Undone by a Glance in the Mirror

There are moments on this strange, winding journey where the pull of my inner feminine self meets a reality I’m not prepared for, and a single glance in a mirror can undo me in ways I never expected. Yesterday’s visit to Reinvent Yourself, something I’d approached with quiet hope, became one of those moments. 

What was meant to be a simple wig fitting and a touch of makeup turned into a sudden collapse of confidence, a painful confrontation with a reflection I wasn’t ready to face. In that instant, the hope that had brought me there slipped away, leaving me spiralling into shame and self-doubt.

I woke yesterday morning with a flicker of excitement. Having recently started to like the colour of my own grey hair, I was looking forward to trying a wig in a similar grey-silver tone, something that might echo my natural hair and bring a new dimension to my feminine presentation.

Gill, the owner of Reinvent Yourself, had offered to apply some makeup so I could see the wig on me in a more feminine way. I looked forward to that too.

My daughter accompanied me, as she had before, and we arrived shortly after ten. Gill had already opened the shop, and before I knew it, I was in the chair next to the makeup mirror. She offered me a drink, but I was ready.

Gill worked slowly, explaining each step and why she was doing it. I listened, keen to pick up tips for future attempts at makeup. I did my best to avoid sneaking a glance at the mirror, that moment always makes me feel most exposed. But even as she applied the makeup, I couldn’t escape the voice in my head: I just look like a sad old man trying to achieve something that is unachievable. That thought hit me like a physical blow, a jolt of internalised transphobia.

I held on to the hope that the wig would transform the experience, that it would mirror the magic I felt during my first makeover at Femme Side Studio. When Gill unpacked the wig, my first thought was how grey it looked, perhaps too grey, but I pushed myself to stay positive.

She placed the wig on my head, brushed it, and held up the mirror. And in that instant, I wanted the ground to swallow me. I was confronted with a reflection I couldn’t reconcile with the inner image of my feminine self. Repulsion, heartbreak, and despair surged through me all at once. I wanted to cry, but I forced the tears back.

I worried about my daughter seeing me like this. My shame deepened, and I wondered if bringing her along had been a mistake. The longer I stared at the mirror, the worse it felt. The grey wig seemed to amplify my masculine features, turning me into a caricature of the “old witch” I feared I appeared as.

I asked Gill to take a few photos using my phone, almost hoping that a digital image might soften the blow. I convinced myself, briefly, that maybe the wig just needed the right clothing, something more feminine than the black polo and grey jeans I had on to make it look right.

“Yes, I like it,” I said to Gill, wanting to complete the transaction as quickly as possible so I could pay for the wig and get the makeup off. Removing it felt like it took forever, each moment stretching as I tried to erase the look that had left me feeling so exposed and vulnerable. 

Because of poor signals, Gill couldn’t use the card reader to take my payment, so we agreed I would do a bank transfer later in the day. After saying goodbye, I walked out of the shop with my new Lyndon ‘Silverstone’ wig in hand. Even on the way to the car, my thoughts drifted ahead, maybe the same style wig in a medium brown would feel closer to the image I had of myself.

Even in moments of disappointment, hope has a quiet, persistent way of creeping back.

Later on in the day I emailed her the following message;

Hi Gill

Just to confirm that I have now transferred the money for the wig to your account.

It’s nothing to do with you whatsoever, but i didn’t like what I saw this morning with the wig on.  You could probably tell by my reaction too but I couldn’t get the makeup off quick enough.  Again, nothing to do with you, just my internalised transphobia kicking in. When I saw myself in the mirror I couldn’t help thinking that I looked like the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz with that colour wig, and I just didn’t feel feminine at all.

I do like the wig but and I think with the right feminine clothing it will look better.  Anyway I’m going to order the same style wig in the ‘medium brown’ as I think I will be much happier with that colour.

Once again thanks for your time this morning and look forward to seeing you again soon.

Best Wishes

Lotte x

Later that evening Gill replied with a thoughtful message.. She mentioned she had noticed my reaction, acknowledged that silver can be a tricky colour, and reassured me that it was absolutely fine to exchange it if I wanted. Her main concern, she said, was that I feel feminine and comfortable, and she also shared that she thought the style looked lovely.

I have since replied to let her know I'm keeping the wig but want her to order the same wig style in a Medium Brown.

This experience reminded me that the journey to embracing my feminine self isn’t always smooth. There are moments of hope, and there are moments when the mirror feels like an enemy rather than a friend. But even in the pain, there’s clarity, a recognition of the internal barriers I carry, and the small victories that come from facing them.

I left the shop yesterday carrying more than just a wig; I carried a renewed understanding of my hopes, my vulnerabilities, and the gentle persistence of hope. And while the path toward feeling truly comfortable in my feminine self has its bumps, I know these moments are part of learning, growing, and gradually being kinder to myself.

Thanks for reading,

Lotte x