“My apartment is right here. Don’t mind the lights,” he tells me in reassurance.
I am soon in a room with metal racks full of mannequin heads, knotted wigs, and unfinished dresses and skirts. There is a small table with black leather bags spilling out with makeup. Under the table is a neon blue fuzzy carpet with stains of brown foundation or, possibly, mascara.
He changes in the bathroom as I sit down on the dirty carpet. I was becoming nervous by how comfortable he was around a stranger in his home. He has become a woman. When he emerges, he is wearing nothing but tights; his head covered in a hair net; and has a full face of makeup. He has become a woman.