying the ease of walking in a skirt, feeling as happy as I had ever been. I wasn’t even worried about meeting my father!

I arrived at our house; my mother and father were sitting in the kitchen, cocoa and scones ready just to toast and heat the milk.

“I thought that you might call for a lift?” my mother remarked as I came in.

“Didn’t need one, thanks, it’s a nice evening, a bit cool,” I responded as I put the milk saucepan on the gas hob. My mother toasted and buttered the scones and my father read the Farmers Journal. We had our supper and I excused myself to head for bed…

“Not so fast; you’ve got to take off all that warpaint.” My mother was rehearsing an old joke whereby we referred to makeup as warpaint. She handed me a bottle of cleanser, a makeup removal pad and a small clear bottle of eye cleaner. I was to smear the cleanser all over my face, wet the makeup pad, put eye cleaner on it, clean off my eye makeup first, then my face. I nodded and repaired to the bathroom. Job completed and fangs polished, I headed to my room.

“We’re up early in the morning; I have to redo that makeup!” my mother called as I walked down the hallway.

I hung up my skirt, jumper, tights and coat beside the new cord dress that was already hanging in my closet.

My parents continued talking… as usual my father’s voice carried more than hers…

“… if you hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have recognised her… I mean him… she looks just like a girl… HE looks just like a girl…”

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