When I notice her sniffing her shoulder to see if she smells, I chuckle. “You don’t stink.” I pat the handle of the rolling suitcase. “I’ve got the next step to your disguise in here. How do you feel about being a brunette?”
Her hand goes to her hair. “You want me to dye it? Permanently?”
“Have to,” I reply regretfully.
I’ll still think she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen no matter what color her hair is, but I’ll miss the blond.
I twirl a lock of it around my finger. “We have to cut it, too.”
Rosalie’s eyes bulge. “Cut it? No. No way. My hair is the one thing my mom let me have control over. I’ve been growing it out for years.”
“Not super short. Maybe just…” I make a sawing motion with my hand a few inches below her shoulder. “Right here.”
“That’s like ten inches!” she shrieks, backing up against the sink.
A knock comes at the door, and Jay inquires, “Everything okay in there?”
“Yeah,” I respond, smirking. “Did I mention it’s our honeymoon? It’s the first time Sara’s seen my—”
Rosalie’s hand covers my mouth, and she’s practically fuming as she glares up at me.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” she whispers, her lips twitching with humor she wants to contain.
Chuckling, Jay leaves us alone, and I start to unzip the luggage.
I set a comb, scissors, the box of dye, and a couple old towels down on the counter. “We’ll cut some length off first.”
Rosalie pouts as she turns to look in the mirror. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to? It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but yeah.”
A sense of calm comes over me as I run a comb through her strands. I part her hair down the middle and feel the cool silkiness slip against my fingers. Unable to help myself, I spear my fingers through her locks and make a fist at the nape of her neck.
Rosalie’s eyes appear a bit glazed as she pushes her head back against my hand. “It feels good when you do that.”
My dick gets hard.
I’ve always had a fascination with hair, but I didn’t realize it was a fetish until Rosalie. I can’t stop thinking about it. Fuck, the way her hair would look wrapped around my hand while I take her from behind.
“On second thought, maybe I won’t cut much off.” Sinking my fingers deeper, I massage her scalp. “Just like five inches. Once we’ve colored it, it’ll be easier to transform your look. There are a lot of other ways to style your hair.”
She lets out a satisfied sigh and asks, “Like what?”
“Ponytails, braids, updos.”
She gazes at my reflection in the mirror. “Seriously, how do you know all this stuff? Did you go to cosmetology school?”
The answer is painful. So painful, I haven’t talked about it in almost ten years. But Rosalie’s being brave for me. I owe it to her to share this.
Plus, I want her to know me. Really know me.
Krystal was a huge defining factor in my life. She made me who I am today.
“I had a sister. A foster sister.”
“Had?” Rosalie’s question is hesitant. “Meaning, you don’t anymore?”
“Correct.” I drape the towel around her shoulders to keep her sweater from getting dirty.
“What happened?”
I’m quiet as I section off her hair. Two parts in the front, one in the back. Putting the scissors near the bottom of her shoulder blades, I start cutting straight across.
Snip, snip, snip.
Rosalie patiently waits for my reply, and after I’ve gotten the line evened up, I say, “Krystal and I got placed in the same foster home about a week apart. We had a lot in common—both fifteen, both rejected by the people who should’ve loved us most… both born as males.”
Rosalie turns her head to glance at me over her shoulder. “Huh?”
“Do you know what it means to be transgender?”
She looks forward again. “Yes. I watched a documentary about it. It’s like being born with a body that doesn’t match your brain. It’s when someone looks one way on the outside, but it isn’t who they feel like on the inside.”
“Exactly.” I’m a bit surprised at how simply she put it, but I have to remember that just because Rosalie’s been sheltered doesn’t mean she isn’t educated or compassionate. “On the inside, Krystal—formerly Christopher—was a girl. When she came out to her parents at thirteen, they—” I stop as I feel the emotion well up. I clear my throat. “—they tried to beat the gay out of her. Her words, not mine.”
“That’s awful,” Rosalie whispers, letting me rotate her so I can get to the front section on her right.
I keep talking while I cut some face-framing layers. “She ended up in the hospital for a week, and her parents went to jail for abuse. After that, she bounced around foster homes for a while. No one wanted to accept her as is. The home she was in before coming to the Marshalls’ was pretty strict. They wouldn’t let her wear the clothing she wanted, and they refused to use female pronouns. One night when the family was away at a movie, she slit her wrists. They got home just in time to call an ambulance and save her.”
“That’s really scary. I can’t imagine hurting myself in that way. Wait…” Rosalie’s staring at me out of the corner of her eye. “Is that why you kind of freaked out on me about the overdose?”
I nod. “Self-harm and suicide are sore subjects for me.”
“Yeah, I can understand that now.”
“Being at the Marshalls’ was a dream come true for both Krystal and me,” I continue. “Mr. Marshall was a pastor at a LGBTQ-friendly church, and he and his wife made us feel like we were wanted. For the first time, we were home. We both tried to be on our best behavior, because we didn’t want to get moved to a different foster family. That was our worst fear—being separated. At least, it was mine. Krystal was my family. I knew she wrestled with her mental health, but I thought my love was enough to keep her grounded, and I literally fought for her. If anyone said shit about her at school, they regretted it. I got suspended a few times. Almost got expelled all together.”
I chuckle a little when I remember how Mr. Marshall used to just pat me on the back and tell me it was all right when I’d get sent home with a bloody lip or a black eye. He never directly said so, but I think he approved of my actions.
“You were being a good brother.” Rosalie gives me a soft smile.
“Krystal used to get so pissed at me for causing trouble, but I knew deep down it meant a lot to her that she had someone sticking up for her.” With guilt burning in my gut, I forge ahead, getting closer to the worst part of the story. “When I was seventeen, one night I snuck out of the house. There was a party across town, and I wanted to go. Krystal was sick—just a cold or something, but she didn’t feel up to going out, so I went alone. I didn’t have a car, so I did the stupidest thing ever—I stole our neighbor’s truck. They were out of town, and I thought I could borrow it and bring it back the next morning. No one would know, right? Well, the plan might’ve worked… if I hadn’t wrecked it.”