21

Peter became concerned about my hair: ‘You know, you ought to get your hair cut, Brian. You’ll never get a job looking like that.’

At tea he told Mrs Ford that I ought to have my hair cut. She agreed, and then asked her Jack if he agreed. His gaunt face was then turned in my direction. His hard, male eyes looked at me. He said, ‘You want to get your hair cut. What do you think you’re on?’

‘Don’t be so rude, Jack,’ said Mrs Ford.

‘Well, I reckon he ought to get his hair cut. This is supposed to be a men-only boarding house, but it isn’t that kind of men-only boarding house.’

‘What kind’s that?’ asked Mrs Ford.

‘The kind where they have long hair and they don’t know whether they’re coming or going.’

‘You really ought to have it shorter, Brian,’ said Mrs Ford. ‘It can’t be any help to you when you go about a job.’

‘I wish I had as much hair as him,’ said a bald middle-aged man.

The man next to me lowered his Hull Daily Mail and looked at me point-blank. He said, ‘He looks like that lass on BBC television who does a bit of chat between programmes. What do they call her?’

I was pleased with him. I knew the woman announcer he meant. I had often thought that I looked rather like her.

Peter said, ‘Making personal remarks is bad manners.’ He leant towards me. ‘You can come with me on Saturday. I go to a very good man.’

The voice I had been practising came from the front of my mouth. It said, ‘I don’t want to have my hair cut. Actually, I want it much longer.’

They stared at me.

I would have to leave sooner than I had intended. I had told them that I wanted to be a woman.

But Peter, who had become engrossed in jam pastry and custard, was unaware that anything had happened. He went on, ‘I always go every other Saturday afternoon to get my hair cut. I used to go on Wednesday nights—’

‘You can save it,’ said Jack, ‘he doesn’t want to have his hair cut. His voice is changing. I reckon he knows an easier way of making a living than we do. That’s why he doesn’t get a job.’

‘I wish I knew an easy way of making a living,’ said Peter.

‘You want to go out with Betty there some night. He’ll show you.’ He said Betty as though he had named me in that way before.

I got up and went out of the room.

I would have to leave. People hated effeminacy. I was effeminate. People hated me because they had to. They could not choose. As soon as they realised what I was they hated me. It was automatic.