I ran thewater in the sink till it was steaming. I grabbed the soap and scrubbed myface thoroughly. Next, I sat at my desk and opened the bottle of acetone.I held my hands out in front of me one more time wishing that I couldleave them as they were. I removed the color and wondered just how my lifewas changing. I took a look at my face. I saw a glimpse of John in there.That felt reassuring somehow. My ears however, belonged to "Joan". Ifinished changing back into normal attire and went back downstairs. Momwas sitting in the living room with the television blaring away. Sheappeared lost in whatever it was she was watching. Somehow I knew thatwasn't the case. "I see you've changed back," she said as I entered the living room. I sawno need to respond to the obvious and let her statement pass. I wanted toask her, "Mom? Don't you like me? Why are you trying to change me?" I knewshe was pretty far gone as it was and I wasn't going to push her over theedge entirely. I sat down next to her. However, I was not overly feminine, sexy or petite. I had shot up to five foot nine inches, and I was rather thin; almost skinny. At age fourteen, I was not the cute ‘cheerleader type’ that the boys my age sought. At the time Don moved in, I was struggling with the changes occurring in my body, and struggling with the transition from a little girl to a young woman. To be quite honest, I did not like the feelings I was experiencing as I labored through adolescence. I particularly did not like the expectations that went along with being a lady. I did not like the fact that boys could still be adolescent creatures who could do and say what they wanted, but I was expected to act lady-like. The double standard between genders simply made me mad. This anger showed in many ways, particularly to boys my own age. I thought they were immature idiots. And far too frequently I let them know how I felt about their antics. Most boys in my social circles were crude and rude. In many cases, they.
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