The Rainbow Wave

Trigger #125: The Rainbow Wave Salon

Organization Class: A local hair and nail salon run by some of the many witches of the Sala City Coven. They especially enjoy giving makeovers to the trans community.

Transformation Type: TG, Milfication.

Threat Level: Benevolent.

Subject: Michelle Nelson, 43, Female, formerly Michael Nelson, 43, AMAB.

The following is a biographical account of events based on the subject's own testimonies and several eyewitness accounts.

It was raining on the day of the parade.

It was Pride Month in Sala City, and that usually meant joy and color. But Michael couldn’t help but feel a little sad, cold, and jealous. He was a rather plain old man, with a balding head and a forgettable face. Seeing all of the beautiful young people, those brave enough to be themselves, Michael loathed himself for not being among them. It’s too late for me, he decided, they don’t need some bald old fart cramping their style, trying to be something he’s not.

His entire life, Michael had played it safe, dutifully following society’s, and by extension his parents’, expectations of him. He was a coward, he’d long since decided. He knew what he was. That is to say, she knew what she was. But his parents had banned the rainbow in their home. “The only rainbow is God’s, these perverted freaks are tainting his divine promise.” Michael couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to believe in a God who supposedly flooded the Earth, drowning so many innocent lives, then making up for it with a light show promising never to do it again. A hollow promise, like the ones his parents made when they lost their temper, half-apologizing far too late, then making the exact same mistakes soon after. So the kids are all right, Michael had decided. He’d rather believe in their rainbow than His, even if he was too scared to be a part of it.

It was the simplest thing that cracked Michael open like a bursting dam. A cardboard sign, carried by a man about the same age as his father had been when he’d said all this, the same age he was now.

“I love my trans daughter.”

His jealousy was showing, plain as the tears now streaking down his face. A grown-ass man crying, how pathetic, he thought to himself. But he couldn’t help it. It should have been me. The thought was screaming in his head like a petulant child. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.

But now it was too late.

Michael wiped his own tears with his hairy forearm and ducked into the nearest building, ashamed of himself for losing his composure over something so small. When his blurred vision finally cleared, he found himself inside a clean, cozy little hair salon. He couldn’t help but chuckle dryly to himself, rubbing his bald head. Just another reminder that it was too late for-

“Here for a trim?”

A larger woman sporting a rainbow pin was sweeping hair off the floor in the corner. Mike looked over his shoulder, confirmed there was no one else present, and pointed to himself as if to ask “...are you fucking serious right now?” The woman simply nodded in affirmation. Michael was astounded at the audacity, even a little bit angry, assuming she was poking fun at him. “Yeah, see, I was thinking a nice wave would do the trick,” he said sarcastically, pantomiming a flip of his non-existent locks. “I was thinking the same thing! You’re in luck, waves are our specialty, we’re not called “The Rainbow Wave” for nothing! Why don’t you take a seat right here and I’ll give you a cut on the house? Tis the season and all.”

Michael was still skeptical that she was taking the piss, but decided to play along. Either she’ll get so embarrassed she’ll apologize for her tasteless joke, or at the very least I’ll get a free trim out of it anyways. Michael had always hated his beard, but growing it out was easier than taking the time to shave it every day. And so, he took a seat in the plush pink salon chair, and the woman gathered her supplies and made her way over, ready to begin.

“So tell me about yourself, Miss,” she said as she draped a cape over his clothes and lathered some shaving cream with a brush. Michael swore he had to have misheard her. No one could mistake his balding, middle-aged ass for a woman, he’d long since decided that for himself.

“There’s… not much to tell. I’m kind of a boring ol’ gal, all things considered,” Michael said, before he realized he’d said “gal” instead of “guy” like he’d meant to. A slip of the tongue, maybe?

“Oh, no need to be modest here, ma’am. Nobody is nobody. I’m sure you’ve got more than a story or two to share,” the hairstylist cooed, smearing the cream all along Michael’s coarse and itching beard. Man, Michael decided, she said “Man”, not “Ma’am”, I’m sure of it.

“If you say so. I work in data entry at a paper company. It’s boring as sin, but it pays the bills at least…” Michael described his boring, long since dead end job as the hairstylist slid a straight razor deftly across the curves of his face. Somehow, his face felt smoother than it ever had, lacking even the slightest hint of stubble or razor burn, his skin glowing in the mirror, brighter and softer. Damn, this is the closest shave I’ve had in years. Maybe I really will come back here…

“Oh, that’s just what you do to pay the bills, that’s not YOU, c’mon, you must have SOME hobbies!” the stylist cooed as she prepared a water basin.

“... well, if you promise not to laugh, I actually like to knit a little. I, um, make sweaters usually, and then I donate them to the local homeless shelter or gift them to my sister’s kids…” Michael admitted bashfully, as the woman dipped his head into the warm bath of water. He’d never told anyone about that. His dad had often cringed whenever he’d caught him with his needles in hand, wishing aloud that he would take up sports, video games, or anything else he’d decided was sufficiently “manly.”

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that! Knitting is a fine hobby for anyone, let alone a woman your age!” the stylist assured her as she ran her fingers through his long, silky locks, pleasantly massaging the tension from his scalp. It was strange, Michael could swear he felt the hair on the top of his head standing up on end, but he didn’t have any hair on the top of his head, not anymore. He shrugged it off and decided it had to be some kind of sensory illusion, like those ASMR haircuts and massages he had read about online. And had the stylist called her a woman again? No, he simply misheard, is all. That had to be it.

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe life’s too short for me to care what other people think, and Lord knows it’s only gonna get shorter…” Michael chuckled bashfully to himself as she brought him back to the chair. His hair felt like it was tickling his shoulders now. Maybe he really had needed a trim, at least in the places he still had hair. Snip! Snip! Snip! The stylist clicked her tongue and set to work trimming his rather surprisingly long brown locks.

“Tch! Oh, stop it! You’ve still got a whole lot of life left to live, girl! And if you’re worried about those grey hairs of yours, I could always dye them! A rainbow ombre would look killer on you!”

Michael closed his eyes to enjoy every little shear of his hair. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was giving him bangs as he felt some strands tickling the right side of his face. And he was sure she’d meant “girl” as more of an expletive than a term of reference. Yes that had to be it.

“I’d love to dye it, but I’m worried people might think I’m some kind of birthday clown, and I left my big red nose at home,” Michael chuckled to himself, although his laugh sounded a lot lighter than he was used to.

“You’re not gonna look like a clown, hon, not on my watch. C’mon, you’ll love it!” The stylist insisted, dragging him back to the water basin. From the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw another woman in the mirror, but it was still just the two of them. She dipped his head back into the baptismal waters and soaked his locks in what he’d thought was his trademark dishwater brown, but turned out to be platinum blonde highlighted with a rainbow of other colors. He wanted to stop her, but she was already so far along and wasted so much product on him that he thought it would be rude to protest now. I’ll just shave what little hair I have left when I get home before anyone starts calling me Bozo, he grumbled to himself with a heavy sigh.

The woman once again escorted him back to the chair, lowering a hair dryer over his face. “I’m just gonna give you a minute in there to dry, then we’ll add in the waves, okay? Here, enjoy the massage chair…” She clicked a button, and before he could protest, mechanical nubs were digging into his back, vibrating and easing his aching muscles back into proper alignment. He moaned, and leaned back, deciding to savor the experience. The once claustrophobic canopy of the hair dryer now provided a comforting sense of privacy. The low, droning hum of the blowers drowned out all of the nasty little thoughts that had long since taken up residence in his brain.

The massagers set to work on his shoulders first. When their iron-cable-like tension finally loosened, it almost felt as if they had caved in, like his wingspan had shortened significantly. The hair on his legs, chest, and arms rose with the satisfying sensation of goosebumps, and then, it was like he couldn’t feel them at all, like he was smooth from eyebrow to toe. Even his clothes vibrated, the itchy polo he insisted on wearing loosening into something more comfortable like a wool sweater. He felt his chest jiggle, plump and plentiful, and decided he had simply put on a little more weight in his old age. He was half right, as he felt his jeans grow much tighter than he was used to, the fabric stretching and almost tearing around his hips and ass.

Tighter still was his crotch, as much as he was ashamed to admit. This whole process had given him a rather embarrassing hard-on, one he prayed the nice hairstylist hadn’t noticed. He dug his fingernails into the leather armrest, feeling like a cat clawing a couch as the pleasurable vibrations rocked him. But soon, it softened, and even went numb until he almost felt nothing down there at all, save a wave of satisfaction and a small wet spot where it used to be. He feared he had creamed in his jeans, but no, when he rubbed his legs together, there was something else entirely down there. Something different.

Something right.

The woman returned to lift the dryer, spray in some product, and finish the wave with a haircurler. With a flourish, she spun the chair to face the mirror.

Staring back at Michael was a woman who looked like she could be a relatively younger version of his mother, or even his twin sister. It took her a moment to realize that she was this woman.

She was a woman.

She WAS a woman.

She was a WOMAN!

“How… what… how is this possible…?” she daintily touched her cheek as her voice, aged like fine wine as the rest of her was, cooed.

“It was always possible. The makings of a beautiful woman were already there, I really didn’t have to do much. I just added some highlights,” the stylist winked as she nonchalantly cleaned her tools.

The woman once known as Michael wobbled to her feet, her loafers replaced with a pair of bright red high heels. Dorothy’s ruby slippers, here to take her home.

“But I… I thought it was too late for me. I’d made peace with that…” she scanned herself in the mirror again, searching for any crack in this facade, this astounding illusion, and finding none.

The stylist put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s never too late to be yourself, Michelle. Never.”

She didn’t ask how this mysterious woman had known her name. She didn’t care. She found herself sobbing into the woman’s shoulder, who laughed and said “Don’t worry, just let it all out, we can fix your makeup after.”

Michelle was back on the street now, a changed woman. Literally. She found herself marching in step with the other changed women, not the stranger she had feared she would be. A sister among sisters, mothers, and daughters. The man with the cardboard sign from before winked at her as she passed, and she couldn’t help but blush.

It was raining on the day of the parade, but no one seemed to care.

After all, the rain always comes before the rainbow.

From the desk of

Mira Alcott

Head-Mistress of Transformations

(Special thanks to CJ for the suggestion, to my Test Readers, to VioletVelvet and Zoey for editing and to all of my Patrons for your support!)