Cross-dressing has been a revelation for me since I started last year: The progress I’ve made, the things I’ve done, the places I’ve been, the wardrobe, the makeup, so many things.
All of this has been great, for the most part, but there is an evil presence lurking amongst the perfumes, the shoes and the huge variety of clothes: my age.
I started shaving various parts of my body, beginning with my beard, at the start of 2024, then my legs, then hands and arms (the photograph shows how hairy I used to be), so a lot more attention is given to body parts that male me just assumed were fine. However, close-ups in the mirror, while I apply my makeup or pluck my eyebrows, draw attention to all sorts of nasties. This close scrutiny has revealed things I’m less than pleased to see.
Bear with me as I start with my face and move down:
Looking into a 3x magnification mirror shows the roughness of my skin, it shows the bags under my eyes, and the excess of skin over my eyelids that is so great that lowering my eyebrows after applying eye shadow, merely serves to cover up, with hooded eyelids, the makeup I’ve just applied. My nose looks big, hairs grow inside despite a lot of my efforts at culling them—there are constant battles with them that I don’t always win. My eyes are sunken, the skin around them is dark, the whites haven’t been white for a very long time. My jowls and neck are saggy, unattractive and distinctly male. Despite my advancing years, the damned facial hair grows as much it ever has.
I watch my weight constantly as I try to avoid the late-age spread.
My legs are thin and much weaker than they have ever been, my bow-legs even more pronounced due to the lack of fat and muscle.
My feet still grow hair on the tops, even my toes would be hirsute without regular shaving. They look old. My hands have been through the wringer all my life and look like pieces of old leather, my finger joints don’t work very well. When shave my legs and arms, the close inspection I give them shows the skin wrinkling up as I pull my razor along; it’s like trying to shave a cold, dead chicken, oh dear!
It is an effort to sit down and another one to stand up again; I have to make a conscious effort not to grunt on each manoeuvre. My knees click and grind making my attempts to walk elegantly in kitten heels a bit of a trial; making it look effortless takes a real effort.
I tried growing the hair on my shaven head, but it is tufty: thick and brown in some places, thin and grey in others, none at all in the rest. It would not turn into long, flowing locks if I waited a thousand years.
Seventy years of eating, drinking—and running into an iron bar aged 16—has made my teeth less than attractive, my lips are thin to the point of non-existence.
My ears keep growing, as does my nose and my prostate, I have four different pills each day to keep me functioning with any semblance of normality. My stomach has staples in it after a hernia repair, my heart has a stent, I verge on being a cyborg, kept together by bits of metal and legal pharmaceuticals. Senescence follows me, lurking in the shadows; I can almost see the scythe it carries.
But…
…despite everything, I am still alive and moving in some form or other, which is better than many. Mentally, I’ve still got all my marbles, my eyesight is mostly fine and I can hear thunder before my dog can. I can still walk, ride a bike and drive a car.
My eyes can be smoothed out a little with moisturiser, the dark circles are covered by concealer. My nose hair does eventually respond to my ministrations and if I smile, I can raise the jowls to make them less visible; I’d never smiled that much before I cross-dressed. A scarf usually covers my turkey-neck, flouncy tops cover the worst of my arm skin and calf-length skirts hide the worst of my dodgy legs. Perfume covers any man-smell, rings and nail polish distract attention from my leathered hands, as do bracelets. Sitting down and standing up with my legs together like a woman, has helped improve my dodgy knees a little; who knew that would happen?!
The stent keeps my heart going, the stomach staples keep my intestines where they should be and while taking the pills can be a bit of a pain, they keep me alive and functioning within normal parameters.
My clothes are brighter, prettier and more comfortable than they used to be before last year. My shoes do make me concentrate on my walking and I am more upright in posture and more confident because of them. I do not get depressed any more, I am [a little] more optimistic and outgoing.
I am seventy years old now but cross-dressing has made me feel perhaps fifteen years younger. I doubt CDing would work for everyone but I, for one, am now comfortable doing this and I am glad to be a cross-dresser.
Most of all, despite everything, I am now happy, truly happy.
Becca
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I’m over 60 I’ve been stressing only a year or so full time in the alleged transformation process I became a more aware of sin has a male I never noticed before. My past well in public as female which makes it easy to do the clothing and I have eight different weeks some gray hair some blonde one brown and one kind of redhead. The hardest for me is the face the makeup the foundation the lipstick the powder Etc. I saved my face with an electric razor and I use moisturizing lotion everyday sometimes more than once a… Read more »
I’m so sorry for the mistake words in my recent Journey the conversation. Let me make a correction here: I’ve been DRESSING,
2 more aware of my SKIN.
3.i PASS well.
4.i SHAVE my face.
5. Even if physical TRANSFORMATION. 6. There was an old Musical SONG.
Thank you. Stephanie
Stephanie,
Thank you for your comments.
I don’t want to teach your grandmother to suck eggs so ignore me if you know this, but you do know you can edit a post, rather than correct your typos in another message.
Everybody does typos, I did one writing this, but I went back and edited it after posting.
Kindest regards
Becca
@Becca Baxter thank you I am a little behind the curve with some of the technology and how to properly use it.
@Becca Baxter I love the way you write—an interesting style
Thank you Maureen, I like to write, I just wish my handwriting was neater, you know, calligraphy-neat.
I like editing here on CHD too, it keeps me on my grammar and punctuation toes.
Becca
Becca, this is such an interesting and thought provoking posting. As I read it, I can completely relate to everything that you say here. The great thing about getting older (there actually is one) is that the older we get the more that males and females look alike. But, as mature crossdressers, and ones that want to look a lot younger, we have all the same help that mature women have. Plus, we do actually study how to transform ourselves into younger women, unlike older GGs who just accept their age. I’m 73 now, and I’m going to fight the… Read more »
@Jennifer Connolly That’s true about the older people’s similarity, I’d not thought of it that way. I don’t try to look young per se, but if it happens, I’m very pleased.
Becca your thoughtful topic hear reminded me of a poem I happened across last year: TIME ON HER HANDS by Kathy Philpot They were model hands, flesh soft and pink. Fluttering as she spoke, Her long oval nails buffed to a natural shine. Callous-free palms, smooth to the touch, gently removed stockings without a snag. Now, her thin skin tears like tissue paper. Mottled with brown spots, scarred by simple tasks. Veins lie on top, like a 3-D road map. Knuckles enlarged, joints unbending, painful ragged cuticles bordering nails brittle and broken. Her hands lie quietly, hidden in her lap.… Read more »
@Grace Palmer I’m trying to emulate the first part of your peom whilst fighting off the second.