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When I first saw Chrissy, she was perched on a cracked vinyl chair in a downtown laundromat. Just a thin silhouette hunched over her laundry basket, waiting for the dryer to cycle. The dim fluorescent lights flickered above her, casting a sickly glow that made her skin look sickly and almost translucent.
“Hey,” I said, sliding onto the bench opposite her. “Are you okay?” She lifted her head, looking sad. “I’m Chrissy,” she whispered. “I’m just tired of being the joke everyone laughs at.” I studied her for a moment. “Why do you think you’re a joke, babe?” She sighed, as if she had explained this at least a hundred times before. “I know I’m not the kind of girl anyone wants. I’m so tired of being the ugly neighborhood sissy who only gets hit on during last call…But if someone could make me beautiful, like a girl that rich and successful men actually want…I’ll do anything.”
Sissy Chrissy Gets a Makeover
I’d heard stories of women who sold their souls for a glimpse of glitter, only to be left hollowed out and empty. I could see she’d had a rough life and desperately needed some help.
We left the laundromat together. I took her to a boutique that had stacks of lingerie on tables, rows of gowns on racks, and gold-trimmed mirrors that almost shimmered under the chandelier lights. I chose a black satin thong and matching strapless bra, a pink silk dress that clung to every curve of her frail body, and a cascade of pearls that made her look more regal than your average sissy.
We slipped into a hair salon where two stylists coaxed her hair into glossy waves and a makeup artist transformed her cheekbones into marble peaks, before painting her lips a perfect shade of red. When the transformation was complete, Chrissy stared at herself in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman staring back. Her eyes were no longer pleading, they were glittering and calculated. My dear Chrissy was learning the art of the hunt. A right of passage that every girl experiences at some time or another.
That night, I took her to an upscale bar on Fifth Avenue and watched from a corner table as she glided through the crowd. Chrissy was a siren in a sea of suits. Men with gold‑threaded cufflinks and pretentious smiles leaned in, offering compliments that were as shallow as the glasses they sipped their drinks from.
She glanced back at me and smiled, as I lifted my glass and mouthed the words “You’re beautiful. Go find a husband.” She was the star of the show. A sissy transformed.
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