As the day progresses, you get more and more annoyed by your hair. It keeps falling in front of your eyes and the itching on your forehead and ears refuses to let up, no matter how much you brush your bangs out of the way.
When math class rolls around again, you find yourself growing hopelessly bored within five minutes. You drum your fingers on your desk while the teacher talks about equations. Suddenly, your almost inaudible drumming turns into harsh tapping. You stop. Looking at your hands, you see your fingernails are in dire need of a trim. First your hair, now your nails. Either you've seriously been neglecting your grooming habits, or something strange is going on. You strongly suspect the latter.
Whatever's happening, there's no way you can investigate it in the middle of class. You try to sit as patiently as you can until the lesson is over. Efforts to concentrate on the teacher fail. Once more, you take your math book and start flipping through the pages.
You reach the page with the note, and an idea pops into your head. You unfold it and carefully read your wish again through the bangs in your eyes. "I wish I would become a girl."
You can't believe it. It's impossible. You look at your fingers again. The nails are long, almost long enough to look feminine. And your fingers themselves seem somehow thinner. Your hair definitely has a girlish look to it, despite its shagginess. If it grew out much longer...
Then you remember that your mom and Jake both seemed fine about your hair getting longer. Neither noticed anything unusual about its fast growth.
Every odd thing you can remember from the last day fits what is written on this paper. They all have to do with sudden, unexplainable changes that nobody but you seems to worry about.
Your heart skips a beat. You don't know how it's possible, but you're sure of it...you're actually turning into a girl.
As the day goes on, your excitement grows along with your hair. At every period break, you stop into the bathroom to check its progress. It's never much, but bit by bit you can tell it's growing. Every time you look in the mirror your appearance becomes a tiny bit more girlish. The change is so subtle even you have a hard time seeing it, but you know it's there.
You have a new source of trouble paying attention in class. Rather than being bored out of your mind, your thoughts race at the prospect of the changes to come. By the time you're on the bus home, your hair in back has grown down to your shoulders and your bangs have finally become long enough that you can tuck them behind your ears, although they still fall out occasionally.
You chat up Jake on the ride home. He doesn't mention your hair at all, despite it being obviously longer than it was that morning. Your manner of gossip strikes you as unusual, though somehow it comes out naturally as if you've always talked with girlish energy.
Just before his stop, you do something very un-boy-like and ask him if he likes your hair.
"Yeah, it's pretty," Jake says without giving you any indication he thought your question was weird. "It's kind of messy, but it's cute like that." The bus comes to a stop and he says goodbye.
You realize that you're blushing. He thinks your hair looks pretty. Half of you is embarrassed because you're a boy, but a new part of you is giddy with excitement.
Once back at home, you rush to the bathroom to see yourself again. Your hair is definitely scraggly. It's uneven, with your bangs reaching only to mouth level while the hair on the sides is past your chin and the hair in the very back has grown just past your shoulders. Locks at the very top skew out in several directions, not long enough yet to be forced down by gravity.
Looking away from your hair, you notice a few other subtle changes. Your jawline looks thinner, and your nose looks smaller. Overall, you look like a very cute boy, but still mostly a boy. You know that's going to change, though.
"I thought you were getting your hair cut?" your mom asks from the bathroom doorway.
You blush again, having been caught staring at yourself like a narcissist. "I decided not to," you tell her. "I'm going to keep growing it out and see how it looks."
"That's my boy," she says, mussing up your hair. It still feels weird to be the recipient of a playful act usually reserved for your younger sister. "Once your father gets home we're going out to eat, so you'd better get changed. I've laid out some good clothes on your bed."