I was born in 1952.

Doctors during that prehistoric period had no way of predicting an infant’s sex, yet my mother was so convinced that her second child would be a girl that a year’s worth of pretty pink baby clothing lay neatly stacked in a crib. I imagine she experienced a more than a little disappointment after 20 hours of labor to hear the attending doctor’s words, “Congratulations, you have a boy.”

Some women would have resigned themselves to this destiny, however my mother dressed me in pink dresses until I was 9 months old, when my father declared firmly, “He’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to wear pink.”

This infantile transvestite period inflicted little if no psychological scarring, but every November I fancy dressing up in the extravagant silk costume for the Thai festival honoring the water goddess, if only so I can say that I was a ka-toey for Loi Krathong.

This one-night transformation into that deeply-desired daughter probably would reward my late mother with an after-life smile. Unfortunately for my mother I have always resisted this urge, since no 55-year old man should wear a dress unless it’s to escape from prison, although I have occasionally wondered about my appearance as a woman and last year at the Plaza Hotel I tried on a long wig. Not too attractive, although a female friend said upon seeing the photo that I looked like Joni Mitchell on steroids.

I was thinking more on the lines of Brigitte Bardot.

The mirror is the best liar of all. Not too attractive, although a female friend said upon seeing the photo that I looked like Joni Mitchell on steroids.

I was thinking more on the lines of Brigitte Bardot.

The mirror is the best liar of all.