My name is Brian and I live in a small town I shall call ‘Smallville’. Before the freedom of purchasing from internet stores and having parcels delivered anonymously to your front door, one had to go to a physical shop. This took immense courage, bravery, and determination.
Here is a story of a shopping expedition. It may be true, it may be in my imagination.
The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of my bedroom window, casting familiar shadows across the worn wooden floor. I'd been awake since 5:30, lying still and listening to the sounds of the stirring of life - Mrs Henderson's tabby yowling from three houses down, the distant hum of the milk float as old Jim made his rounds with clinking bottles, the gentle whoosh of wind through the old oak trees that lined this street.
At 25, I knew every sound this town made, every rhythm of its days. I’d grown up here, graduated from Smallville High School, and now worked at Henderson's hardware store three blocks from where I was born. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where your business became the town's business over tea in Emma’s cafe, where a secret could travel from the post office to the church steps in under an hour.
Which was exactly why, on this particular Saturday morning, I was planning to drive the thirty miles to Townsville.
I sat up in bed, running my hands through my sandy brown hair, and glanced at the clock: 7:42 AM. The shops in Townsville wouldn't open until 9:00, but I needed the time to work up my courage. My stomach felt like it was housing a family of butterflies, all of them doing aerial stunts.
“Just Do It,” I told myself, the same words I’d been repeating for weeks. “Drive over there, walk in, look around, and see what happens.”
But it wasn't that simple, was it? Nothing about this felt simple.
I stood and walked to my dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror above it. Average height, lean build from years of lifting boxes and timber at the hardware store. Brown eyes that my mother used to say were "kind eyes." She’d been gone three years now. I looked ordinary, unremarkable, the kind of person who could blend into a crowd, which was both a blessing and a curse in a town like Smallville.
I dressed carefully in my usual Saturday clothes, well-worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old leather jacket. Everything about my appearance said "normal guy running errands," which was exactly what I needed to project. But my hands shook slightly as I buttoned my shirt, betraying the nervousness that had been building for weeks.
The desire had started small, barely a whisper in the back of my mind many years ago. I’d notice things; the way fabric moved, the elegant lines of a dress in a shop window, the graceful swish of a skirt as someone walked by. At first, I’d pushed the thoughts away, told myself it was just curiosity, just noticing things the way anyone might notice a beautiful car or an interesting building.
But the whispers had grown louder as I got older.
I’d started paying attention to women's fashion in new ways I hadn’t before. When I watched TV, my eyes would drift to the actresses' clothing. When I went to Henderson's to help with inventory, I’d find myself studying the few female customers who came in, admiring the way a blouse draped or how confident she looked in a flowing skirt.
Two months ago, I’d driven to Townsville for a ‘legitimate’ reason, to pick up a part that Henderson's couldn't get. Walking past the shops on the High Street, I’d stopped in front of ‘Eleanor's Ladies Fashions’. The window display featured a navy pleated skirt paired with a cream-colored sweater, and something about the combination caught my breath. I’d stood there for minutes, pretending to check my phone while stealing glances at the outfit.
Since then, I’d made excuses to drive to Townsville three more times, always walking past Eleanor's, always slowing down to look, never quite brave enough to go inside.
Until today.
I made coffee in my small kitchen, the familiar ritual helping to calm my nerves slightly. The house felt too quiet, too full of my own thoughts. My parents had bought this place in 1974, and I had inherited it along with all the memories contained in its walls. Usually, the familiarity was comforting, but this morning it felt constraining, like the walls were pressing in on me.
I'd been searching for answers for a long time. Through whispered conversations and stolen glances at magazine stands, I'd discovered I wasn't alone, that there were others who felt this same pull, this same curiosity about expressing themselves differently. I'd heard the names before, crossdresser, transvestite, even transsexual, whispered in hushed tones or mentioned briefly in medical books I'd found at the library. Others simply called it being themselves.
I wasn't sure what to call it exactly. All I knew was that the feeling never ever went away, and the only thing that seemed to help was imagining myself in that shop, touching those fabrics, maybe even trying something on.
The coffee mug warmed my hands as I sat at my small kitchen table, looking out at the garden my mother had planted. The roses were blooming, their pink petals soft in the morning light. She would have understood, I thought. She’d always been the one who encouraged me to be honest about my feelings, to "follow your heart," as she used to say.
My father, God rest his soul, might have struggled with it more. He had been a good man, but traditional in his thinking, the kind who believed in clearly defined roles and expectations. Still, I liked to think that love would have won out in the end. My parents raised me to be kind, to treat others with respect, to harm no one. Surely that extended to being kind to myself too?
By 8:30, I couldn't sit still any longer. I washed my coffee mug, grabbed my keys and wallet, and headed for my car. The drive to Townsville usually took about twenty-five minutes, but I’d planned to drive slowly today, to give myself time to ponder and think.
The morning was crisp and clear, the kind of late summer day that made you grateful to be alive. I lowered my windows and let the fresh air rush through the interior of my car. The familiar route unwound before me; past Malcom's farm with its barns and scattered cattle, through the stretch of woods where my father had taught me to identify trees, over the small bridge that crossed the stream.
As Smallville disappeared in my rearview mirror, I felt some of my tension ease. With each mile that passed, I was becoming more anonymous, less known. In Townsville, I was just another person, another face in the crowd. The thought was both liberating and terrifying.
“What if someone sees me?” The worry crept in despite my best attempts to stay calm. “What if word gets back to Smallville somehow?”
But then another voice answered, one that sounded surprisingly like my mother: “What if it doesn't? What if everything goes fine? What if you find something that makes you happy?”
The outskirts of Townsville began to appear, huddled suburban homes, the out of town shopping centre, the signs of a larger town with more opportunities and more anonymity. My heart rate picked up again as I navigated the busier streets, following the route I’d memorised to Eleanor's.
I parked three blocks away, in front of a coffee shop, and sat in my car for a full five minutes, watching people walk by on the street. Normal people, going about their normal lives, none of them knowing about the internal storm I was weathering.
“You can do this,” I told myself. “You've driven all this way. You don't have to buy anything. You don't have to try anything on. You can just look around and leave. Baby steps.”
I locked my car and started walking toward Eleanor's, my hands tucked deep in my jacket pockets, my heart beating so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. The morning sun was warm on my face, and the streets were busy enough that I felt pleasantly anonymous.
One block away from the shop, I could see the familiar window display. The navy skirt was still there, still paired with that cream sweater, still making my pulse quicken. But today, instead of walking past, instead of making excuses and turning around, I was going to walk straight there and through that door.
For the first time in months, I allowed myself to imagine what might happen next. Maybe the assistant would be kind. Maybe I’d find the courage to ask questions, to touch the fabrics, to explore this part of myself that had been whispering for so long.
Maybe, just maybe, this would be the day I started listening.
The shop was only one block away, its cheerful yellow awning coming in clear view. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and kept walking forward into whatever came next.
The brass handle of ‘Eleanor's Ladies Fashions’ felt cool under my palm as I paused at the entrance, my reflection ghostlike in the glass door. Through the window, I could see soft lighting, carefully arranged displays, and the gentle movement of fabric swaying from a ceiling fan. My mouth had gone completely dry.
“Just open the door. That's all you have to do right now. One step.”
A small bell chimed as I pushed inside, the sound so delicate and welcoming that it almost made me smile despite my racing heart. The shop smelled of lavender and something else, perhaps vanilla or soft leather, and the atmosphere was completely different from anywhere I had ever been. Where Henderson's hardware was all sharp edges and fluorescent lights, this place seemed to glow with warmth.
"Good morning!" called a cheerful voice from somewhere deeper in the shop. "I'll be right with you!"
My instinct was to call back stating that I was just looking, but my voice seemed to have abandoned me entirely. Instead, I managed a small wave toward the general direction of the voice and tried to look casual as I moved further into the space.
The layout of the shop revealed itself gradually as my eyes adjusted. Racks of clothing created intimate little sections, business wear near the front, casual pieces in the middle, and what looked like evening wear toward the back. Everything was organized not just by type, but by colour, creating a rainbow effect that made my breath catch.
I’d never noticed how beautiful clothes could be when displayed with care. At the discount stores where I occasionally shopped for myself, everything was crammed together on cheap metal racks under harsh lighting. Here, each piece seemed to have its own space to breathe, its own moment to shine.
I found myself drawn to a display of blouses near the window, their fabrics catching the morning light. There was a silk piece in deep emerald that seemed to shimmer as air from the ceiling fan moved across it. Without thinking, I reached out to touch the fabric, then stopped myself abruptly, my hand hovering inches away.
“You're allowed to touch things”, I reminded myself. “That's what shops are for.”
But somehow, touching felt too intimate, too revealing. What if someone saw me and knew immediately why I was really there? What if the way I touched the silk gave me away?
I pulled my hand back and moved on, trying to look purposeful as I wandered through the racks. The problem was everything was so distracting. A flowing maxi dress in Autumnal colours that moved like water. A collection of scarves in every shade imaginable. A rack of skirts in all sorts of colours and textures that made my fingers itch to explore.
I had always thought of myself as someone who didn't care much about appearances. My own wardrobe consisted of practical pieces in neutral colours, things that would last, things that wouldn't draw attention. But surrounded by all this beauty, all this variety and texture and possibility, I realized I’d been starving myself without even knowing it.
A soft rustling made me look up. The shop assistant was approaching, and my first thought was that she looked exactly like someone who would work in a place like this. She appeared to be in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair styled in a gentle wave, wearing a dove-grey cardigan over a flowing skirt in muted florals. Her smile was warm and genuine, and there was something about her eyes, kind eyes, I thought, like my mother's, that made me feel slightly less panicked.
"I'm Margaret," she said, extending her hand. "Welcome to Eleanor's. Is there anything particular you're looking for today?"
I shook her hand, grateful that my own wasn't trembling too obviously. "I'm Brian... I’m… I'm just browsing, really. Thank you."
"Of course! Take your time. I'll be around if you need anything at all." Margaret's voice had a musical quality that matched the atmosphere of the shop perfectly. She began to turn away, then paused. "You know, we just got in some lovely new pieces for Autumn. If you're shopping for someone special, I'd be happy to help you find something perfect."
The assumption that I was shopping for someone else should have been a relief, it was exactly the cover story I’d planned to use. But instead, I felt a small pang of disappointment. Of course she would assume that. Of course a man in a women's clothing store would be buying a gift.
"Actually," I heard myself saying, "I'm looking for something for my... my sister."
The lie came out smoothly, just as I’d practiced in my car, but it felt strange on my tongue. I’d never been good at deception, even the harmless kind.
"How wonderful! Is it for a special occasion?" Margaret asked, her face lighting up with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved helping people find the perfect outfit.
"Not really. Just... something nice. Something she might like."
Margaret nodded thoughtfully. "Well, what's her style like? Does she prefer classic pieces, or is she more adventurous? Bright colours or neutrals?"
I realized I had no idea how to answer these questions about my fictional sister. My panic must have shown on my face because Margaret's expression grew gentle.
"You know what? Why don't you just wander around and see if anything catches your eye? Sometimes you know it when you see it, especially when you're shopping for someone you care about."
Grateful for the reprieve, I nodded and moved deeper into the shop. Margaret returned to whatever she’d been doing behind the counter, giving me space but remaining available, the perfect balance of helpful and unobtrusive.
With the pressure of conversation lifted, I found myself truly looking at the clothes for the first time. I moved slowly through the sections, my eyes drinking in details I’d never noticed or cared about before. The way a hem was finished. The delicate mother-of-pearl buttons on a cardigan. The subtle texture woven into what looked like a simple black fabric.
At a display of Autumn dresses, I stopped entirely. One piece in particular seemed to glow under the soft lighting, a wrap dress in a deep burgundy that reminded me of wine or Autumn leaves. The fabric looked substantial but fluid, and the way it was draped on the mannequin suggested it would move beautifully on a real person.
I found myself imagining how the dress would feel to wear, how the fabric would flow around my legs, how the wrap style would feel around my waist. The thought was so vivid, so appealing, that I actually took a step closer before catching myself.
“You're staring,” I realized with alarm. “You look like...”
Like what? Like someone who appreciated beautiful things? Like someone who was genuinely interested in what he was seeing? Maybe that wasn't such a terrible thing to look like.
I forced myself to keep moving, but my eyes kept getting caught by unexpected details. A vintage-inspired blouse with tiny, covered buttons running up the front. A pencil skirt in charcoal grey that looked professional but elegant. A section of lingerie that made me blush but also filled me with curiosity about textures and colours I’d never considered.
By the time I reached the back of the shop, I was feeling overwhelmed by beauty and possibility in a way I’d never experienced. Everything here seemed designed to enhance femininity, to celebrate it, to make the wearer feel special and lovely. It was so far from my own practical, function-over-form approach to clothing that it felt like discovering a foreign country.
And then I saw it.
The navy pleated skirt from the window display had a twin hanging on a nearby rack, and seeing it up close, I understood why it had captured my attention from the street. The fabric had a subtle sheen that suggested quality, and the pleats were perfectly pressed, creating elegant lines that would move and sway with each step. It was classic but not boring, sophisticated but approachable.
I glanced around to make sure Margaret wasn't watching, then stepped closer to the skirt. This close, I could see the craftsmanship in the construction, the careful attention to details like the hidden zipper and the way the waistband was finished. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest tight with longing.
Without thinking, I reached out and touched one of the pleats, letting my fingers trace along the fabric. It was softer than I’d expected but with enough structure to hold its shape. The sensation sent a small thrill through me, my first real contact with this world I’d been observing from afar.
"That's one of my favourites," Margaret's voice said softly from behind him.
I jerked my hand back as if I’d been burned, my face flaming with embarrassment. "I was just... I was checking the quality. For my sister."
Margaret stepped up beside him, her expression thoughtful rather than suspicious. "It's lovely, isn't it? The fabric is a wool blend, so it's perfect for Autumn weather. And the cut is so flattering, it works on almost every figure type." She paused, studying 's face with those kind eyes. "What size is your sister?"
"I... I'm not sure,” I stammered. "She's about... about my size, I think?"
The words hung in the air between them, and I immediately wished I could take them back. Of all the things I could have said, why that?
But Margaret's expression didn't change. If anything, her smile grew a little warmer. "I see," she said quietly, and there was something in her tone that made my heart skip. "Well, if she's about your size, this would probably be perfect for her. Would you like me to show you some blouses that would pair well with it?"
My mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and Margaret was offering me a choice: step back to safety or take a leap into the unknown.
"I..." I began, then stopped. Margaret waited patiently, no judgment in her face, just gentle encouragement.
For months, I had been imagining this moment, but now that it was here, I found myself paralyzed by the magnitude of it. This kind woman was offering me exactly what I’d been hoping for, and I was terrified to accept.
The navy skirt hung between them like a question, beautiful and patient and full of possibility.
All I had to do was find the courage to say yes.
The silence stretched between them for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. I stood frozen, staring at the navy pleated skirt while Margaret waited patiently beside me, her presence somehow both calming and terrifying. The soft background music, something classical and gentle, seemed to grow louder in my ears as I struggled to find words.
"I..." he started again, then stopped, my throat feeling thick. The weight of secret longing pressed down on me, all focused on this one moment, this one choice.
Margaret shifted slightly, and I caught a whiff of her perfume, something floral but not overpowering, like a garden after rain. When she spoke, her voice was even softer than before.
"You know," she said, as if she were sharing a confidence, "I've been working in women's fashion for nearly thirty years. I've helped daughters shop for their first professional wardrobe, mothers finding something special for their wedding anniversaries, teenagers discovering their own style." She paused, her fingers gently adjusting the skirt's position on the hanger. "And I've learned that the most important thing is that clothes should make the wearer feel good about themselves. Happy. Confident. Beautiful."
My eyes darted to her face, trying to read her expression. There was no mockery there, no judgment, just the same warm kindness she’d shown since I’d entered the shop.
"The thing is," Margaret continued, still speaking in that gentle, confidential tone, "I can always tell when someone truly appreciates beautiful clothes. It's in the way they touch fabric, the way their eyes light up when they see something special. It's not about who the clothes are for, it's about recognizing beauty and quality and craftsmanship."
She turned to face him fully, and I found myself looking directly into her eyes. They were brown flecked with gold, I noticed, and completely without judgment.
"Your sister is very lucky to have someone who cares so much about finding her something perfect," Margaret said. Then she paused, tilted her head slightly, and added with the gentlest smile, "Although... if she's about your size, and you're looking at this particular skirt..." She let the sentence hang in the air like a question.
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it. This was it, the moment where I could either retreat into my safe lie or take that leap into honesty. My hands were trembling now.
"I..." I began, then forced myself to stop, take a breath, and try again. "I think she would really love it." The words came out barely above a whisper.
Margaret nodded slowly, as if I’d said something much more significant than I had. "I think so too." Then, after another gentle pause: "You know, if she's about your size, it might be helpful if you tried it on for size. Just to make sure it would fit her properly."
"Try it on?" I repeated, my voice cracking slightly on the words.
"Well, if you're not sure of her exact measurements," Margaret said reasonably, as if this were the most natural suggestion in the world. "I mean, you could always guess, but wouldn't it be better to know for certain that it fits properly? There's nothing worse than giving someone a beautiful piece of clothing that doesn't fit."
I stared at her, my mind racing. She was offering me exactly what I’d been dreaming about for the longest time, the chance to actually try on women's clothing, to see how it felt, to look at myself in the mirror wearing something beautiful and feminine. But she was also giving me an excuse, a practical reason that had nothing to do with my own desires and everything to do with being a thoughtful brother.
"I... would that be... is that normal?" I asked, hating how young and uncertain I sounded.
Margaret's smile grew warmer. "Honey, in thirty years of retail, I've seen it all. Men trying on clothes for wives who can't make it to the store, teenagers buying surprise gifts for their girlfriends, sons shopping for their mothers. What's normal is wanting to get it right." She gestured toward the back of the store. "I have a nice large dressing room back there, completely private. You could just slip it on, see how it fits, and then you'd know for sure."
The offer hung in the air between us, golden and terrifying and perfect. I looked at the skirt, then at Margaret's kind face, then back at the skirt. My whole body felt like it was vibrating with nervous energy.
"She really is about my size," he heard myself saying, as if from a great distance.
"Then it makes perfect sense," Margaret replied matter-of-factly. "Would you like me to grab a few different sizes, just in case?"
"No," I said quickly, then blushed at my own eagerness. "I mean, I think that size would be right."
Margaret lifted the skirt from the rack with careful hands, as if it were something precious, and held it close to me with a learned eye and nodded in agreement "Wonderful. The dressing room is right this way."
As she led me toward the back of the store, I felt as though I was floating, my feet barely touching the ground. The dressing room area was tucked away in a quiet corner, with soft lighting and a comfortable chair outside the individual stalls. Margaret stopped in front of the largest one and pulled back the curtain to reveal a spacious room with a three-way mirror, good lighting, and a small bench along one wall.
"Take your time," she said, handing me the skirt. "There's no rush at all. Just call out when you're ready, or if you need anything."
I accepted the skirt, my hands shaking as I felt the weight and texture of it. It was really happening. After an eternity of wondering, of imagining, of standing outside shop windows, I was actually going to try on a piece of women's clothing.
"Thank you," I managed to say, though the words felt inadequate for what she was giving me.
Margaret squeezed my shoulder gently. "It's my pleasure, honey. Really."
She pulled the curtain closed, and I was alone with the skirt and my racing heart. The dressing room felt like a sanctuary, quiet and private and safe. I hung the skirt carefully on one of the hooks and just looked at it for a moment, hardly believing this was real.
My hands were still trembling as I unbuckled my belt and stepped out of my jeans. Standing there in my boxer shorts and flannel shirt I felt vulnerable and strange but also excited in a way I couldn't quite name. I lifted the skirt from its hanger, feeling the way the fabric moved, the way the pleats shifted and caught the light.
The zipper was on the side, and it took me a moment to figure out the mechanics of it. But then the skirt was sliding up my legs, settling around my waist, and I had to grip the edge of the bench to steady myself as the sensation was overwhelming.
It felt... right. That was the only word I could find for it. The fabric was soft against my skin but structured enough to give shape. The weight of it was different from trousers, less restrictive but more present, if that made sense. And when I took a step, the pleats moved with me in a way that felt graceful and fluid.
I turned to look in the mirror and gasped softly at my reflection. The skirt transformed my silhouette completely, creating elegant lines I’d never seen on myself before. It fell to just below my knees, exactly the right length, and the navy colour looked good with my flannel shirt, even though I knew the two pieces weren't meant to go together.
But it was more than just how it looked, it was how it made me feel. Standing there in that dressing room, wearing that beautiful skirt, I felt like I was seeing a part of myself I’d never been allowed to acknowledge before. Not feminine, exactly, but yet something softer, something more graceful, something that had been hiding under layers of flannel shirts and work boots for twenty-five years.
I took another step, watching the way the skirt moved in the mirror, and felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For the first time, the nervous butterflies in my stomach had settled into something that felt more like joy.
"How's it going in there?" Margaret's voice called softly from outside the dressing room.
My heart jumped, but not with panic this time. "I think... I think it fits," I called back, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
"Would you like to show me? Sometimes it helps to get a second opinion."
The question sent another thrill of nervousness and excitement through me. To step outside this private sanctuary, to let someone else see me like this, it felt enormous and terrifying and absolutely necessary.
"Okay," I said, my voice barely audible.
"Take your time," Margaret replied. "I'm right here when you're ready."
I looked at myself in the mirror one more time, adjusting the waistband slightly, smoothing down the pleats with hands that were no longer shaking. I looked nervous but not unhappy. Different, but not wrong.
I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the curtain and slowly pulled it aside.
Margaret was standing a few feet away, and when she saw me, her face lit up with genuine delight. "Oh my," she said softly, "that looks absolutely lovely on you."
I stepped out of the dressing room, hyperaware of how the skirt moved with each step, how different my posture felt, how the air moved around my legs in an unfamiliar but pleasant way. Margaret circled me slowly, her expression thoughtful and approving.
"The fit is perfect," she said. "The length is exactly right, and the waist sits beautifully. The colour is wonderful with your complexion too." She paused, meeting my eyes in the three-way mirror outside the dressing room. "It might be for your sister, but you look lovely in it too."
The compliment hit me like a warm wave, and I felt my cheeks flush with pleasure and embarrassment. "I... thank you," I managed.
Margaret's smile was knowing but kind. "You know what? I think I have the perfect blouse to go with that skirt. Would you like to see it?"
My heart skipped. The idea of adding another piece, of creating an actual outfit, was both thrilling and terrifying. But looking at myself in the mirror, seeing how right the skirt looked and felt, I found myself nodding before I could second-guess the decision.
"It's an ivory blouse with the softest fabric you've ever felt," Margaret continued, already moving toward another section of the shop. "Covered buttons, three-quarter sleeves, very classic, very elegant. If it looks good on you, it'll look fantastic on your sister."
The gentle fiction was still there, the safe excuse that let me explore without having to name what I was doing. But there was something in Margaret's tone, a warmth and understanding that suggested she knew exactly what this meant to me, fiction or not.
"I'd love to see it," I said, and was surprised that I had said this out loud and with unmistakable enthusiasm.
As Margaret disappeared between the racks to find the blouse, I caught my reflection in the mirror again. The nervous, frightened man who had entered the shop that morning was still there, but there was something else now too, someone who was beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to want beautiful things for himself.
Someone who was beginning to understand that kindness could come from the most unexpected places, and that courage didn't always feel brave, sometimes it just felt like finally saying yes.
Margaret returned within minutes, carrying what looked like a cloud of ivory silk draped over her arm. As she approached, I could see the blouse more clearly, it was everything she had promised and more. The fabric seemed to glow in the soft lighting of the shop, and even from a distance, I could tell it was something special.
"Here we are," Margaret said, holding up the blouse with obvious pride. "This is one of my absolute favourites from our new collection. Feel this fabric."
She extended the sleeve to me, and I hesitantly reached out to touch it. The material was incredibly soft, softer than anything I’d ever felt, with a subtle drape that suggested it would move beautifully when worn. It wasn't quite silk, but it had that same luxurious quality that made me want to run my fingers over it again and again.
"It's beautiful," I said, and I meant it completely.
"The construction is lovely too," Margaret continued, turning the blouse to show the details. "See these covered buttons? They're all hand-sewn, and the way they've finished the buttonholes is just exquisite. And look at these sleeves, three-quarter length with just a touch of gathering at the cuff. Very feminine without being fussy."
As she spoke, I found myself studying every detail she pointed out. I’d never paid attention to construction details in clothing before, but seeing the care and craftsmanship that went into creating something this beautiful was fascinating. Each element seemed designed to enhance the wearer, to make them feel special and elegant.
"Would you like to try it on with the skirt?" Margaret asked, her tone casual but her eyes warm with encouragement. "Just to see how the whole outfit looks together?"
I glanced back toward the dressing room, then at the blouse in Margaret's hands. The idea of wearing a complete outfit, of seeing myself transformed rather than just partially changed, was both thrilling and terrifying. But hadn't I already taken the biggest leap? What was one more step?
"Yes," I said, surprising myself with how quickly the word came out. "Yes, I'd like that."
Margaret's smile could have powered the whole shop. "Wonderful. Take your time in there, and don't worry about anything. I'll be right here if you need help with any of the buttons or anything."
Back in the sanctuary of the dressing room, I carefully took off my flannel shirt and hung it on one of the hooks. Standing there in just my white t-shirt and the navy skirt felt strange, half transformed, caught between two different versions of myself. I looked at the ivory blouse hanging beside my flannel shirt and marvelled at the contrast. One was purely functional, built to last through years of hard work and washing. The other was art, designed to make someone feel beautiful.
I lifted the blouse from its hanger with reverent hands. Up close, I could see even more details, stitching around the collar, a subtle texture woven into the fabric that added richness without being obvious. This was clothing as craftsmanship, and I felt honoured just to be touching it.
Slipping my arms into the sleeves was like being enveloped in a gentle embrace. The fabric was cool against my skin but warmed quickly, and the fit was surprisingly perfect. The shoulders sat exactly where they should, and the sleeves fell to just the right point on my forearms. As I began working my way up the row of covered buttons, I found myself holding my breath.
Each button that closed brought me closer to transformation. The blouse followed the lines of my torso without clinging, creating a silhouette that was elegant and refined. The three-quarter sleeves made my hands look more graceful somehow, and the way the fabric draped suggested femininity without requiring curves I didn't have.
When the last button was secured, I finally allowed myself to look in the mirror.
The man staring back at me was still recognizably the same ordinary guy from Smallville, but he was also someone entirely new. The navy skirt and ivory blouse worked together perfectly, creating clean lines and a sophisticated colour palette that made me look polished and put-together in a way flannel and jeans never had. But it was more than just the clothes, it was the way I was standing, the way I held myself when wearing something that made me feel beautiful.
My posture was straighter, my movements more deliberate and graceful. There was a softness in my expression that I’d never seen before, a kind of peace that came from finally allowing myself to explore this hidden part of who I was. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was seeing my complete self in the mirror.
I turned slightly, watching the way the skirt moved, how the blouse followed the motion of my body. The outfit transformed not just my appearance but my entire sense of myself. I felt elegant, refined, worthy of beautiful things. The nervous energy that had been coursing through my body all morning had settled into something warmer, not quite confidence yet, but the beginning of it.
Taking a few steps back and forth in the small space, I marvelled at how different movement felt in a skirt. There was a rhythm to it, a gentle sway that felt natural and graceful.
A soft knock on the dressing room door made me freeze.
"How are we doing in there?" Margaret's voice was gentle, patient.
I looked at myself in the mirror one more time, smoothing down the blouse with hands that were no longer trembling. "I think... I think it fits well," I called back, my voice stronger than I’d expected.
"That's wonderful. Would you like to show me? Sometimes it helps to see an outfit through different eyes."
The invitation hung in the air, and I felt that familiar flutter of nervous excitement. Stepping out in just the skirt had felt enormous, but this, wearing a complete outfit, looking polished and feminine and beautiful, this felt like crossing into entirely new territory.
But Margaret had been nothing but kind and supportive. She’d made this exploration possible with her gentle understanding and complete lack of judgment. If there was anyone in the world I could trust to see me like this, it was her.
"Okay," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll be right out."
I took one last look at myself in the three-way mirror, adjusting the collar of the blouse slightly, smoothing the pleats of the skirt. The person looking back at me was nervous but not ashamed, uncertain but not afraid. It was someone I wanted to get to know better.
I reached for the curtain and slowly pulled it aside.
Margaret was waiting in the same spot as before, and when she saw me, her face lit up with genuine delight and pride. "Oh my goodness," she said softly, pressing her hand to her heart. "You look absolutely stunning."
I stepped out of the dressing room, hyperaware of every sensation, the way the skirt swayed with each step, how the soft fabric of the blouse moved against my skin, the way the outfit made me feel like I was floating rather than walking. Margaret's expression was one of pure joy, as if she’d just witnessed something wonderful.
"Turn around, let me see the whole look," she said, her voice warm with approval.
I turned slowly, watching myself in the three-way mirror outside the dressing room. From every angle, the outfit looked perfect. The colours complemented each other beautifully, the proportions were exactly right, and most importantly, everything fit as if it had been made specifically for me.
"The fit is absolutely perfect," Margaret said, circling me with the eye of a professional. "The skirt sits beautifully at your waist, and that blouse, it's like it was made for you. The colour is stunning with your complexion, and the style is so elegant."
She paused in front of me, meeting my eyes in the mirror with that same knowing smile she’d worn earlier. "It might be for your sister," she said gently, "but you look absolutely lovely in it. Really, truly lovely."
The compliment washed over me like warm sunlight. I felt my cheeks flush with pleasure, but this time the embarrassment was mixed with something that felt remarkably like pride. I did look lovely. I could see it in the mirror, in the way the clothes transformed not just my appearance but my entire being.
"Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion I couldn't quite name. "Thank you for... for everything."
Margaret's smile grew even warmer. "It's been my absolute pleasure, honey. Really." She gestured toward the mirrors. "What do you think?
I looked at myself again, taking in every detail. "It looks... right," I said finally. "Like this is how I hoped it would look."
"I think so too," Margaret said quietly. Then, with a slightly mischievous twinkle in her eye, she added, "You know, I might have a few other pieces that would work beautifully with your... sister's... colouring. Would you like to see them?"
The offer sent another thrill through me. The idea of exploring more, of trying other beautiful things, was intoxicating. But even more than that was the realization that Margaret was genuinely enjoying helping me, that she took pride in finding the perfect pieces for people, regardless of who those people were or why they were shopping.
"I'd love that," I said, and for the first time all morning, my voice was completely steady.
As Margaret bustled off to find more treasures, I remained in front of the three-way mirror, turning slowly and watching my reflection from different angles. The person in the mirror was still me, but it was also someone new, someone who was finally beginning to understand that beauty wasn't something I had to observe from afar, but something I could experience for myself.
Someone who was learning that kindness could come from strangers, that courage could grow in small moments, and that sometimes the most important discoveries happened when you finally found the courage to try on something beautiful and realize it fit perfectly.
Margaret returned with her arms full of possibilities, each piece carefully selected and draped over her forearm like precious artifacts. I watched her approach with a mixture of anticipation and wonder, still marvelling at how natural it felt to be standing there in the navy skirt and ivory blouse, no longer hiding behind the dressing room curtain.
"I couldn't help myself," Margaret said with a conspiratorial smile, laying her selections across the comfortable chair beside the three-way mirror. "When I see someone who truly appreciates beautiful clothes, I get a little carried away."
I looked at the collection she’d assembled, a soft lavender cardigan that seemed to shimmer in the light, a cream-colored sweater with delicate cable knitting, the blouse in deep forest green with subtle embroidery around the neckline, and what appeared to be a vintage-inspired dress in a muted floral print.
"These are all beautiful," I said, reaching out tentatively to touch the lavender cardigan. The yarn was impossibly soft, probably cashmere, and the colour was unlike anything in my usual wardrobe.
"That cardigan would be stunning with what you're wearing now," Margaret observed, following my gaze. "The lavender would bring out the warmth in your… your sisters… eyes, and it's the perfect weight for Autumn weather."
Without really thinking about it, I lifted the cardigan from the chair and held it up against myself, looking in the mirror to see how the colour played against the navy and ivory. Margaret was right, the soft purple seemed to make my brown eyes deeper, warmer.
"Would you like to try it on?" she asked, but she was already helping me slip my arms into the sleeves before I could answer.
The cardigan was like being wrapped in a cloud. It draped perfectly over the blouse, adding another layer of elegance to the outfit without overwhelming it. The colour was more flattering than anything I had ever worn, and the way it completed the look made me feel like I was seeing myself clearly for the first time.
"Oh my," Margaret breathed, stepping back to admire the effect. "That's it. That's absolutely it. You look like you just stepped out of a magazine."
I turned to see myself from different angles, hardly believing what I was seeing. The three-piece ensemble: the skirt, the blouse, and the cardigan, worked together like they'd been designed as a set. Every colour complemented the others, every line flowed seamlessly into the next. I looked polished, sophisticated, and undeniably beautiful in a way that felt both foreign and completely natural.
"It feels different," I said softly, smoothing my hands down the front of the cardigan. "Not just how I look, but... how it feels inside."
Margaret nodded knowingly. "That's what the right clothes can do. They don't change who you are, they help you show who you've always been."
The words resonated through me like a bell. Who I’d always been. Standing there in that elegant outfit, I realized that the person in the mirror wasn't a stranger or a fantasy, it was simply a part of myself I’d never been allowed to explore. The softness, the appreciation for beauty, the desire for grace and elegance, these things had always been there, buried under layers of expectation and fear.
"Your sister is going to love these pieces," Margaret continued, but there was a warmth in her voice that told me she understood exactly what was happening. "Especially together like this. She has wonderful taste, as do you."
The gentle fiction was still there, the safe harbour that allowed me to explore without having to name what I was doing. But somehow, the need for that fiction was starting to fade. Margaret's kindness wasn't conditional on maintaining the pretence, it was simply there, steady and accepting.
"She does," I agreed, my voice growing stronger. "She's always been drawn to beautiful things."
"I can tell," Margaret said with a smile. "And she's lucky to have someone who understands her style so well."
We spent the next thirty minutes exploring the other pieces Margaret had selected. I tried on the forest green blouse, which made my skin glow and brought out highlights in my hair I’d never noticed. The vintage dress was too bold for this first adventure, but Margaret held it up against me anyway, and we both agreed it was stunning.
With each piece I tried, I felt more comfortable with this new aspect of myself. The nervousness was still there, but it was overlaid now with something that felt remarkably like joy. Each time Margaret complimented how I looked, each time she suggested another combination or pointed out how a particular colour enhanced my features, I felt a little more permission to appreciate my own beauty.
"You know," Margaret said as she watched me admire the way the green blouse moved in the mirror, "I've been in this business for thirty years, and I can honestly say you have one of the best eyes for style I've ever encountered. Your instincts are remarkable."
The compliment made me flush with pleasure. "I've never really thought about fashion before," I lied. "But being here, seeing all these beautiful things... it's like discovering a new language."
"It's a language you're clearly fluent in," Margaret replied. "Some people have to learn it, but for others, it's just natural. You have that natural sense of what works, what's beautiful, what makes someone feel special."
As the morning progressed, I found myself relaxing completely into the experience. Margaret brought me accessories to try, a delicate silver necklace that caught the light beautifully against the ivory blouse, a silk scarf in subtle blues and greys that would transform the simplest outfit into something elegant. With each addition, I felt more like myself, more complete.
But it was when Margaret suggested I try on a pair of simple ballet flats that I felt the final piece of the puzzle click into place.
"Just to see the complete effect," she explained, producing a pair in soft navy leather that would complement the skirt perfectly. "I know they won't fit exactly, but it might help you visualize how the whole outfit would look on your sister."
I stepped into the flats. They were slightly too small, but even so, they transformed my entire posture and the way I moved. Suddenly the elegant lines of the skirt and blouse were complemented by my feet, and when I walked, the entire outfit moved as one graceful whole.
Looking at myself in the three-way mirror, navy skirt, ivory blouse, lavender cardigan, and ballet flats, I finally saw the complete picture of who I could be. Not a man in women's clothes, but someone who had found the courage to embrace beauty and elegance as part of their identity.
"Perfect," Margaret whispered, and I could hear the emotion in her voice. "Absolutely perfect."
We stood there together for a moment, both looking at the reflection, both understanding that something important had happened in that quiet shop on a Saturday morning.
Finally, I spoke, my voice soft but clear. "I think... I think she'll love all of it. The skirt and the blouse especially."
"I think you're right," Margaret agreed. "Those pieces were made for someone with her taste and style."
As I headed back to the dressing room to change, I felt a bittersweet mixture of satisfaction and reluctance. I didn't want to take off these beautiful clothes, didn't want to return to being just an ordinary guy from Smallville. But I also knew that this wasn't an ending, it was a beginning.
Margaret had shown me that it was possible to explore this part of myself with dignity and joy. She’d proved that kindness existed in unexpected places, and that sometimes the scariest steps were also the most necessary ones.
Standing in the dressing room, carefully hanging up each piece, I made a silent promise to myself. I was going to buy the skirt and blouse, just as I’d planned. But more importantly, I would return. Margaret had opened a door for me, and I wasn't going to let fear close it.
As I put my flannel shirt and jeans back on, I caught sight of myself in the dressing room mirror one more time. I looked like a regular guy again, but something in my eyes was different now. There was a light there that hadn't existed that morning, a confidence that came from finally understanding that beauty and elegance weren't things I had to admire from afar.
They were things I could claim for myself.
"How did everything work out?" Margaret called softly from outside the dressing room.
"Perfect," I called back, and for the first time in my life, I meant it completely. "Everything was absolutely perfect."
The walk from the dressing room to the front counter felt like crossing between two worlds. I carried the navy skirt and ivory blouse carefully folded over my arm, each step taking me further from the sanctuary where I’d discovered something essential about myself and closer to the practical reality of making a purchase, of committing to this new understanding.
Margaret had given me a few moments alone to process everything, busying herself with straightening displays and humming softly while I emerged from the changing area. But now she was waiting behind the vintage wooden counter, her warm smile unchanged despite the transformation she’d just witnessed, or perhaps because of it.
"Did you decide on anything?" she asked, though her eyes were already taking in the items I was carrying.
"The skirt and the blouse," I said, my voice steadier than I’d expected. "I think... I think she'll love them."
As I spoke the words, I realized something had shifted in how I used the fiction. It no longer felt like a desperate lie or a shameful necessity. Instead, it had become something gentler, a way of honouring the private nature of my discovery while still allowing myself to claim ownership of my choices. The "she" I spoke of felt less like deception now and more like a tender acknowledgment of the part of myself that I was learning to nurture.
Margaret took the items from me with reverent hands, the same care she’d shown throughout the morning. "These are perfect choices," she said, running her fingers along the fabric of the blouse. "Really perfect. The quality is exceptional, and they'll work together beautifully or separately with so many other pieces."
She moved with practiced efficiency, but there was nothing rushed or impersonal about the way she handled my purchases. Each item was examined with the eye of someone who understood that clothes were more than just fabric, they were possibilities, expressions, ways of feeling beautiful in the world.
"Would you like me to wrap these specially?" Margaret asked, producing a set of elegant boxes from beneath the counter. "I have some lovely tissue paper, and I could tie them with ribbon. Make them feel like the gifts they are."
The offer touched something deep in my chest. Gifts. That's exactly what they were, gifts to a part of myself that I was only beginning to understand, presents that celebrated my courage to explore who I might be.
"That would be wonderful," I said softly.
Margaret's smile grew warmer. "Of course. I love wrapping beautiful things for people who truly appreciate them."
As she worked, folding each piece with expert precision and nestling them in layers of cream-colored tissue paper, I found myself studying the shop with new eyes. First thing this morning it had been foreign territory, a place I’d entered with terror and desperation. Now it felt like a sanctuary, like a space where transformation was not only possible but celebrated.
The morning sun had shifted, streaming through the front windows at a different angle now, making the colours in the displays seem even more vivid. A few other customers had come and gone while I was in the dressing room, a young woman looking for interview clothes, an older lady browsing the scarves, and I had been struck by how Margaret treated each person with the same genuine care and attention she’d shown me.
"You know," Margaret said as she tied an elegant cream ribbon around the first box, "I've been thinking about what you said earlier, about your sister having such good taste."
My heart skipped slightly, wondering where this was leading.
"It's clear she has someone who really understands her," Margaret continued, her hands never pausing in their careful work. "Someone who pays attention to what makes her feel beautiful, what brings out her best qualities. That's a rare and precious thing."
She finished with the second box and looked up at me directly. "I hope she knows how lucky she is."
The words hung in the air between us, layered with meaning that went far beyond their surface. I felt my throat tighten with emotion I couldn't quite name, gratitude, recognition, something that felt like being truly seen for the first time in my life.
"I think she's starting to understand that" I said quietly.
Margaret nodded, as if I’d said something profoundly wise. "Good. That's very good."
She rang up the purchases on an old-fashioned register that matched the vintage charm of the shop. The total was more than I usually spent on clothes in six months, but as I handed over my credit card, I felt no hesitation. These weren't just garments, they were investments in a newly discovered part of myself, proof that beauty and elegance didn't have to be things I admired from afar.
"Now," Margaret said as she handed me the receipt and my card, "I want you to know that you're always welcome here. Always." She paused, her eyes kind but serious. "I have a feeling your sister might discover she needs more beautiful things in her wardrobe, and I'd love to help her find them."
The invitation was gentle but unmistakable. She was offering me not just the possibility of return but the promise that this safe space would continue to exist, that her understanding and kindness weren't one-time gifts but ongoing offers.
"I think she’d like that very much," I said, my voice thick with gratitude. "I think she’d really like that."
"Wonderful. And please, tell her not to hesitate to come in and try things on. Sometimes the best way to know if something is right is to see how it feels when you're wearing it."
Another layer of invitation, another gentle encouragement to continue this exploration with confidence and joy rather than shame or secrecy.
Margaret came around from behind the counter, carrying my beautifully wrapped packages. "Let me walk you out, Brian" she said, and there was something ceremonial about the gesture, as if she understood that my departure was as significant as my arrival had been.
Hearing my name spoken aloud in this context, by this woman who had shepherded me through such an important morning, made my eyes prick with unexpected tears.
"Thank you," I managed to say. "For everything. For being so kind, so understanding..."
Margaret shook her head gently. "Honey, thank you. It's been an absolute pleasure helping someone who appreciates beautiful things as much as you do. Really, it's been the highlight of my week."
She handed me the packages, and as our hands touched briefly during the transfer, I felt the warmth of human connection, of being accepted exactly as I was in all my complexity and contradiction.
"I mean it about coming back," she continued. "I get new pieces in all the time, and I have a feeling I'll be able to find some things that would be absolutely perfect. Your sister has such distinctive style, I'd love to help her explore it further."
I clutched the packages to my chest, feeling their weight and significance. "I promise," he said. "I promise I'll come back."
"I'm going to hold you to that," Margaret replied with a smile that reached her eyes. "I'll keep an eye out for things that might speak to her. Maybe something in that lovely lavender colour that looked so beautiful?"
The reference to the cardigan, to how I’d looked in it, sent another wave of warmth through me. She wasn't letting me forget how beautiful I’d felt, how right it had seemed.
"That would be wonderful," I said.
Margaret opened the door for me, the little bell chiming its delicate farewell. "Drive safely," she said. "And remember what I told you, the right clothes don't change who someone is, they just help them show who they've always been."
As I walked back towards my car, the wrapped packages secure in my arms, I felt as though I was carrying more than just clothing. I was carrying possibility, permission, and the knowledge that kindness existed in places I’d never expected to find it.
Most importantly, I had Margaret's promise that I could return, that this wasn't a one-time adventure but the beginning of an ongoing relationship with this new part of myself. As I reached my car and carefully placed the packages on the passenger seat, I caught my reflection in the window.
I looked like the same person who had made this drive that morning, but something in my eyes was completely different. There was light there now, confidence, the beginning of self-acceptance. I looked like someone who had made peace with wanting beautiful things, someone who was learning that courage came in all shapes and sizes.
Most of all, I looked like someone who was finally coming home to myself.
I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, already counting the days until I could make this journey again. But this time, I wouldn't be driving toward fear and uncertainty. I’d be driving toward Margaret's warm smile, toward racks of beautiful possibilities, toward the continuing discovery of who I am when I allowed myself to embrace every part of my identity.
The packages beside me seemed to hum with potential, and as Townsville disappeared in my rearview mirror, I found myself smiling. I was going home, but I was also carrying home with me the knowledge that I was worthy of beauty, deserving of kindness, and brave enough to keep becoming who I’d always been meant to be.
The drive back to Smallville stretched ahead of me, but for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of what waited at the end of the journey. I had proof now that I could be brave, that I could explore the parts of myself I’d kept hidden, that there were people in the world who would help me rather than judge me.