A lovely story about a young woman’s relationship with her father through his transition to be a woman.
If you passed my dad on the street today, you might not notice her. She’d likely be wearing one of her tasteful flowing tunics, black slacks, loafers with excellent arch support, and her wavy brown wig, which allows just a touch of her grey hair to peek out at the temples. At 69, she jokes, she is a typical older woman — virtually invisible.
But I think she has never looked more beautiful: She is a transgender woman completely at home in her own skin.
It hasn’t always been this way. As a male, my father never looked, well, right. Growing up in the 1950s as Dick (I know, you can’t make this stuff up), my father looked perpetually ill at ease in his plaid shirts and Carhartt dungarees. In his teen years, he was often morose, a smooth, baby-faced boy forced into button-down shirts and prom tuxes. The only photo in which he looks truly happy and relaxed? He is in Florida, on vacation, at the age of 12, wearing shorts with the cuffs tightly rolled up — just like a girl.