The Soldier From The Mirror Part 2 free porn video

The Soldier from the Mirror - Part 2. By Tanya H. 4. County Show. "You don't have to," says Hazel, sitting next to me on a deep leather sofa in her office. I'm holding a fine china saucer, balancing a cup of tea. My eyes sting, belly grumbles, nose keeps running and I must go to work. Work? Like being a squaddie is only some kind of job. I'm a woman. A woman! The difference in clear, even without actually taking off my kit and looking inside. Squeeze my thighs together - nothing there to be squashed, nothing to hold when I piss. I'm a woman now and I must squat. If I send my awareness down into my chest, past my beating heart, out through my lungs I know the weight and resilience of breasts. I long to hold them, to feel their weight in my hands, to see my transformed nipples, but I hold my cup and saucer so trembling tight the colour bleaches from my fingertips. "Surely you're allowed time off once in a while," she presses. Her knee is almost touching mine; as her skirt has ridden up I'm fascinated by the contrast between the fine mesh of her nude hosiery with my camouflaged trousers. I'd like her to hug me, such is the warmth and concern radiating from her, but can't move. I could pull down my hair from its bun, hoping she would brush it again. Big sigh - get a grip, Toots - Elizabeth. "If this," I wave a hand along my body, "is just me turned inside out, somehow, then you know I have to go." "That's a lovely way of looking at it, Lizzie," Hazel says. She takes my cup and saucer, places them on her desk and smiles again. "I'll be here when you get back. Come and have tea again." It feels like the most wonderful offer ever made to me. I have the courage to stand and my male ghosts are strong enough that I offer my hand. She shakes it firmly. "Thanks for the tea, and for doing my hair." I touch the bun, can't believe that solid, apple sized mass behind my head is mine. "And..." I flutter a hand up and down the length of my body. My uniform might be comfortably loose, certainly different sized from when I wore it last, but it doesn't disguise the shape I'm in. An aftershock of that numbing disorientation shivers for me for a moment, as though I'm still asleep, still dreaming. "...thanks for just, for this." "I didn't do it. But I know what was done." I want to ask her how, and why. Why have I been made like this? But duty is calling me outside. Bad enough that I broke down, bad enough I cried and sniffled, but I mustn't show any more weakness; mustn't behave like a ... Squeeze my eyes shut. Take a deep breath, hold it. "I mean it, Lizzie. I can teach you. Take some time off, I'll give you a room here - for free. I'll show you how to be a woman." How to be a woman? Oh god, I'm a woman, an actual woman! She gets a tight nod, I daren't be too energetic with head movements - in case my hair tumbles free. "Thanks." "Come and see me later, I'll be here." She squeezes my hand again, steps back and opens the door - sets me free. Box waits in Reception wearing the anxiety of a first-time father in the maternity wing. Both hands are hidden behind his broad back. I pause, confused, suddenly conscious of the carpet beneath my bare toes. He looks from me to the floor; anguished, but not freaked out by his best mate staring with tear-stained eyes from a woman's body. "I got you a brew," he mutters to the carpet and from behind his back sweeps out a cardboard cup under a plastic lid. His movement is so jerky a little coffee spurts from the spout. The warm scent is delicious. With his hand he produces a napkin wrapped bundle. "And a bacon sarnie. I thought... I thought..." He looks up and his face crumples. "Oh fuck it, Toots. I am so sorry." My throat closes. More tears. I wipe at them angrily. "I knew something was wrong," he babbles, the words almost lost in his thickening accent - a sure sign he's really emotional. "I did fuck-all, shit! I am so very sorry." And I take a step forward, my arms open slightly before I get a grip of the urge to give him a hug, to comfort his anguish. "You got me a wet and a breakfast, mate," I say, softly, trying to hide the effort it takes to get the words out. "Above and beyond, mate, above and beyond." A little bit of me had hoped Box, as my closest friend, would be confused to see me, Her. But he only sees Lizzie. Ady Aynho has gone. The weight of his gifts feel real, I try a smile. Seems to work. "I'm fine. Just having a wobble." "Seriously, you okay?" He nods encouragingly. "It's fine." That lie. "Just being, just me being, being..." I shrug. "A girl." Conditioning: despite integration of women into most jobs in the Army, that word for my new gender still means weak to most of us. Girl and gay - proper descriptions for people who aren't tough enough. I make dismissive gestures, like everything's good. "I need to get my beret, boots - my day sack," I turn, hurry away feeling the hurt, disappointment and regret from him. Stop. Ball fists. Face him. There's nobody else in view, thank god. "Toots?" He's followed me, just a metre or so behind. "I feel really shit about this." "Look, I can't do anything about the way you feel. But, if it helps, this is nothing to do with you, nothing you could have seen coming, nothing I could have talked about - before today. It's Iraq. Okay?" He nods, but looks so forlorn and lost I put my arms around him and realise I'm not wearing a bra as I pull him tight. "Don't feel like shit, I need you," I whisper. Tentatively his arms return the hug, we hold it for only a few seconds then the mutual strangeness of the contact pushes us apart. "I've got your back now," he promises. "Thanks." Just one word, but I mean it and it's enough. "Double away then," he says, forcing brevity. "Get your shit together. The others'll be getting set up and I promised you'd get them all lattes from Maccy-D's for being late." I double away, then stop and walk. Double timing, or running in civilian speak, is not to be encouraged without a bra. I was in a proper state when I sleepwalked my way down here. It's a horrible place to recall. What a mess. How breathtaking to see a woman looking at me from that mirror. My uniform might be truly unflattering, but the face above it has china- blue eyes, high cheeks, soft lips and arched brows. I can get my ears pierced, maybe a couple in each one, a little hoop through my tummy button too. Oh my god. I'm really a woman! Stripping away my t-shirt bares my round, freckled, pink-nippled breasts. Because it wasn't a dream. It's really real. Really real? How can it be? How can it be real that I, Adrian Aynho, have become a woman? Sorry, mate, but that's gold-plated impossible. Men don't turn into women; not without a load of hormones and surgery and what-the-fucks from people who thought they knew them. Though I do have really real boobs. And the place at the top of my thighs where I should have the weight of cock and balls is really real empty. I put my fingers there and feel the really real line of my pubic bone and the really real tingle of my vulva. So I'm a woman. Aren't I? More fumbling with the bra - it's a 34B now; my rib cage and shoulders have shrunk along with my feet. A wider pelvis makes up for the loss. Not sure if I'm a little shorter. Who cares? I can make up the difference with heels now, see if anybody can stop me. Clip it on, settle the straps and replace the uniform. Lace boots, snatch up my beret and day sack to dash downstairs, much more comfortable now; thank you brassiere. Hazel raises her eyebrows. "You're sure?" "Positive." She is something to do with this, somehow she has the Fairy Godmotherness to have made this squaddie's dream real. How has she done it? Will she tell me later? I wave as I scamper past. Box has the truck parked outside, engine running, cab full of a favourite tune that fits perfectly. I see him there, looking, expectant, but I push the hurry down and I walk, slow, sedate, calm out of the hotel. Stepping into the sunshine I want to savour every detail of this moment; every blade of grass, every bloom in the hanging baskets; my breasts swaying, hips rolling, the bun's mass. I'm a woman! I'm the woman beaming to feel the sunshine on her skin for the very first time. Everything and nothing has changed. At first, as we set up for the public tide to start filling the aisles and spaces of the show, my mates are subdued around me. I sense the glances they share, raised eyebrows, unspoken questions sent Box's way. Can't blame them for that. I broke down, went to pieces, bared my arse and in public too. But they're not concerned about my gender. I know that yesterday I was a man, but they don't. After an hour, where I have been determinedly front facing - handing out stickers and wrist bands, helping kids to sit in our retired helicopter, Gringo takes me for a proper coffee from an old ambulance converted into a mobile coffee stall The barista won't take Gringo's coin when she hands over our brews; bit embarrassing in a nice way. "Least I can do," she says. "So, Toots," he says, in a conversational tone. I'm expecting a bollocking to be honest. "What are you doing next week?" "Staff, I'm really sorry about this morning. God knows what came over me." "Staff? Fuck's sake, Toots. Do you see any fucking Ruperts about?" By Ruperts he means officers, but he'll be including anybody who could get prickly and traditional if they heard a mere Lance Corporal refer to a Staff Sergeant by nickname. Gringo's a good lad, runs the team with a light touch. He's got the olive skin, gleaming black hair and bandit moustache to make his nickname fully ironic. Beyond that he's a bit taller than me, competently built and evenly featured, though he has a taste for crap, French cars. I shrug. "Sorry, tough morning." "Look, I'm shit at all the touchy-feely stuff. No offence, but the Corps was simpler without girls. Not better, simpler. In a nutshell, why don't you take some time off?" And do what? Where would I go. No family, no mates outside the Army. How pathetic that feels. What about Hazel's offer? "Haven't we got a shit-load of stuff to do?" "You know that's bollocks as much as I do." He snuck a quick glance at my boobs, but rapidly corrected himself. "Go and do whatever you lot do to get your head in shape, have a fucking manicure and go shopping." Less than 24 hours female and Gringo assumes retail therapy will get Iraq behind me. I almost check that I'm still in androgynous uniform, polished combat boots and ally beret, not some designer gown or Disney princess costume. "Shopping from Monday to Friday?" "Mrs Fucking-Gringo would if I gave her half a chance and the world's biggest credit card." He always refers to his wife as that - Mrs Fucking-Gringo. I have only met her once, luckily sober, as I was terrified of calling her that to her face. A robust woman, built to balance a child on each hip, she has a sense of humour to blister paint and the lovely name of Poppy. "Mate, it's not a fucking request," he says, spreading his hands. "You're proper fucked up - I'm not judging, shit - we've all seen shit. I'll get you welfare support..." "I'm fine!" "Yeah! Bollocks, Toots. Stop fighting the fucker, I'll get you in front of the welfare team on Monday." "But, I'm fine." "End of chat. C'mon, better get back or word'll get back to Mrs Fucking-Gringo that you and me are getting it on." I take a turn chaperoning our retired helicopter with Carla; I think she and Box have been tasked with taking it in turns to watch over me. Point to note - helicopters are always cabs to those in the trade; only people outside of aviation call them choppers. This particular cab is a veteran of the Falklands, Northern Ireland and both Gulf Wars so we're oddly proud of it. The kids love clambering in the cockpit and wrenching at the controls. All this activity is just the job for getting me out of myself. I have to concentrate on being a soldier and not wondering about becoming a woman. All the enthusiastic questions... How fast will it go? About fifty on the trailer, oh you mean when it was a real cab? Where are the guns? Still fitted, don't press that yellow switch whatever you do. Why haven't you got an Apache? Ungrateful bastard. No nipping behind a hedge for a pee now. Well, I suppose I could - in extremis. I have to queue outside the ladies" portaloos. Inside, with trousers around my ankles I have a wow moment examining the most fundamental change to my body. Reproduction-wise it's all neatly tucked away inside, rather than dangling and vulnerable. My brand new lips are rosy pink, tidy and surrounded by luxurious ginger curls. I may have to have the lady garden tidied at some point, but for now I just stare - entranced by what I am. The hood concealing my clitoris is perfect, above my outer lips and just a hint of the inner labia. I have parted such beauty many times, with tongue and fingers and cock, but never felt so excited to see a set before. Getting to know them will be very special. Come lunchtime Carla announces she needs to phone her boyfriend; a Sapper in Tidworth. She's concerned about me lunching on my own - which is kind, but OTT. I feel odd, but good and wonderfully woman. I have urges to tell everyone - "Hey, I'm a woman," but that would be weird. Of course, all Carla sees is melt-down Toots. She's worried I'll go feral. People stare as I edge through the crowds, but they aren't staring at me, more my uniform. This part of the world won't see the Army out on foot very often. I feel cool and exotic, like I was a panther walking amongst them. Panther's probably not a very good comparison, what with me being as ginger as you like and my cheeks reddening from the sun, but I think you know what I mean. I'm pleased to have my own company for a few minutes, enjoying the sensation of my changed body - it moves so... wow! I have to be careful not to touch my breasts, as though the feel of their weight isn't enough to prove their existence. Once or twice I go discreetly deep into my trouser pockets to reassure myself of that awesome absence of penis. I buy a mango smoothie and an ostrich burger - to make a change from the eyelid, foreskin and nose burgers we get in the cookhouse. Suitably equipped for lunch, I find a shady spot under a tree by the perimeter. Slipping off my beret I sit cross legged and check the bun for the hundredth time. God knows what I'll do if it starts to slip, I have no idea on hair first-aid. It seems impossible to imagine I could ever reach back and pin a bun of my own, but the thought of learning is exciting, in a silly way. Besides, before I did my phase two training I didn't know how to refuel helicopters either. On the subject of buns, after a few minutes watching the world go by a woman with a small boy asks to share my shade. She's willowy, with blonde hair piled atop her head and a figure hugging sundress that highlights the bulge of her second child. Her cheeks are so flushed she looks pleased with the shade. My eyes are endlessly drawn to her bump. "Have you been in the war?" her boy, five or six, asks me shyly - jam smeared around his cheeks. He's been staring at me only slightly less than I stare at his mum and he's probably been asking her to ask me. A frown starts over my face, but he's not taking the piss - the curiosity shines from him. "I have." He digests this silently, eyes never leaving me. Jam drips from his sandwich. "Have you ever shot anybody?" Boys and guns! I would have asked the same thing when I was that old, that naive, when war was all guns and glory, not roadside bombs and arterial bleeds and dust and shit and sweat. War is work, the Spartans said. Bloody hard work. "Jacob!" his Mum admonishes, starting to rise. I dismiss her concerns with a wave, smile at the boy, "It's okay, it's a fair question. I'm a soldier and that's what soldiers do in some books, yeah?" He nods seriously. "Jacob, I have never fired my rifle at anyone, not even once. Here's a better question, though. Ask me if I've ever saved anybody's life." His eyes grow a little wider, looks for some reassurance and his mum nods. "Have you?" "I saved my mate's life. I'm really proud of that." "In the war?" "In the war. Have you seen our helicopter?" He shook his head. "It's called Gary, Gary Gazelle. If you come around later I'll show you how it works, if you like." His mum smiles. She looks tired, rubs her bump. Her tummy button is inverted and outlined by her clingy dress. "Two more months," she says. "Then the fun starts." Somewhere under my belt is all the plumbing and paraphernalia for growing a person. Imagine that! Something never once considered in my guilty woman fantasies. I presume I'm full of eggs, jostling inside ovaries that might once have been balls. Finding I'm clasping a hand to my belly, like I could feel them in there, makes me grin at the immensity of what has happened to me. I'm influenced by the moon now. I'd better be asking Hazel about tampons and the like - otherwise it'll get messy in twenty eight days or so. And if I choose, or forget, I could be like this lady, losing control of my biology while it creates a baby. What a bloody thought! That never crossed my mind in all the fantasies that came to a head last night. Back then, when I was a man, it was all skirts and lingerie and stockings and heels. It was about looking like a woman, feeling on the surface like a woman, but never imagining for a minute I would ever be one. The Army does have transgendered soldiers, is relatively supportive I suppose, but I would never have had the bottle to tell the chain of command I wanted that. Box asks if I'm okay when I wander back after lunch, looking like a nervous schoolboy, and making himself carry too much for my wobble. What nightmares and secrets does he carry about inside his oblong head? Not many of us came back from operations without some shit spattered across the inside of our skulls. What populates Box's nightmares? What is his equivalent of my quaking venture into the clothing section of that Tescos? "How are you doing?" I ask when the crowds thin and we get a moment. Gringo's put us both in the trailer, with the glossy recruitment brochures, video presentations, interactive screens and big glossy pictures of smiling, determined soldiers. We often joke about transferring to that mythical army. "More people came to ask you shit than me," Box observes. "What sort of shithole have we landed in where some ginger Scouser's considered eye- candy?" I laugh at his mock indignation, the way he wanted me to. "Did you ever think it would come to this in Phase 1, Toots? Doing this recruiting shit, I mean." Phase 1 is basic training - boot camp if you like - where gangling, stunned kids get made into soldiers. Phase 2 is specialist training, where you learn your trade; refuelling and rearming helicopters in our case. He screws up his face. "Handing out fucking leaflets at a county show. I mean, how many of these fuckers will ever join up?" "Hearts and minds. Make them think twice before they put in a low flying complaint?" He furrows a frown again, gives me a sideways look. "We can't have done Phase 1 together, but I keep remembering you there." What can I say to that? Of course I was there, our beds were side by side. We laughed, sweated, shouted and ranted our way through it together. But men and women don't train together in Phase 1 - same barracks, different platoons, different accommodation. At least what had happened to me was something I'd wished for, something I wanted. Box's memories are collateral damage for my happiness. I wish I could have told him, before, so he could see me now and be happy for me. "We went through at the same time, just different platoons." "I'm all fucked-up today, can't get my head straight," he sighs. "Sorry, mate. You okay? You're sure?" People keep asking me that. I know they mean well, they're all good lads, but after awhile I wish they'd just forget it. Once we've packed up and secured the site ready for the drive back to the hotel, I step before them and sweep off my beret. "Guys!" That gets their attention. All of them watching, curious. Deep breath. "I just wanted to say, about this morning." "You don't have to say fuck-all," Box says. "I do, but thanks. I'm proper sorry. I've bottled shit up, and I shouldn't have. Don't know why it all went pop today, but it did. I just... Sounds stupid, but I feel better for it. Honest. So you can stop tiptoeing around me. Just - I'm okay." "Nice speech, Oscar Wilde," says Gringo. "Now let's get the fuck out of here." Rob laughs. "Gringo fucking Palmer, top student from the Army's "Give a Fuck" College. "Toots knows I love her. And all you knobbers too, but there's a luxury hotel waiting for us and we need to maximise our exposure to its delights before we break camp tomorrow. So, off we fuck." That pronoun again - her. Makes me smile. I'm a woman - everybody thinks so. "What are you looking so smug about?" Box asks. "Give me the keys, bellend, it's my turn to drive." 5.Night at the Hotel. Like she's got some kind of radar, Hazel's behind the desk when we pile in from the car park. We come with a whirl of laughter that compliments the genteel surroundings. Her eyes find mine; her eyebrows lift. I nod - I'm fine. While Gringo books us a table for dinner, I head off to my room, but catch her eyes again as I'm about to mount the stairs. She inclines her head towards her office and I nod affirmative again. I flash her my fingers and thumbs twice - I'll be down in 18 minutes. It's a joy to dump my daysack, unlace my boots and kick them into a corner, to strip away my uniform and grin at the air across my skin. Look at my curves! My beautiful, female body! About to pull the pins from my bun and let cascade down my back I remember the shower I've been looking forward to all day. Probably best not to get it wet, I have no idea how long it will take to dry, but certainly much longer than the buzz-cut I'm used to. My breathtakingly female shape makes me laugh out loud and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it. But why should I? I lift onto tip toes and drop, just to watch my boobs bounce, to feel them shift. Laugh again, a delighted sound. Arms over my head, watching my body move sinuously in the mirror as I sway and dance and laugh and giggle with the sheer amazing amazement of being woman. I could run laughing and naked down the corridor, arms outstretched to touch each wall and spread my joy to any person who came outside to see the commotion. Still giggling I throw myself onto the bed, cool under my hot back, head hanging over the side so I can watch the sky through the upside down window and let my breathing settle. "I'm a woman!" I shout to the clouds. Can it ever get any better than this? The hot water streaming over my super-smooth skin feels like nothing else. Though I still have a little body hair, mainly on my lower legs and forearms, it's nothing like the pelt I'd been used to and so fine to be practically invisible. With so few hairs to trap the water every drop that runs down me is a long, sensual caress. I'm so soft! Not plump, still lean, but washing my body is like nothing else I've experienced before, and Liselotte always enjoyed me bathing her in a soapy shower. After parting my legs and directing the water onto my lady garden, shivering and gasping from the sensations, I remember my promise to Hazel, rinse off and hurry to get dressed. Clearly the magic that feminised my uniform, that washed Elizabeth Ayno into all my documents and identity cards has also swept through my wardrobe. Boxer shorts are now panties; I had packed three spare pairs of identical black, boxers but now I have one pair of black lace high legs, one white Brazilian and one purple, lace trimmed shortie. Socks are socks, except one pair which has become black opaque tights - I hope they didn't mind. My casual lace-ups have been replaced by a pair of flat, black ballet pumps, but best of all - queue drum roll - inside that heavy polished wardrobe is not one, but two skirts! Should I be so excited? God, yes! One is the Tescos pencil skirt that will ever have a place in my heart as my first. The other might once have been the pair of Levi 501s I'd bought for evening wear, as they have vanished. I am pleased to report that the denim, A-line, button through skirt fits me perfectly, flares away with style from my round hips and covers my elegantly black legs down to two or three inches above my knees. Add to the outfit a black, crew neck t-shirt (which is just what I packed, only in woman size) and I look pretty good. "Look at you, Lizzie," I murmur taking in my reflection. You must forgive the big smile that spreads when I see myself so dressed. No need to angle the mirror away from my face now, no need to dim the lights. I am perfectly female and suit the clothes. I have no words to express what it means to be... me! I should always have been like this, always been female. Whatever has corrected me, it has done a wonderful thing. Smoothing the skirt away from my hips I'm hit with a frigid slap of the last time I'd put on a skirt and seen myself wearing it - the fear, guilt and self-loathing feel both distant and immediate. Echoes chip at my certainty; should I do this? Maybe there are some jeans or leggings or something androgynous I could put on. Glancing to the door, as if I am about to be caught cross-dressing, I'm sure I must be messing up. How can this be real? How can I be a woman? "Pull yourself together, Aynho!" I snap at myself, like I'm some kind of sprog who's about to balls-up some easy job. "You're a woman. You've spent all day as a woman, for Christ's sake! You've always been a woman, you silly cow." And close the door firmly behind me. "Look at you all grown up," Hazel says, with a bright grin as I present myself in Reception. The rest of them won't be down for an hour or so yet. She appraises me cooly, from top to toe then nods her approval. "The skirt suits you, great legs, if you don't mind me saying so. Tall, flame haired girl; you're going to turn heads, Lizzie." Heat fills my cheeks. It's a little weird; I'm not used to compliments like that. "Just one thing though." She emerges from behind the desk, without her shoes and her toenails twinkle, sky-blue, through her tights. "If you don't mind me using a poor, military comparison, I'm about to pull the pin out of a hair grenade." She tugs and unravels, then has me shake my head. In seconds I am surrounded by a crumpled tumble of hair, closing down my peripheral vision and softly blanketing my shoulders. "Now you'll stop people in their tracks. You're gorgeous." Self consciously I find myself rubbing my cheek, fingers tracing the familiar groove. I don't have the full use of the ring and fourth fingers on my left hand, where the pinkie is missing, and the fourth finger is always numb. It turns white very quickly in the cold. "All any of that means is that you'll save 10% on manicures," she says gently. "Come and have a sit down, I'll send for some tea." Hazel settles herself at one end of the settee - where I was having my morning melt down, I half expect to see it covered in tear stains. She indicates a place for me at the other end. Concentrating on every movement I lower myself, cross my legs and tweak my hem. Can't believe those are my legs in full view! "I had a good day, bit surreal in places," I say after the inevitable enquiry after my wellbeing. "It's weird, nobody can see what's happened. Even my best mate. And I feel so excited I want to tell everyone, "look, I'm a girl," but I can't. Like having to keep an amazing secret. You can see though, can't you. You know why, don't you." "Some people can see what's happened," Hazel says after a moment's contemplation. Even this late in the day her understated make-up is perfect. Tiny gold wire earrings with pearl centres dangle from her ears. As soon as I can I'm going to have my ears pierced, maybe my navel too. "Mostly, the people who can see what's happened are those of us that have experienced it first hand," Hazel says, holding my eyes. Which I take to mean that the lovely, poised, elegant and feminine woman, who has done so much for me, has gone through this herself - himself. "You too?" She nods, spreads her hands to encompass herself. "I'm the poster-girl for the long-term benefits of finding your true gender." "It's almost too much to believe," I murmur, hardly able to take my eyes off her. "You're the living proof though, Lizzie." "How? Or am I not allowed to know?" "The mirror in your room. Did you look in it and see a woman looking out of it at you?" Last night seems like a daze. I'd looked in the mirror and seen me, the old me at least, in a skirt and blouse and stockings. Not a woman. Unless... "Last night..." It's hard to admit, even now. "I was..." Stare at the carpet. "I was wearing a skirt." Laugh self consciously. "Crossdressing." Seems like a weird term to use, when I'm sitting here almost naturally in a skirt and women's shoes. I scoop hair from my face. "But, there was a moment, I think, when I looked more female. In the mirror." I shrug; fanciful I know, but there had been that suggestion of a plait down my shoulder. Hazel smiles, she reaches over and squeezes my hand. Yesterday I wouldn't have liked that, but it's easier now - woman to woman. "Not every man who looks in the mirror sees a woman," she says. "And as far as I know women don't see men in there. Don't ask me how or why, because I can't answer, but for some of us the mirror sees inside, sees a woman there and brings her out. Since I have been here, after it happened to me (I was a guest here) there have been about a dozen of us. All ages, all backgrounds. And all very happy, as far as I know. Look at me - a successful businesswoman, I own this place now, happily married with two wonderful children." "You've had children!" "I must have liked it the first time, because I had another." It's hard to look upon her, as a woman and a mother, and see any spark of a man. Perhaps she senses this for she stands and reaches into the handbag beside her desk and produces a smartphone. Beside me again she scrolls through some pictures and shows me a picture of a smiling woman in RAF uniform. "Debbie," she says. "My eldest. She's in air traffic control in the air force." "No accounting for taste," I say, lightly. Inter-service rivalry will always come out. Another picture, another young woman with Hazel's bone structure and her arm around a slightly double-chinned middle-aged bloke. "Jasmine and my man. She wants to be a vet, but may end up in Tescos - she hasn't really got the determination to match her aspirations." I'm amazed, awed even. She shows me a few more of them all, they look so normal - so happy. "I sold cars before I came here," she says. "Awful, awful job. The worse thing was I was good at it, drove myself to succeed even though I hated it. I think I was covering up, in denial about what I really wanted. And here I am - what I really wanted." Avoiding her warm eyes, I mutter some comment about denial - I know that feeling. My hands close into fists, remembering the fights I'd started Another picture shows a dazzling, much younger Hazel in a white wedding gown, veil pushed back, flowers flowing from her hands. The awesome potential of who I am, who I was supposed to stills me, almost stills my breath. Not just the dress, or the femininity, but the sheer potential to explore, to be, to experience the world as me, as I always should have been. "Wow!" is the best I can do. "So?" "So?" "Want to be my Padawan? The Skywalker to my Obi Wan? Shall I reveal to you the mysteries of the XX chromosome? The joys, pitfalls, cultural expectations and boundary pushing, myth busting wonder of being a woman?" "They've offered me a week off already. My Staff Sergeant can't wait to get me out of his hair in case I go mental again." "Then it's sorted. As soon as you can get away. You can help me out here, bit of bar work and waitressing be okay? In return, I'll show you the lady ropes." Waitressing! A kick from feminine language being applied to me. "That will be brilliant, thanks, Really fantastic." By the time the team wanders down for dinner, I'm starving, but the time has passed pleasantly as Hazel and I get to know one another. I can hardly contain my excitement at the thought of spending some time here, under her wing. By the time I go into join them in the dining room I had all but forgotten the whole thing about my appearance. "Who are you and what have you done with our Toots?" Box asks, loudly, as I pull out a chair, smooth my skirt under me and sit next to him. "Close your mouth, Robbo, there's a draught," Carla says caustically as he stares openly at my legs, then my chest. "I am tired of dressing like a man," I say, with more truth than any of them will get. "Wish I'd brought a skirt now," Carla sighs. The evening passes like any other evening with a group of mates who happen to be soldiers. We stuff ourselves from the interesting menu and are well looked after by the staff. Afterwards we head into the gardens where we can be a little noisier and Gringo can have a fag. It's a warm, pleasant summer's evening and we laugh a lot. It feels different though, and not just because I'm super self- conscious of my first evening out as a woman. When everyone around you is comfortable and content that you're female, it's easy to forget that you haven't always been. No, it was subtler than that. Carla and I aren't blokes - we're chicks and they behave differently around us. Maybe she's used to it, but having been at the centre of the inner circle, to find myself pushed out very slightly is a strange, unwelcome side-effect. But, if that's the price, if I have to work to rebuild my slightly skewed relationship with Box, I think I can handle that. After all, I'm a woman now and women are tough. 6.Army Welfare. I don't get back to Hazel's hotel until early evening on the Monday after my "event'. This is down a compulsory meeting with the Regimental Welfare Officer, whose golf commitments push Lance Corporal Aynho's appointment to 1430. Our RWO does not fit any of the comfortable stereotypes you might think of the for the role. He's a Warrant Officer Second Class with a face like beaten leather and a dry disposition who believes any soldier who enlisted after Field Marshall Haig is a gobby sprog. "You've had a wobble then, Young Aynho," he says looking at me over the top of his glasses. His office sits in a corner of the Medical Centre, convenient for the Sergeant's Mess bar and barracks golf course. "Yes, sir." "You don't have to call me sir in here you know." His rolling, rising and falling West Country accent gives him the air of a village idiot. Don't make that mistake; Rumour Control says he has dirt on all the regiment's senior staff. "No, sir." He considers my answer for a moment. "Some people think the Army is shit at welfare. Some people, either in the Army or veterans of it, think welfare is a complete load of bollocks and we've all gone to ratshit with it." Not being sure about the right answer to that statement I played it safe with another, "Yes, sir." "Back in the day, when God had a dog, we'd just get pissed." He raises his intimidating eyebrows. "Did that help, sir?" "Course not, just contributed to the Army's ongoing alcohol problem. Now then, Young Aynho. What'll you do if I give you the wellbeing leave Gringo and your boss thinks you should have?" "I'm going to stay with a friend, sir. In the Cotswolds." "Friend, eh? I used to tell the lads that what they needed was the love of a good woman. Probably not what you need, Young Aynho, is it?" "Best to keep an open mind, sir." "Very modern, I'm sure." He gestures to my hand, my cheek. "Can't be easy for a pretty girl like you carrying those kind of marks." That jolts me from the attentive indifference the good soldier wears when dealing with somebody senior, even when they are playing Welfare Officer. Nobody has called me a pretty girl yet, I'd never imagined being called a pretty girl by anybody at all, never mind some dinosaur old enough to be my Grandpa. Once again I've forgotten my gender. That might sound like bollocks, considering how earth-shattering the whole woman thing is, but when everybody assumes you are and always have been female it soothes you into accepting it. Not only that, but despite all my favourite day dreams where I would be some exotic, beautifully turned out lady, often blonde but usually brunette, I'm having my interview in working dress of combat trousers, combat boots, combat jacket, green t shirt, regimental stable belt and beret. Surely in all this comfortable practicality I can be forgiven for forgetting I am, in fact, a woman? Every so often I get jolted from that acceptance. Like when this old bastard calls me a pretty girl. Even if he's implying that somehow I'm ugly because I have only seven fingers and a scarred face. Fuck you. "I'm very proud of my service, sir," is what I actually say. "So you should be, Young Aynho. So you should be." He steeples his fingers in what might be a philosophical pose were it not for the faded tattoos on his hand. "It's about time you had a second stripe, Young Aynho. Seems you're ready for it." Surprise must have shown at that. I'd not yet been a Lance Corporal twelve months and hadn't much thought about making Corporal yet. "Hah! You think I've spent the morning tossing it off and playing golf don't you! Well, I did get a quick round in, but when somebody tells me one of our lads - lasses, has some problems I do a little bit of chatting. Well thought of is Young Aynho, going places she is." He laughs smartly. "You probably think I'm shit at this. Don't bother to answer that, I was spotting evasions in my kids before you were born. I joined the army as a tankie, did you know that?" He dismisses my half formed answer with a wave. "On Chieftain tanks in a long-amalgamated regiment, so I'm not a very modern soldier. But, I'm good at this because I network and I talk to people and I signpost. So you, my very poised young lady, will be seeing Combat Stress very soon and after that you'll be going on an adventure training course. I see you becoming an instructor in something outdoorsy. What do you fancy? Kayaking, sailing, mountain leadership, potholing - why anybody goes in for that shit I don't know - parachuting, rock climbing, skiing? You choose." "Can I think about it?" I hadn't been expecting that. "How long do you want?" He looks pointedly at his watch. "Seriously?" "Made you stop calling me sir," he grins. "Seriously, Lizzie - we don't want to lose a good hand like you." I pick skiing - don't know why, maybe the chance to get back to Germany, maybe to shut him up so I could get away. I've also requested a posting back to a line regiment. As much as I love being on the recruiting team, I think the bustle and anonymity of a working regiment will help me get myself together. The RWO agrees it's a good idea and promises to get onto it. Forty-five minutes later I'm gone, hurrying through the main gate, in my Golf GTi. Volkswagen manuals describe its colour as "Tornado Red', but now I think "Lipstick Red" suits us both better. Most of the way I'm happily singing along to radio generated 80's pap, because even driving feels different when you're a girl. Every bump, every notch in the road sends a little wave of movement through your body - love feeling my boobs shiver. I'm sure one day I'll get over it and won't be in this kind of "wow" zone, but until then I'm so happy. Bladder pressure causes a stop at a motorway services. Another good reason to throw manhood aside is the relative condition of public toilets. I'm a soldier and I've had to piss in some right rancid spots, imagine a portaloo in the heat of the Kuwaiti desert, so I'm relatively robust, but motorway gents" bogs are usually minging. In comparison, the clean lady's facilities are much more welcoming. In the on-site Marks and Spencers I buy myself a bottle of sparkling water, a punnet of red grapes, a pair of tights and a packet of sanitary towels. Because I can. Presenting them to the cashier with my head up and a smile on my face is easy now, even a little exciting, because I'm a woman and I can buy women's things. (Tights and Maxi-Pads were the only female kit I could find). That awful, pissing myself with fear experience in Tescos the other day is another nightmare to put behind me. "You look settled," says Hazel, when she's given me a hug. The bun I'd made that morning survives, maybe a little frayed, but it is all my own work. (I didn't tell her it took three attempts and more than a little swearing before I'd tamed the hair). "Have you given up on trousers?" I was in my newest, most favourite little skirt again. "Trousers at work, though we lady soldiers still get proper ugly Army skirts. If I ever make Sergeant though, I'll get a nice, elegant gown for my mess dress." "I'll look forward to seeing the pictures. Come and see your room." She takes me right to the top of the main building, to what must once have been the servants" quarters. The room's plain, but better than I get in the barracks. As well as a small en-suite I have a cosy sitting room and a shared kitchenette along the corridor. As her current compliment of staff are local I have the place to myself. "Will it do?" she asks, bouncing on the bed. "It's all too good to be true." "Why? Good things do happen to good people. Have you had dinner?" "Grapes on the motorway." "Then you'll eat with me and Joseph, he's done something with pasta and tuna - not a vegetarian are you? Do they have vegetarians in the Army?" "We have everything in the Army." After waiting in reception for me to unpack, she leads me through a Staff Only door to the annex she calls home. It's cosy, clean and comfortable, well loaded with books and family photographs. A warm, family air fills the place; a kick off your shoes and put up your feet atmosphere; a place where it won't matter if you put something down, away from its proper place, and don't pick it up again for a couple of weeks. The kitchen is disproportionately big, and aside from the usual furnishings there are enough worn sofas and easy chairs to suggest much time is spent in it, even away from mealtimes. The warm, sundrenched scent of some pasta dish makes my mouth water. Joseph wipes his hands on a faded apron and shakes mine firmly, after kissing Hazel. He's slightly overweight and shorter than both of us. The way he looks at Hazel shows the depths between them; whenever they pass they touch - hand to hand, a hand on the arm or back; once she brushed her fingertips across the curves of his bum. I'm seeing her in a new light - beautiful, poised, feminine, transgendered and in love with this little man. As much as I have endured my gay fantasies, and snogged Al Deere, the idea of finding a boyfriend doesn't seem so alien after seeing Hazel and Joseph together. Our conversation is warm, open, friendly. I think I may be the first soldier they've entertained. Based on their neutral accents I may be the first daughter of the great city of Liverpool they've dined with. They're pleasantly curious about both those parts of my life, but don't press about Iraq and I summarise the whole thing with, "could have been worse." That's probably a disservice to Jonno and Macca, and their families, not to mention all the other lasses and lads who were hurt out there, but it's their dinner. And, for all the good stuff that's happened to me since my last flashback, the ground's too raw to walk near. "I won't need you until six-ish, tomorrow afternoon," says Hazel when she walks me back to my room. "Take yourself into Oxford in the morning, have a wander and a chill. I'll have Karen show you the ropes behind the bar, we've a few people in, but it won't be too hectic." "I've run a bar before. A couple of times." Hopefully Hazel's hotel will be nothing like our Corporal's Mess Bar in Germany. "Is there a dress code?" "Black blouse, black skirt - or trousers." She smiles knowingly. "Flat shoes. Smart and professional." "I'll be all of that. I really appreciate this." She squeezes both my hands in hers. "My pleasure." 7.Trying on Stuff. Let me tell you that I don't go crazy on that, my first time shopping as a girl. But I do come back with a gold stud in each earlobe (thanks to Claire's Accessories), a silver anklet and maybe just a few items of clothing. Including a pair, my first ever pair, of heels. I leave early, beating the traffic, and find a neat cafe just outside the city centre, where I enjoy scrambled egg on toast and very good coffee. With my hair in a shining ponytail, dressed in my favourite skirt, an ordinary top, the sheer natural tights I'd bought the day before and those flat pumps I feel so casually feminine I'm bursting to sing out loud. Since Liz McWatt's nightie I'd put that blokey thing of shopping disinterest behind me and taken a bit more interest in the clothes I wore and how I looked. So I don't go all giggly and hand-clapping and OMG into all the boutiques I can find. I'm a little more thrifty anyway; comes of growing up with fuck-all. But to casually browse, brush my hands over, pick up and hold against my body all the wonderful things I'd only dreamt of wearing is so amazing my face ought to aching from mega-smiling. So I do try some stuff on, but only in Next, Dorothy Perkins, New Look, Marks and Spencers, Miss Selfridge, Monsoon, Joules, Fat Face, Debenhams, Topshop and River Island. In case you imagine me in some kind of shopping frenzy as all those years of repressed girl explode, I have a very relaxed and pleasant time. I try on a few different skirts, my first dress, even some feminine trousers and tops, but I really want to take time to discover my style; what looks good on me, what feels good - to find the kind of woman I'm going to be. By the time I call it a day I have only half a dozen bags containing a couple of black blouses and skirts for my hotel duties, some casual stuff (two more skirts, a pair of jeans and some gorgeous, floral leggings) along with underwear, hosiery and socks. And some heels. I find the shoes in Next. Just court shoes looking very ordinary amongst the dazzling display of amazing, strappy sandals, elegant boots and office shoes - all with wow heels. First I try on a pair of lovely, nude Mary Jane stilettos - easily 4 inches of heel, wobble vertical and stand there like a new born giraffe looking for the courage to take a step. "They look great on you," the assistant says encouragingly. "Suit your legs." I smile weakly. Being balanced atop some gorgeous stilettos is breathtaking, like the view from up here (ha ha, my little joke), but I'm not ready for walking in them. "Do you wear heels much?" she wonders after several, stationary seconds. "How about, never? I was brought up in a very strict convent, I've only just left." She gives me a funny look. "Seriously?" I shake my head and win another weird look, like it's insane to have never worn high-heels. I wonder about telling her why, but neither of us really has the time. "I'd try something a little lower then, to get used to them," she suggests, looking along the display for something suitable. "When I got my first pair, Mum wouldn't let me out of the house in them "til she was happy with the way I walked." I wish I could tell her how lucky she was, to have a Mum able to pass her into the world with some basic skills. Instead I follow her along the display discounting the first pair she suggests (ugly, block heels) and the next (very pointy toes) and finally slip my feet into a pair of plain, understated black court shoes with a fine, three inch heel. Perfect, though maybe a little high for a beginner. "Don't run before you can walk," she says, wisely, at the till. "Straight back, short steps, all around the house, as much as you can stand - on carpets - before you try them outside. Good luck." The tone, if not the content, reminds of the last briefing I got before I made my first parachute jump. Tempted to salute, I give her a warm smile and thank her for her trouble. While sorting the card payment I realise she's noticed my missing finger. Her next glance lifts to my cheek. "Car crash," I explain hurriedly. I don't need to say anything, it just blurts out. I don't even remember how she replied, because I emphasise the lie by looking determinedly at the floor. Hurrying from the shop, with a clipped, awkward gait, I scream inside: Jonno was nearly blown in half, Macca had his face pushed in. It wasn't a car crash, some bastards went out of their way to kill them. After that the fun fully dies in a nearby Costa. I go for a latte, maybe a biscuit or something, to sit and watch the world go by and calm down. The plan's working, my levels of upset falter until a couple of lads bluster in. Fashionably stubbled, clean cut, angular and confident they spot me on my own from their place in the queue. From there they eye me up, then sit close by - where they can watch me. They think they're being discreet, but I know them; I've been them. They think they own me, or they hold the rights to sit there making remarks about my shape, my legs, what I look like under my skirt. Much much worse is waking nightmare of how I will feel if all this Her is rolled back and I find myself with stubble and a cock and laddish appetites and all the shit carried along with being a bloke. As my heart races and a diseased glut fills my belly, my imagination ruthlessly plays how I will wake up as Adrian the next morning. Fighting down this dread - as if I'm experiencing a premonition - is really tough. Then the edginess, impending doom and metallic taste drag me towards a dark dark place with a baking hot Land Rover at its heart. "Not now," I whisper, cradling my coffee like its power will ward away evil. Hunching over myself, I try to shut out the sounds of Zanna's singing, the rattle and crash of badly stowed kit as she throws the truck along that shit road, force myself into what is real; the swish of my ponytail on the back of my neck, breasts against the table, thighs pressed together under it. It passes, thank God, but the episode leaves me trembling, damp, heart racing and those two lads aren't trying to look up my skirt anymore. They ignore me, pointedly, like they've seen through me, beyond the tits and legs, into darkness and instability; a high maintenance chick. I take myself into the loo, though I don't need a piss - just a moment to myself. "Stop being fucked up," I order my reflection - eyes still wide. Where's the dress trying-on smile? Far far away. I'm a hairy, sweaty, stubbled transvestite with smeared lipstick and a cheap wig. With shaking hands I pull out my top from my skirt's waistband and lift it up, nearly to my chin - stupid, waste of time; I can feel my boobs, I see them outlined in the top, but I must see the flesh. There they are; freckled white skin sweeps up from my chest, enticing cleavage, the bra well filled. I still pull one cup down, just to be sure I still have a perfectly pink nipple, in case my old, biological maleness is forcibly rewriting me. As if my distress has been sensed by a shadowy, all-seeing crisis watcher hooked into the city's CCTV networks, Combat Stress phone while I'm walking back to the car. Without pockets, maybe the only downside to the whole having your legs-out experience, the time it takes to place down shopping bags, reach into my shoulder bag and finally locate my phone is too long. A pleasant sounding lady has left a voicemail though, explaining that I have been referred to them and she would really appreciate a call back. In Lipstick Golf I put on some music; Linkin Park's Castle of Glass, "Wash the poison from my skin, show me how to be whole again," - and sit still, listening to the words. I play the track again, then delete the voicemail and head back to Hazel's. She looks delighted with the physical evidence of my shopping, then sees my face and warm concern sweeps hers. "Micro wobble," I say, to answer the unspoken question. "Does anybody ever..." Sigh. "Change back?" She squeezes my hand, leads me into the hotel, to the staff only stairs. Her silence says yes and I follow like a rained-out bank holiday. "Never." She pats my bed so I'd sit beside her, squeezes my hand. "Are you worried that will happen?" Worried? My skirt's hem drapes my crossed thighs a few inches above the knee, I can see the nude nylon smoothing my legs, my smaller feet elegant in those ballet flats. Above that, the swell of my bust, the pony tail gleaming over one shoulder. Imagining losing all this, of being flat chested, of the swing of cock and balls makes my belly flop. "Terrified." Scared shitless, more like. "On top of everything else..." Hazel touches my hand, by that finger stump. Tears rise; seems easier to cry now. She passes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. A week ago I couldn't have tolerated this, when Hazel had been a strange. Now she feels like something I've never known. So, like a proper daughter might, I return the embrace. 8.On Braiding Hair. If, like me, you can let your hair down and feel its extremities brushing the small of your back then braiding is a lengthy process. By the time I'd first converted a ponytail into a plait my arms were aching. I had to do it three times before Hazel was satisfied with the quality of the rope I'd made. Points to note; it swings around like crazy when you're running and the feathery tip is great for fiddling with. Looking forward to the French plait and asymmetric variations tomorrow. 9.First Night in the Bar. Working Hazel's bar is very different to the Corporal's Mess bar I ran in Germany: music quieter, decor understated, lighting better, clientele more genteel. Though if I had charged Hazel's UK prices over there I'd have been thrown in the Emergency Water Supply. Karen's in charge; a lovely lass with an oooh aaar accent who frowns with incomprehension at my melodious, Liverpudlian lilt. She has magnificent thighs, shown off by a tight black skirt. The static electricity generated by her thighs and tights should frizz out her fine, dark hair beautifully if she moves any faster than a determined amble. Hazel introduces me as a daughter of a friend and leaves it at that. In between showing me how everything works, which doesn't take long, and serving the occasional customer, Karen gently interrogates me. After the first few answers, which I have to give twice, on account of my accent, I talk very slowly and carefully - frowns spoil the shape of her very pretty eyes. "A soldier!" she exclaims in wonder when that gem plops out. "In the army?" Followed by, "The British Army?" And then, "My brother's in the army, his name's Danny. Do you know him?" The most tempting, most bleeding obvious answer to this question - particularly if posed by an American who assumes The UK is so small we're all acquainted and live with the Queen - is to go, with suitable surprise, "Danny! Yes, of course! Everybody knows Danny, he's me best mate. Never apart, ever since training. Wow. Fancy you being his sister, he never said you were so pretty..." And so on, until the timing is perfect to shake your head and confess, "No, sorry, never heard of him." Obviously, with me trying to fit into this alien, civilian environment I decide to go for (with hand over my mouth in surprise) "Danny! Yes, of course! Everybody knows Danny, he's me best mate. Never apart, ever since training. Wow. Fancy you being his sister, he never said you were so pretty." Karen frowns again. "He hasn't finished his training yet. Hurt his ankle, he has." Her brow crunches with deeper furrows. "Are you taking the piss?" "Sorry, mate. I've never heard of him." She tutted, pursed her lips. "But you are very pretty." Another frown. She rubs her chins absently. "You're not a lesbian are you?" I give her a cheerful grin. "I haven't had chance to find out yet." As closing time approaches I think she's warming to me; if the endless pictures of her Chihuahua and its five puppies, her boyfriend, mum, dad, brother, sister, cousins, bezzies and her house are anything to go by. I learn all the secrets of the hotel staff - who's shagging who, who wanted to shag who, who she liked and who she wouldn't piss on if they were burning (her words - and the head of housekeeping, if you must know). It's very dull - the internal soap operas in any army regiment are much more entertaining - but I use my interested face, absorb as much as I can and smile along. I'm not sure if she still thinks I'm a lesbian, but I did I spend a good percentage of my available time being talked at by a middle-aged rep, with an up to date suit and eye-catching watch, while he made a determined play to get inside my knickers. It takes a while to realise I'm being chatted up. You see, I keep forgetting I'm a woman and when that fundamental headline drops from my consciousness all that's left is me doing my thing - good and bad at the same time. Good because I'm getting used to being a woman, bad because it means my new, stretchy black skirt is no longer wow - it's just kit. Anyway, when I'm behind the bar just being "me', I interpret his friendliness as just that - a bloke being matey with another bloke; no harm in it, just being sociable. The trigger that exposes his flirting, and my unconsciously warm reception to it, comes when he gives me his most charming smile and touches my fingertips as I serve his latest pint. "You know, Lizzie. I do love a redhead, I bet your hair looks amazing down." He lifts my name from the name badge Hazel provided - I'd had a choice of two; Lizzie or Toots. Another sweet gesture from her. Having always been the bloke on the public side of the bar when it came to flirting with bar staff, I'd already naively let slip I was between boyfriends so the hair flattery is earnestly followed with, in no particular order; your boyfriend's an idiot for letting you go; how lonely it is out on the road all week; my wife isn't really interested in anything physical, know what I mean. "What do you reckon," I whisper to Karen while Mr Stud's on the phone, to his wife by the sound of it. "Reckon he's any good?" Karen purses her lips and gives the matter a moment's consideration. "Look, if you want to go upstairs and, like, fuck him - go ahead, it's okay. Nobody will mind; well, his wife might - dirty bastard. Hazel will be cool as long as you don't shout about it afterwards." She leant close to whisper, "Don't take no money though, she don't like that." I don't - take any money, or go upstairs with him. My first time is going to be better than that. Though I practically have to write out my refusal on hotel headed notepaper and sign it in front of him before he gets the message. By then it's getting late and he makes a few passes at Karen, just in case, before excusing himself for a lonely trip to his room. Presumably he'll be using the hotel wifi to support a consolation wank, I hope he enjoys it. "Good evening?" Hazel asks next morning. Each breakfast I serve comes with a free, sparkling smile. I think the youth with his family on table eight has a crush on me. "Enlightening." She gestures towards my hair, tuts, smiles. "Another ponytail after I've shown you how to plait?" If my Woman Course was being run by the Army instead of Hazel then not braiding my hair would have cost me a load of press-ups. 10.Make Up for Toots. Less is more - Hazel's one and only make-up lesson. The weight of concealer and foundation I would need to cover my swarming freckles would render my neck incapable of supporting my head. I like eyeliner, mascara and dark, smokey eyeshadow to make my bright blue eyes darker and more mysterious. Scarlett lipstick makes me a vampirewhoreclown. I will be more subtle than that.