You start rummaging around in the neighbor's garage to see if there are any long wigs to hide your boy haircut and squarish jawline. You almost want to find the light switch before continuing. Squinting in the dark is starting to give you a mild headache. In the dim light, your elbow bumps a box and it tumbles off the shelf. Assorted knick-knacks clatter all over the floor. You freeze in panic.
Seconds later, the inner door opens. You want to duck out of sight, but part of you must have known it was hopeless to hide and keeps you frozen in place.
The woman calls out "Hello?" She flicks on the lights and calls out your name upon seeing you. You lift a hand to block the light, which isn't helping your budding headache. Meanwhile, she shuffles toward you.
You start to stammer an apology for being in her garage, but she calmly raises a hand and you shut your mouth. "It's all right. If you needed help getting into those clothes, you could have asked me. I've become an expert at tying an obi." She gently places a hand on your shoulder, nudging you to turn around. For some reason you don't mind the touch and comply.
"You seem to know a few things yourself," she says, impressed. You turn back around, your cheeks hot as the blood rushes to your face in embarrassment. "It's all right," she says with a chuckle that sounds meant to soothe, although you can't help but feel she's mocking you, since that's what any of your friends or your sister would do if they found you in a Japanese girl's dress.
"I'm sorry, again," you say in a small voice. You're so nervous that your voice cracks into a higher pitch. Your headache returns, and you feel so vulnerable in this moment that you start to confess. "I was dared to go to an all-girls sleepover...and I came looking for a disguise..." Your voice sounds lighter, and it cracks a couple more times, which only makes your nervousness worse. You brush your bangs out of your eyes. "This yukata looked pretty, so I wanted to try it on."
Seeing you so worked up, the woman carefully places a hand on your back and leads you toward the warm light of the open door. "Come on in the house. I've got some more things for you."
Entering, you're shocked to find a house decorated mostly with Japanese antiques. "I'll help fix you up for that sleepover," she promises. She takes the bag with your clothes and heads down a hall. "Follow me."
You nod, confused as to why she would be so understanding and eager to help you. Your headache flares up again and you divert your attention back to the decorations. There is a narrow paper scroll on the wall with some beautiful calligraphy. You don't know what any of it means, of course, but the large character at the top obviously says "peace."
You furrow your brow and brush your bangs away from your eyes again. You don't remember why you know that. You're certain you never learned any kanji, not even from all the hours you've spent watching anime with your sister. Wait, hours? You never watched a whole program with her. Well, maybe not a whole series. But maybe an episode or two of...something. Trying to recall a specific memory is suddenly aggravating.
You concentrate on the kanji for "peace." It helps calm you the more you focus on that.
The woman calls to you, but your attention is so diverted that you don't recognize what she's saying. Finally it dawns on you that it's your own name. You turn, brushing your long dark hair over your ear, and see her gesturing you into a bathroom.
Your headache returns. Everything seems wrong somehow, but how can it be wrong that your plan is coming along even better than you'd hoped? If she could find you a wig--could help do your hair, that would be great for your disguise.
She positions you in front of the mirror over the sink. "Just stand still and I'll help touch up your makeup. You want to make a good first impression, don't you?" she asks.
That unsettling feeling returns, so to help focus yourself, you simply stare into the mirror. You're surprised how feminine the yukata makes your face seem. Your chin looks small and cute, and your eyes actually look a little Asian. But it's hard to tell through the stray wisps of black hair falling over them. You're not sure why your parents haven't taken you for a haircut in the past few we--months.
And isn't your hair supposed to be a lighter color? It was black before, wasn't it? Well, of course, since that's what it is now. That's what it's always been. But then why do you picture yourself with lighter hair? It must just be your headache messing with you.
As the woman begins brushing the hair to organize it at the sides of your head, you wonder how you could have ever thought your haircut was boyish. You don't see many other boys with chin-length bobs in this country. In this part of the country.
No, something is definitely not right. Your hair isn't supposed to be this dark or this long. You've never had hair this long. Not until you asked your parents if you could grow it out. Wait, why would you ever ask that? When did you ask that? Wasn't it last winter, the last time your mom wanted to take you for a haircut because it was brushing your shoulders, and you said it might look prettier if you kept growing it? No no no, that's impossible. It had to be two winters ago, since your hair almost reaches your waist now.
The longer you look at yourself in the mirror, the less sure you are that you are the person in the reflection. Your headache is getting worse and you worry you're getting sick.
It doesn't help that you keep seeing things in the mirror that you aren't sure you should be seeing. First your face, then your hair, and now you've just noticed...