I started wearing lipstick when I was forty-two. A late age, I know, but polio had paralyzed my arms and legs when I was six. Before then, I used to watch my mother touch pretty golden tubes to her lips; I also used to try to push my little boy's genitals back inside of me.

Being totally paralyzed made it difficult to rebel. I was a suburban conformist, as hard-working at my studies as my parents were at their jobs. My disability embarrassed me by drawing attention to me, so it became important for me to find ways to blend into the crowd.

But my dream of being a beautiful woman wouldn't leave.

Whenever I saw a man dressed as a woman on TV or in a magazine, I envied his courage and freedom.

I'd been living on my own for twelve years before I worked up the nerve to buy a blouse, skirt, and makeup. Now I wear lipstick -- and eyeliner, powder, rouge, eye shadow, skirt, blouse, and a wig of long, black hair -- as often as I dare.

Lipstick makes me soft, sensuous, and free. It transforms me into another person, someone more given to laughter and less burdened by duty. But after my attendant removes my lipstick and makeup, I feel confused, disappointed, and guilty. Have I stolen women's power? Am I contributing to their oppression by dressing up? I wonder whether I'm a man pretending to be a woman or a woman caught in the wrong reincarnation.