#and how i saw myself on the social hierarchy and how worthy i was of love and acceptance

[lebada]

i have feelings

[darklingichor]

Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

Buckle in kids, this one has my analytical muscles flexing!

I always said that I absorbed some of this epic through osmosis. GWTW is my mom's favorite book and one of her favorite movies. I remember wandering in and out of the living room at least once a year while she watched it. I would listen with half an ear as I played in the other room. A movie so long as to have an intermission just couldn't keep my attention as a kid. Of course I knew the story, just like I knew the story of a lot of fairy tales that I'd never actually had read to me. I didn't actually sit down and watch the movie in it's entirety until I was in my 20's. I liked it. It was well made, the acting was great and the story for all it's wince worthy moments and the surface polishing of such an ugly period in american history, was compelling.

I've never been able to get through the actual book. The reasons are going to sound a little silly. When I was younger, I thought : Why read it? I know the story. Tara is a plantation pre civil war, Scarlett lives at Tara, she's spoiled, she marries out of spite, gets widowed, Atlanta burns, she and her family become poor after the war, "As God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again" she works hard, almost loses Tara, she marries for money, saves Tara, works hard, is widowed again, marries again, rocky relationship, a child passes, "Frankly my dear, I don't give damn", end credits. In between she pines over a guy she can't have, and manages to be all around an unpleasant person in general. Done and done.  I was probably too young to read it then anyway.

When I got older and realized that a book could be complex with horrible things in it. I thought I should read it. But, every copy of the book I seemed to find had tiny tiny print and no paragraph breaks (the later being a a typical writing characteristic in the past). Even with my glasses I have a hard time reading a book in that format. I skip lines, reread lines, I always end up,with a,pounding headache. No matter how good the story it's hard to get into when you can't physically read it. I had the same problem with Little Women. I eventually got through it but it was difficult.

Well, now there's audible. For once, I didn't have a book I was chomping at the bit to listen to and I thought: Why not? I listened to other books I couldn't get into for whatever reason. So, one credit and 48 hours (spread out over the last three weeks) later. I made it through.

Let me say, this novel is rich in language, as in it is well written and has much to analyze. But every time the n-word was said I flinched. Every time a black person was infatlized, or threatened, I felt angry, I was pissed off by the caricatures and happy slave narritive. Everything I have read about the author points to her evolving her views on black people after her novel, which is good. However, it doesn't make the characterization of black people any easier to read. There are racist things in the book, writing about a bunch of well to do people in the antebellum south, I'm not sure how an author could avoid it without Clorox-ing history, which honestly, she did enough of with her mythical view of the way enslaved people were treated and felt. It was a narrative I often heard in school, in the PNW, in the 90's.

The story went that depending on where someone fit into the hierarchy of slaves, some were well treated and loved. Because of this, when emancipation came, some slaves were afraid to be, or didn't want to be free. This of course served the purpose of making an awful period in US history seem softer than it was. "Sure it was bad, but it wasn't that bad."

As I studied more, this viewpoint was replaced with a "Nope, this was just bad, as in monumentally criminally bad."

I think Mitchell, when she wrote the book, thought she was being accurate, but considering she learned her history from veterens of The Confederacy, it is not surprising that she was wrong.

Because of the one dimensional way that black people were written, it's hard for me to really dig into the symbolism of their characters. I'm only marganially good at this, as you will soon see.

I will say this: I liked the book for many of the same reasons my mom gave me for loving it. For it's descriptions and it's style, for it's symbolism. I like it for it's depiction of a culture in flux, of the impact of war for those on the home front, of the all too human condition that one never sees one's self as the bad guy. I do not like it for the characters. Rhett is an asshole, Ashley has a lot in common with a wet towel, only less interesting. Melanie is okay but can at times, give one a toothache. Scarlett is a brat. The glorifying of a time when people owned other people is disturbing, full stop.

It was those parts that made me profoundly uncomfortable and I had to remind myself over and over that this was a novel about civil war Georgia and the rich people that inhabited it before, during, and directly after. This was how those people would think, talk and behave. It was wrong then, it's wrong now.

Now, I'm going to look at the symbolism in this book because I found it facinating.

Gone with the wind is far more complex than I thought when I was a kid or after I watched the movie. The collective consciousness holds Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara's romance to be the heart of the story... But it's not. Scarlett herself is the heart of the story. Honestly, Rhett driffs in and out when Scarlett needs either a dose of levity, a hard dose of truth, or a leg up on a hard fight. He doesn't rescue her, he helps her get the tools, and shows her the path to rescue herself.

Scarlett is an odd character. She has so many good points and bad points that she is nearly neutral. She's self-centered, but will fiercely care for and look after those she considers family, or as she calls them "my own". She will, on the surface ( for as the book says, it was all surface with her) resent every step taken, dollar spent, or moment given but she will keep doing it. She's opportunistic and ruthless with it, but she doesn't do it for the hell of it, she does it when backed into a corner. She's inpatient with her children, but her actions show that she loves them. She wants to do right by the social customs she was raised with and that the South cling to even after the war, but she's far too practical to pay them any more than lip service unless they fit her purposes.

Katie Scarlett O'Hara *is* rural Georgia. The colors that are always used to describe the land and Tara are red, green, black and white. In Scarlett we have described, red lips, green eyes ("without a hint of hazel"), white skin and black hair. She often wears these colors as well. Scarlett grows and changes along with Georgia and in fact, the reader is treated to the change of Georgia in a way that makes it more important than the changes of the characters. There are long stretches of discription of Georgia, especially Clayton County where Tara is. Long passages of the feelings of Georgia's people, before, during and after the war. Scarlett's life story from age 16 to age 28 are placed in between, and I have to think that the composition of the book was deliberate (I've never read any literary analysis GWTW, this is just me rambling). 

Scarlett is told by her father, early in the book, that an Irishman's land is like his mother. Gerald O'Hara, an Irish immigrant, goes on to tell her that this kinship to the land is the same for anyone with a drop of Irish blood. In Scarlett, this goes further, for not only is the land her mother, she is,truly it's daughter.

Since she only swims in the shallow depths of her mind, she is unaware of her deeper waters. She does have them, she just pays no attention to what lives there. Weirdly, what lives there is what truly moves her. Early in the book the reader is told that although she didn't know it, she loved Tara, she was at peace there.

Nature is neutral,nature doesn't care about wars, politics or customs. At her core Scarlett doesn't care about these things either. Throughout the book the reader is told, that Scarlett doesn't care about anything that didn't directly affect her. This is true, and she is called out  fairly often by other characters for being self-centered. However, her selfishness has a different feel than say, Bella Swan, Veruca Salt, or various other literary brats.

Scarlett feels less like one only,out to further her own interests and more like one who is trying to maintain her niche in her environment. For a living thing to thrive, their environment must support them. When an environment changes, the living thing either adapts or dies. Scarlett adapted.

Unable to convince Ashley Wilkes to break his engagement to Melanie Hamilton, being more obvious about her feelings for him than she thought, facing shame and questions to her reputation that would devastate her social standing and also possibly damage her family, she took swift action. She married Charles Hamilton, Melanie's brother. Why? It would shut up those who thought her in love with Ashley, thus saving her reputation. Plus, she figured it would hurt those she saw,as a threat to her. Like a river wearing a path around a tree, she avoided the obstical and continued on.

So if Scarlett is Georgia what about our other big characters?

Rhett is change, and time, like Scarlett he's nearly morally neutral.

Ashley is the past, he's the southern gentleman that the culture out grew.

Melanie a sheltering force. She reads as sweet and proper, but is always supporting Scarlett, even when her choices do not line up with the social system.

So, let's look at each of these characters in relation to our green-eyed force of nature.

I’m going to start with Ashley. Scarlett is fixated on him from the beginning. One can make many arguments as to why. He’s the only man not falling all over himself to get her attention, he very much represents the white knight to her, having “fallen in love” with him when he rode up to Tara after being away from Twelve Oaks, the reason as old as time, because she can’t have him, and her father says he’s not a good match for her. All of these are true, but to look at it from the symbolism angle:

Scarlett is Georgia,. The land and the plantation culture, she’s comfortable in her world at the start of the book. She doesn’t care at all about the war. It’s something that’s happening around her, something she is dreadfully bored by. Ashley represents that comfort, being with him means keeping things the same, staying the girl who only has to worry herself with parties, and being a plantation wife. Life would be slow and easy.

Time goes on, when everything goes wrong and Tara falls into poverty, Scarlett adapts. This girl who only a few years before married a man to save face, had never expected to work, now has to bust her tail trying to keep everyone fed. She wants Ashley, still, because she desperately wants to go back to that past, to where things were simple, to where hunger was not an issue.

The problem is that, Scarlett views Ashley through a haze of sentimentality, and Ashley is, himself, the embodiment of rose tinted nostalgia. He is not like Scarlett, longing for that time, but functioning in reality. He cannot exist outside of it; he’s not wishing for a time when all he had to do was talk books and philosophy with Melanie, he is of that time and he can do nothing when its gone.

Ashley Wilkes is an embroidered cloth of the antebellum south. He's the neat picture that faces outward, the pleasent part that the one weilding the needle wanted people to see. What is hidden is the web of threads criss-crossing each other, the nests of string, the knots and the things those messy parts tell of. The pricked fingers, the broken threads, the bent needles, stitches that were undone, tangles. The work and the pain that went into making that pretty picture look effortless. In short, he's what Scarlett and others at the start of the book thought of their culture and society. The work of the slaves was just simply there, what mattered was the result. Scarlett, like the society at large, had to let that go, face what it was. Not a shining example to return to, but an impractical relic of the past.

Rhett on the other hand sort of drifts in and out of the awareness of the main characters, He is always sort of there. He sees the writing on the wall, knows that many of the social conventions are on their way out and nudges Scarlett in the direction she wants to go in anyway.

After Charles dies, and Scarlett is in mourning, tradition dictating that she wear black, Rhett buys her a green hat and tells her he will take it away if she has it dyed.

When Tara is about to be lost, and Rhett refuses to give her money, Scarlett, without shame and with ruthless practicality, steals and marries her sister Suellen's suitor.

Why? Because she knew that Suellen would not have used any of the money she might have come into to save Tara.

Scarlett then takes over her new husband's business. She has a talent for it, and does well. Rhett encourages this unconventional behavior by lending her money to buy a sawmill which she runs.

This loan is interesting because it has a condition. He loans her the money as long as it isn't used to help Ashley.

This could be seen as an opportunity that would only really work if not given over to the conventions of the past. This plays out some what when it turns out that Ashley really sucks at doing... Well anything useful, really.

When Rhett and Scarlett eventually marry, he is proud to have a smart wife.

Rhett, as change, sees that Scarlett can and should break free from the social expectations that hem her in, when she does, she tends to do well. They are prosperous. What gets her in trouble is her constent looking back, pineing for Ashley, for the past that never was what it seemed, and the lost future that never would have been what she thought. Case in point, Scarlett and Rhett have Bonnie, who Rhett adores, Scarlett seems contented in her marriage. Then what happens? Ashley tells Scarlett that he is jealous of Rhett. And Scarlett promptly demands that she and Rhett sleep in separate rooms.

Later, we continue to go all soap opera when Scarlett and Ashley share an embrace and Ashley's sister, India, spreads a rumour of an affair. Melanie kicks her out of her house, but Rhett has heard. Enticements of the past impeding the progress to the future.

Rhett is near his breaking point with Scarlett and her focus on Ashley. He forces himself on her. Change trying to force itself on the culture through a vile and violent act. That is not a way to move forward, however.

Scarlett becomes pregnant, argues with a fed up Rhett, and falls down the stairs, losing the baby. Scarlett doesn't want anything to do with Rhett after this happens, understandably.  A lot of change made in violence is resented and rejected. This leaves Rhett at a loss.

When Bonnie dies (it could be argued that she represents a new south, one that is not held back by convention, but is ultimately killed by the strong hold that those conventions had on the culture) Rhett is broken. And just when Scarlett is willing to embrace change, Rhett decides to leave, to find his own version of south that Ashley had been clinging to. This could be interpreted a couple of different ways. It could be seen as, that change  is brought about by time and acceptence, and that the lack of the latter means that the former will not be effective and pass you by. Or, and this is the interpretation that I prefer, the fact that time, in regards to culture, repeats. Every generation has experienced this. You spend your youth laughing at the way things were done “back in the day” maybe even proclaiming that when you’re older, you won’t talk about “Kids these days…” but then one day you find that everything that was familiar to you has become outdated and you don’t understand, and therefore don’t like what is happening now and you find yourself wishing for the time when you were so sure and you understood everything. Ashley represents a past after a major upheavel, Rhett, is simply the march of time that every now and again will turn around and walk backwards to see where he’s been. Now, one could argue that Rhett is going to end up like Ashley, afterall, he’s looking for his past again. But I feel that Rhett is retreating into the past because of the trauma he experience in losing Bonnie and giving up on Scarlett. It’s a respite, rather than a permanate state of mind, like it is with Ashley. Ashley’s mind was always in the more idealized place, no matter the circumstsnce. It was the war that rattled his viewpoint of the world. Rhett is grounded in reality, he just wants to go home. Ashley is a rerun of an old tv show, Rhett is a nostaligia inspired reboot.

And Melanie. Ahh, Melly, silk wrapped iron, she is.

If this book has one "good guy" it's Melanie. If Ashley is pulling Scarlett (Georgia) back and Rhett is marching her forward, Melanie is a sheltering force, and  Scarlett's counter point. Melanie has a streanth of her own and it is a perfect compainon to Scarlett's straightforward determination. While listening to this book, the phrase "speak softly and carry a big stick" kept coming to mind when it came to Melly. There are times that a soft spoken assurance, a politely worded insistence can be more powerful than anything else and Melanie shows that. The two prop each other up. When Scarlett kills the Yankee that invaded Tara, she helped bury the body. When Scarlett is demanding and short-tempered in regards to work being done around Tara during the lean times, Melly backs her up, but sweetens the tone. It takes a quiet fortitude to keep the peace in a way that still allows for getting things done and  Melanie enables Scarlett to do just that. She knows the ins and outs of society rules and can weave her way through them with more ease than Scarlett. As such, she recognizes when Scarlett has to bend or break those rules to ensure the family's survival and knows just the right way to phrase it to give her sister in law enough wiggle room to keep her on society's good graces.

She Dances with Rhett for the cause even while in mourning? Melly insists she's doing it out of memory of Charlie. She does more than sit and home and be a widow? Melly points out that Scarlett is young and should be allowed some leeway.

Ashley's sister spreads a roumor about Scarlett and Ashley while the former is married to Rhett? Melly banishes her from the house.

When Melanie dies, Scarlett realizes how much she has meant to her and I would argue that it is her sisterhood and partnership with Melanie that is central to the story, rather than Scarlett's relationship with Rhett.

Each of these main characters are either rejected or leave just as Scarlett's deeper motives and thoughts float to the surface where she pays attention to them.

Melly dies when Scarlett is finally ready to stand on her own, because the social rules are being phased out, she doesn't need Melanie's gentle protection any more. With the phasing out of those rules, Ashley  is outdated and unappealing and finally, Rhett and time move on, now that they have had their effect. And what is left standing is a changed Scarlett O'Hara in a changed world.

[lyricalafrica2]

‘Emergence’ National Gallery of Zimbabwe, Bulawayo September 6th - 19th October 2019 A few pics that I’ve finally managed to upload and a summary of my processes and review of the show and how I felt it went. In my usual way, fairly personal in places. I wrote it immediately after the show and views are always going to change within time. It’s been a few weeks now and I’ve made the transition from Zimbabwe to Botswana, I’ve had time to recover and chill for a little while. Not much drawing going on, but a whole load of sweating as the the season heats up! I feel at this point to write a review of the creative processes of my show may be a little warped in light of the fatigue I’m feeling, however my intention is to do one again come the end of the month when the dust settles to see how my opinions change. Given the subject matter, I’m also curious as to the impact on my own sense of self, immediately after and going forward. I found it strange that immediately afterwards, my focus was drawn to myself, how I looked in publicity photos and not the actual way the show went. Vanity you may think, though that old devil of self-consciousness. This hit me within a couple of hours of the show ending. Going from the heights of adrenaline and excitement, swiftly to over tired and self-critical. I questioned why more artists didn’t attend, berated myself for looking fat, my habit of nervously over gesticulating and the over animation of my facial expressions. Being struck with all of this just after midnight after two hours sleep if that and venturing onto social media in an attempt to quell my restless mind. Before bed, I’d bounced around the cottage in a fir of sheer delight, like an excited child might, amazed and happy that I’d successfully made it to completion. This midnight hour saw me overanalysing everyone and everything, even down to a known artist who turned up, said nothing to me and shuffled off into a corner to eat popcorn and nuts on his own. Not a well done, nor a comment on the content, just nothing, perhaps a slight look of disdain though. Was I just imagining this? Was this silence comment enough on what lay before him? These thoughts are just as responsible for limiting behaviours and in voicing them honestly, I’m hoping they simply release into the ether and just disappear. So, the exhibition was divided into three rooms, for which I wanted to take people on a journey, from conception. Not to say I incorporated every bit of work that I produced. I tried to curate carefully, it was interspersed with pieces that were a bit more literal, leading to much more abstracted concepts. Wording and symbolism, not just because; but because they are a powerful means to switch on the brain and indeed the heart. Positive and powerful. If you think positive, positivity will perpetuate, and vice versa with negativity. You don’t make it anywhere telling yourself that you’re wrong and a terrible person. For this reason, I was pleased that there were a number of children attended. I think instilling in children how important it is to love and respect themselves properly, allowing those little flames of excitement to become brightly burning and sincere passions are important. Most realise only too late where they went wrong and how detrimental it can be in trying to adhere to societal norms. Be yourself, they’re the most important person you will ever encounter. I tried to covey through my mixed media approach, the fragility, but also the resilience of the human spirit. How it could be quashed when handled wrongly, we’ve all had our wings burnt so to speak, we’ve no doubt all had our wings clipped too. Been told to be too cautious, know our limits, not been supported properly at the mercy of someone else’s ego. It can be hard not to absorb these things as we make our way through life, we are constantly in awe of someone else, rather than looking within for the amazing facets we already have. I hold my hands up and confess I am absolutely guilty of this, but in also being a therapist, it becomes so clear how things invariably work. It can be heart breaking to watch someone go through life, never realising there potential, thinking they have to conform to x, y or z, just to be accepted, so they can consider themselves a worthy human being. Whatever happened to simply being a good person and just allowing yourself to shine? Doing your thing, being encouraged to discover all that you are? I have that philosophy of, if we all learnt how to truly accept and love ourselves, our lives would be far easier. We would be able to perpetuate that to our neighbour, to the animals that surround us, to our environment. Can you imagine if we all lived consciously taking a little more care like that? The recurring themes of fragility, fractured, bound and freedom were used throughout the exhibition, never asking people to see the point, but encouraging them to come to their own conclusions. Flashes of mirror, captured people in the moment and very much made them a part of the exhibition pieces. Veining, flight paths, patterning and themes which were very much more emotive were all explored in different ways. Liberal and freeform use of diluted oils on damp surfaces allowed mixed colours to merge and bleed, blown, feathered allowed to run and bloom. Free to behave how they needed to behave. Added texture and collage offered additional light, movement and the suggestion of dynamism to these much more abstract pieces. I’ve never used oils in this way before, but I enjoyed it and would explore it further in the future, potentially with more colour in the background. The mainly white backdrop was an attempt to maintain some form of purity, as in the essence of just being. Smaller pieces formed a panel, with suggestion of cuts and scarring that can be recovered from. It’s never too late to learn to use your wings and take flight! Again the use of the wording ”Public Notice”, I wanted these pieces to be vital in drawing people in, in for introspection, an invitation to look for their own potential. To untangle themselves from societal norms and controlling hierarchies, to find what they were really about and to love and accept that. I wanted people to walk away with a sense of wholeness, or at least an impetus to do some self-exploration. A deeper sense of knowing that they are about so much more than the façade they present to the world every day. The façade that they have built in in reaction to the rules and regulations laid down to keep us all in line. The final room was a room I set aside to be filled by my installation pieces. The recurring symbolism of the eyes, the distorted, obstructed retinas, the colours that represented the opportunity to discover potential. The gaze, from one eye to the other, connected by the knowing, the denial, one an authoritarian with the same infinite potential as the next. Likely undergoing their own demons and using that control to supress and satiate their own need. But what if they found themselves a little more, looked at themselves a little kinder, would there action on the rest of the world still have to be so outwardly commanding? Is all this required because we can’t validate ourselves, we seek to control others, because we can’t control or accept ourselves? Paper bark, shards of blunt glass, fishing wire and chicken wire were all used to create a somewhat ethereal, spiritual effect, because well this was a fairly spiritual topic, but not in the head in the clouds kind of way, more a put yourself up there with the best kind of way. Take accountability for your own height, don’t accept that ceiling just because. It’s usually glass and if someone has led you to reinforce it, it’s about time you smashed it down yourself! So why leave the comments on the butterfly till now? Aside from the very free nature of the butterfly and the way it emerges from the cocoon to reveal its true identity, I wanted that sense of liberation. Detachment from what had come to be expected of it. The Commodore butterfly really did bring it home and in that sense, never accept that you have to be second in command. Be the captain of your own ship. Know that you are precious and that you deserve to be the best version of you, which can only be granted by you and only ever you! The fractured painted mirror adorned with glimpses of butterfly and glass again, was there to suggest that we can all be a bit broken, but we’re still beautiful. Use you power to transform that power into something positive, let it make you strong, don’t let it drown you. Life is tough yes, but it’s also sweet and beautiful. And in that, my final piece invited people into a little box, through the abstracted eye, to see what they could see. I see you, what do you see? It seemed an appropriate if more abstracted carry on from my oil portraiture collection, “Who Am I?”. After having seen my exhibition for the first time alone since Friday need to summarise my feelings here. Am I happy? Yes, after feeling so out of sorts over the weekend. Could there be improvement made on the way that I broach the subject? Of course, but isn’t that the meaning of life? To live and keep learning and to try and improve oneself and approach daily? I really enjoyed the installation and sculptural work. It’s not something that I generally do due to constraints on space, tools and materials aren’t so hard to source back home, but I tend to simply get caught up in painting. It was good to be able to combine that and be able to produce such a multifaceted body of work. I’d very much like to continue exploring this. Feedback from the audience was positive and most people pointed out at least two favourite pieces. The large bright eye and butterfly, the fractured mirror piece and the other sculptural pieces went down well and were said to be a quite unexpected addition to the exhibition. In this sense I was pleased I managed to offer something that was different to the usual standards of exhibition. If I were to do it again, what would I do differently? I’d perhaps pay more attention to the interactive element, maybe think it through for longer, use ribbon instead of thread as it is fiddly and time consuming to tie onto the chicken wire backing. I’d also likely do more sculptural elements. That for me has to have been the highlight, besides the different and at times intoxicating use of the oil paints. Of course the invitations went out rather too late and the carefully selected soundtrack went virtually un noted, the aromatherapy oils that I had infused the room with evaporated and disappeared off into the ether through the open doors. All things that need tweaking, but as they say, not bad for a first attempt at a National Gallery.

[cmart009]

The bad crowd of tumblr that tumblr itself is defending repeatedly, without thinking.

Spoken from a good friend of mine.

“I used to be strongly into the ‘Social Justice’ crowd. Looking back, that whole thing operates a lot like a cult. It lures in vulnerable people, especially young people. People who’re going through puberty and trying to figure out their sexuality. People who might be dealing with disability or mental illness, or whose family is breaking up. It sucks them in by spoon-feeding the idea that they are special and worthy. It guilts them if they don’t treat everybody else as special and worthy too. It starts forcing you to see everybody as being in a hierarchy. 

Then it gets you to alienate yourself from your friends. Your friend sometimes makes racist/sexist jokes? Cut them out of your life. Got any conservative friends? Cut them out of your life. Got any friends who are white straight men? Cut them out of your life, they’re the oppressors. Constantly berate people if they slip up, because everybody else must be held to the same standards that you are and no other ways to thinking are ‘right’. 

Then it tells you to start criticizing and trying to change your family. It tells you to ‘call out’ any little thing they do ‘wrong’. It warps your perception until you are a victim and constantly on the defense. It breaks you off from everybody and makes you feel awful for things you cannot control - and then, if you disagree or start questioning, it cuts you off from the only support you have left, and you are attacked and viciously berated. Maybe if you grovel enough they’ll let you be redeemed and come back, but you will never be allowed to forget the one mistake you made.

Eventually I found anti-SJ blogs, where people were actively critiquing these concepts and the SJ culture. Originally I felt nothing but hatred for them - but then the words started to sink in. I started questioning whether this really was ‘right’. I saw how so many people leading the crowd were hugely hypocritical, I realized that I had been causing the problems in my life, no ‘oppression’. I apologized to my family for how I’d been acting and I’m lucky that they were still supportive of me. I’d lost a lot of friends, including some people I was very close to. It’s taken me a long time rebuild those relationships. I It was a very bad period of my life, and one that took a lot of effort to drag myself away from. 

The ‘social justice’ crowd is completely toxic, and I feel very sorry for everybody who’s sucked into it. It is nothing but hatred and guilt, and I have no respect for the people who perpetuate it.”

This is basically the cycle of abuse, but it’s being reinforced collectively. 

Find someone vulnerable, jump on them - pull them in by giving them something they want or need. Use this as leverage to assert further control. Then, once you’ve assumed total control (Or possibly even direct control), they will begin to withhold what they originally offered you until you obey. Often, this behavior will escalate out of control, where in minor offenses are met with outrageous punishments.

I want you all to learn how to recognize this pattern, because there are plenty of people who will attempt to use it on you, possibly without thinking. This shit destroys lives, and if you’ve never seen it before, you probably don’t think anything is wrong. 

[lsds-blog]

The Jertulian Bride

I remember seeing Dejax when she'd newly arrived at the company where I worked. She was shy, a little overweight, long dark hair, very natural looking. She worked in a different division to me and as a result our paths rarely crossed. Our relationship wasn't more than a friendly smile if we passed, or a formal greeting.

By the time I met her in a gay club, she'd blossomed. She'd lost weight, her hair was now cut in a chic asymmetrical style and dyed red, she dressed very elegantly and had a confident glow about her. I'd noticed her there, but it was she who came over to say hello. She offered to buy me a drink and we started to chat. She was uncomfortably direct, asking me almost immediately about my sexuality. I confirmed that I was lesbian, which seemed to please her. “And are you here with your girlfriend?” she asked. She wasn't subtle, but that was refreshing.

“No, I'm single,” I said.

“Well that's good news,” she laughed. “Let's see if we can't find some way of ending our days as single girls.”

She was a lot of fun and by the end of the night I felt that our relationship might be something special. She'd told me something about herself, that she had come to England to finish school, then to study at university (she'd completed a Ph.D. before coming to work at the chemical factory where we were employed). She was born in Jertul, a strange country in the south east of Europe, but certainly the most mysterious. It was a tiny state, ringed by mountains. It had remained isolated for much of its history, and as a result its culture was unique. Christianity had never gained much of a foothold and the dominant religion was inspired by a twelfth century mystical philosopher called Munk. His ideas were difficult to summarise and few outside Jertul knew much about his teachings.

Jertul had remained isolated and impoverished until the mid twentieth century. Rich mineral deposits were discovered, and large amounts of palladium, rhodium and platinum were extracted. Multinational mineral companies were keen to exploit these resources but the president was wise enough to exclude them. Instead, a state company was set up, and the brightest individuals in Jertul were sent to be educated in the best universities in the west. Soon the country had become extremely prosperous. There were families in Jertul who were rumoured to be amongst the wealthiest in the world.

But Jertul had gained a notoriety in recent years because it was widely believed that the feminine ideal there was the obese woman. Its isolation meant that western ideals had never (before the past few decades) influenced Jertulian culture. The ideal for most Jertulians was a very full figured woman (during the years of poverty this was an unattainable ideal for all but the wealthy few) and there had grown up a profitable trade in recruiting chubby western women to marry Jertulians. I'd been unaware of Dejax's origins (her accent was so perfect that I'd assumed she was English) and was keen to find out more about their culture since I was sure our relationship would deepen.

We met a few days later at a restaurant and I asked Dejax to tell me more about her country. “It's very beautiful, rugged and mountainous. But now there are modern cities which are very exciting.”

“The religion, Munk's teaching, has that lost influence?”

“It's not really a religion, like you have here. It's very open ended and there are a lot of interpretations. It's more like a philosophy. For instance, same sex relationships were always tolerated in Jertul. There were times in the past where we were ruled by two monarchs of the same sex. I don't think that happened anywhere else.”

“But now it's becoming westernised? Modern ideas are superseding the old?”

“Yes and no. There is a real desire to become a modern country but we haven't lost our individuality. We can adapt Munk's teaching for a technologically advanced state.”

“And the...” I paused, unsure how to frame my question. “The love of bigger women?”

She laughed. “You've been hearing all the bad stories about us in the press? It's true, we've always seen fat as beautiful. But our society is very complicated, lots of strange hierarchies. Only certain classes of women are expected to be fat.”

“So you were never expected to be large?”

She laughed again. “You British women can hardly even say the word fat. I was shocked at how taboo it is in your culture. When I go back to Jertul I'll put on weight, but in my role I wouldn't be expected to be very fat unless I married as a...” She fluttered her hands in frustration. “Wife is the only word, but when two women marry there's a superior and and an inferior wife, unless it's two women of the highest social rank, where they are both superior. Normally the inferior wife is chosen for her beauty and there's more status for the couple if she's fat.”

“You're planning to return to your country?” The pang I felt to think of her leaving made me sure that I was feeling a strong bond growing.

“I am. Next year. My father is starting a chemical plant and I'm here to learn how to help him to develop a modern industrial complex to help our state to grow more independent.”

“And if I married you I'd be the inferior?”

“Oh, Xenia! Are you proposing to me?” She giggled convulsively. She looked so beautiful when she laughed.

I was blushing, however. “I didn't mean anything like that, I'm just trying to understand how it works.”

“Well then, heart breaker...” She pulled a comically sad expression. “Yes, it would never be permitted for someone with my family's status to be the inferior in a relationship with an outsider. Maybe I'm explaining this wrongly. Superior and inferior are perhaps the wrong words. It's a hierarchical thing, it's not like the inferior wife is seen as any less worthy, just that her role is different. She's expected to be more passive. Most of the artistic women in Jertul are inferior wives, whereas the superior ones are expected to work in industry.

“But if, and I'm only talking hypothetically,” I stressed, “I did marry you, would I be expected to gain weight?”

“Oh, certainly. It would be essential if you were to be accepted into my family and circle of friends. Outsiders are made very welcome in our culture but only if they make an effort to assimilate. It's usually expected that a foreigner will become more traditional than most modern Jertulians. A sort of overcompensation.”

I felt uncomfortable that I could only be accepted into Dejax's long term future by gaining weight. “When you look at me do you imagine me as I'd be if I were bigger?”

“Oh God, yes! I know that makes some British girls uncomfortable but that's how I've grown up. You're just my type, tall, broad shouldered, strong features. I find you very sexy.”

“But I'm not fat...”

“But that can change. I like European women, and I prefer the idea of finding them slim and then seeing them gain weight. Does that shock you?”

I nodded. I found the idea difficult to accept, yet something intrigued me too. I imagined going to a strange land, being entirely dependent on Dejax, but having to change everything about myself to fit in. “It's not something I ever imagined.”

“I do like you though, Xenia. I know we're only getting to know each other but I've admired you from afar for a long time. I could make you very happy. My family is wealthy and you could live very well. Don't get frightened, let's get to know each other. We have six months before I leave and by then I hope you'll be ready to decide.” As she kissed me I was tingling. I was so proud that she was attracted to me that I was trying to override my discomfort at her desire to change me.

The following weeks were among the happiest of my life as our relationship took flight and I wanted to spend every waking moment in Dejax's company. When we were apart I thought of her constantly, yet we saw each other almost every night. I'd never felt like this about anyone, but every time I tried to think of our long term future I became confused and melancholy. Dejax had made it clear that she would return to her homeland and nothing could change her mind. She'd made a promise to her family that she would return to fulfil a duty to her parents and to her country. Only by following her to that strange country could our relationship have a life beyond a few more months. It seemed inconceivable that I would make a life in Jertul, whose customs and culture seemed odd and alien. Even the language, which I had tried to learn, was beyond me: it was entirely dissimilar to any other European language and used a unique alphabet in which the individual letters seemed to me to vary only subtly. Every word took an effort to transliterate.

Six weeks after our relationship had commenced Dejax returned to Jertul to attend a family event and to consult on some technical matters about the factory where she would work on her return. She would be gone for almost three weeks. Although we spoke daily on the phone, I found her absence unbearable. She was the woman I'd always dreamed of meeting, the one who swept me off my feet, made me extravagant promises, made me feel loved and special, made me tingle with anticipation whenever we met, and fulfilled that anticipation in our private moments. Our separation made it clear to me that I wanted to be with Dejax forever, and that meant I would force myself to overcome my fears about moving to Jertul and accept my role as her wife.

I'd insisted that I wanted to meet Dejax at the airport on her return. I was shocked to see her, however. The woman I saw emerging from the arrivals gate had black hair, cut very short and boyish at the the back and sides, the top longer and stiffly spiked up in an almost punky manner. She was tanned too, her olive skin far darker than I'd ever seen, and wore quite harsh make-up, smudged rings of black circling her eyes, her lips painted a dark crimson.

As she embraced me I realised another change that I'd only dimly acknowledged: she'd gained weight during her sojourn, and a lot of weight. “Oh, Dejax, I've missed you so much,” I sighed. “But look at you! What did you do to your hair?”

She smiled with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “It's all the fashion in Jertul right now. I was meeting with some important investors and mum insisted I should lose my Western cut to look more professional. It's very short isn't it?”

I rubbed my hand up her nape, which was cut down to bristles. But the feeling was soft and silky, velvety and alluring. I wasn't sure I liked her with this severe cut but I couldn't deny that it felt lovely. “It's far too short,” I sighed. “And did you gain a little?”

I felt my cheeks flush as soon as I'd said it. It wasn't something that should be expressed, yet my ideas of propriety weren't those of a Jertulian. “I did,” Dejax said proudly. “I never stopped eating when I was there. All my friends were shocked at how thin I'd got and they said I should do something to improve my figure now that my return home is so close.”

“I can hardly recognise you! You look so different.”

“And you look exactly as I remember you,” she laughed. “I've missed you so much, every moment when I was awake I thought about you and I looked forward to my sleep when I knew you'd come to me in my dreams. And I did dream about you every night. Last night I dreamed that we were old together in a castle in Jertul at the top of a mountain, where we'd been for fifty years, but you were still beautiful and still made me ache with love. It made me cry with joy when I woke.” I kissed her, light headed to be finally in the presence of my love.

We took her luggage back and headed to a restaurant. She seemed nervous and rapidly downed half of her glass of wine. “Xenia, I missed you more than I can say. I know it's only been a short time that we've known each other but I feel a connection with you that I've never felt with any other human. Our time apart convinced me that I don't want us to be separated like that again, and I can't go planning for my future in Jertul if you're not part of that future.” She reached into her bag and look out a tiny leather covered box. “I hope you'd do me the honour of being my bride so that...” Her nerves got the better of her and her memory failed her.

I couldn't breathe. My chest seemed paralysed and I struggled to say anything. “Yes,” I finally sighed. “I want it too!” She made a soft fluty sound and kissed me as she slipped on the ring. It was a heavy band of platinum, carved with inlaid black ornamentation and bearing a large diamond. I gasped at the extravagance.

“It's beautiful!” I whispered.

“It is,” Dejax nodded, “but it's barely worthy to sit on your hand. You're the most perfect woman in the world.”

I'd mentioned that I was seeing someone to my family and friends yet I'd not hinted at how serious our relationship had become, nor had I mentioned that my girlfriend was from Jertul. Now I had to explain that I was planning to marry and to leave the country where I'd spent all of my life. My parents were unhappy, mum especially. They'd read salacious tales of Jertul and were saddened to think that their only daughter would be living thousands of miles away. I assured them that I'd visit regularly, and explained that Dejax was very westernised, educated in England and returning to a very prestigious position as the director of a chemical complex.

Some of their doubts were allayed when they met Dejax. I was surprised to see that she was very nervous to meet my parents and appeared shy. Still, she was very charming and by the end of the night my parents were both taken with her. My mother tearfully asked her to promise to take care of me and I realised that she'd accepted our decision. I was elated.

Time seemed to accelerate. Dejax was extremely busy making plans for her return, yet her job also demanded long hours. Planning our long term future seemed terribly complicated and it was Dejax who suggested that we should get married at a simple ceremony in Britain.

“The marriage wouldn't be recognised in Jertul,” she explained. “But it would be nice if we had a ceremony for your family, a celebration to allow them to say their farewells. I know how hard it is for them to see you go, for you too.”

I agreed that this would be a fitting way to take my leave.

“Then we can plan a ceremony in Jertul without rushing. If we go for a traditional wedding it would take a bit of time to put together. But that's probably for the best. I'll be really busy with getting the business off the ground in the first few months. Once the plant is up and running we'll have our ceremony.

“I'd love you to be a traditional Jertulian bride,” she whispered, overcome with a romantic anticipation. “But there are some things about the ceremony that you might find hard. I need to know you'd be able to accept...”

“I do, my darling,” I sighed. “I want to do anything that makes you happy. It's strange, I keep imagining myself in Jertul, completely lost, except that you're there as my guide. You'll make me gain weight, won't you?”

“You'll be my gamtre,” she smiled. “Those are little chubby ground squirrels that live in the foothills of the mountains. We call a cute girl a gamtre, and that's what I want you to be. A gamtre has to be plump and soft.”

The idea still made me feel uncomfortable, yet somehow there was something intensely romantic about letting my love change me into her vision of a Jertulian bride. “Please can we wait till I leave before I gain weight?”

She nodded. “You'd feel bad in front of your friends if you were fat, wouldn't you? OK, we can wait. You'll get a taste for Jertulian food and even if you wanted to you couldn't stay skinny.”

I blushed as I imagined being fat. “You'll still think I'm pretty?”

“Oh, my little gamtre! You forget, I'm a child of Jertul. It makes me ache with anticipation to think of you with a lot of soft flesh. It's the most beautiful thing I can imagine. I have a crazy idea, but you'll probably hate it. You can say no if you wish...” I nodded, eager to hear her thoughts.

“You said you imagine yourself lost in your new country, but with me as your guide. What if I don't tell you anything about the ceremony? You just have to passively accept what's necessary to become my bride.”

I giggled nervously. “You make it sound scary! Is there anything awful that will be done to me?”

“Well, I suppose it's only fair that I make you aware that one of the traditional things is to tattoo brides.”

I gasped. “We'd get tattoos.”

“Well, no...” she said sheepishly. “Only the inferior bride is tattooed. Oh, you hate this, don't you? We should go for a modern ceremony.”

“No, Dejax. I know this means a lot to you. Where would I be tattooed?”

“The idea was that you'd accept without knowing!” she laughed.

“But a tattoo? I didn't know I was signing up for that.”

She kissed me. “Would my gamtre be tattooed for me? Would she have a mark that meant she was mine forever?” I nodded.

“I'd do anything for you.”

“Then make me a promise that you'll not try to find out anything about Jertulian brides. I want you to be my little girl lost, to be led to your destiny by me.”

“It really scares me though,” I admitted. “You'd really turn me into a fat, tattooed woman?”

I could sense her arousal growing. This was deeply erotic for her. “You can't show your fear. You must be passive. That passivity is something that is treasured in a wife. To allow herself to be made a bride while she shows no emotion. You need to practice that for me. There's a saying, the girl who can orgasm with a plain face.”

I laughed incredulously. “So you want me to look bored while we make love.”

“Oh God! Yes,” she sighed. “You have no idea how I would love that. In the west girls fake orgasms to please their boyfriends. In Jertul they fake not having orgasms.”

And that evening she made love to me and I lay impassively as she stared into my face, accepting every instruction she issued. I found I could soften my face so as to show as little of my emotional state as possible and even as I orgasmed the only outward sign was a long, soft sigh.

“Oh, sweet lord, did you just cum?” Dejax asked. I could only make a grunt as I tried to contain the joy I still felt. She squealed with excitement and I realised that my self control had aroused her to the point where she was climaxing. I wanted to scream my delight but I merely let my head fall to the side, which only seemed to intensify Dejax's orgasm. I felt weirdly powerful as I took control of my emotions, particularly as I knew I had a way to deepen Dejax's pleasure. To see her delight meant that I would strive to perfect my control.

And I discovered that she liked me to maintain my neutral expression all of the time, in private and in public. I had always been easily embarrassed; Dejax said it was cute but now I would be her bride and I had to lose this mannerism, which wouldn't be looked upon well once I was a Jertulian (it still made me feel a terrible anxiety to know that soon I'd take on a new nationality, and Dejax had even suggested she'd like me to relinquish my British passport). She made me do things that induced embarrassment in me, such as complaining about a meal in a restaurant. I had to criticise every fault and ask to see the manager to repeat my objections. I'd never in my life complained, even when there were obvious faults with a meal. But now Dejax insisted that I did it calmly, maintaining my neutral face.

It was a terrible ordeal for me and by the end of it I'd broken out in a sweat. Dejax looked at me mysteriously. “Your face turned red. You need to learn not to blush. And your eyebrows move about when you're excited. In Jertul we don't do the thing western people do with their eyebrows.”

I realised that what she said was true. Dejax lifted her eyebrows and it seemed strange, mechanical, unfamiliar. “You need to learn to keep yours in check, Xenia. That'll be a challenge, but I know you want to please me, don't you?”

“I do, but it's very hard. It seems natural to me, and I'm not even aware I'm doing it. And blushing is just something autonomic. I can't control it any more than I can prevent myself from salivating when I taste food.”

“You have to adapt,” she said firmly. “You can stop yourself from blushing by not allowing yourself to feel embarrassed. And I need you to develop an active passivity. You should be in complete control of your body, willing it into a quietude. Be slow to react, so that you can contain your impulses. Don't allow surprise to overtake you.”

I was a very different woman by the time of my wedding day. No one could miss the changes in my personality. I had become quiet and slow in movement. My friends were disturbed by my perceived seriousness, since I hardly allowed myself a smile and had been told that laughter was most unbecoming for me. There were times when I found it almost unbearable to contain my emotions so tightly but then I would see how my efforts pleased Dejax, and her delight seemed more than compensation for my intense repression. As she undressed me on our wedding night I remained impassive.

“You were very good today. I know how hard it is for a British girl not to smile on her wedding day but you managed admirably. But the truth is, you are still not my wife in my mind. You'll only be that when we're married in Jertul. And I saw your eyebrows raise then. You still need to learn more discipline, Xenia. I've employed a woman in Jertul to prepare you. It'll take months for you to be ready to be my wife and she'll push you hard.”

“Yes, Dejax,” I said, feeling scared and sad as she outlined her plans, but trying to keep the soft face that she demanded of me. She kissed me.

“I can see fear in your eyes. You need to conquer fear through passivity. You're afraid of the unknown, but in truth everything in the future is unknown. Abandon yourself to your future, Xenia.”

Three weeks later I took a flight and five hours later I arrived in my new country. The language remained impenetrable to me and I seemed to have hardly made progress. I was entirely reliant on my new wife (I regarded her as such, despite her continued refusal to acknowledge our UK legal status), who seemed to glow with pride as she returned to the country she cherished. A house was being prepared for us, but it wouldn't be complete for several months and until then we would live in a lodge in the estate of Dejax's parents.

They were clearly less than pleased with their daughter's choice of fiancée, although Dejax was diplomatic in her translations. Her mother was a large woman, tall and heavy, and she was unstinting in her criticism of my slenderness. I tried to accept her criticism passively but later, when we were alone, Dejax said that my eyebrows were out of control.

“You behaved like an English girl in there. You let your nervousness overcome all of your training. In a few days we'll attend a feast with my parents and you have to show them that you are a suitable bride for me. Tomorrow you'll meet Madame Harosul and you need to listen to everything that she tells you. Once we marry you'll be a Jertulian and you need to show me that you can honour our nation with your behaviour.”

I was shocked that Dejax had decided that we should have separate rooms until after we were officially married in the Jertulian style, and she removed my wedding ring to remind me that I was as yet only her fiancée. In Britain we'd had a very active sexual life and as I lay alone in my bed I felt more alone than ever. I was so far from everything I knew and I worried that I'd made a terrible mistake in coming here.

By six on the following morning I was in the care of Madame Harosul. She entered the house early and took me to bathe. She was a formidable presence, taller and heavier even than Dejax's mother. She wore her hair in a cut similar to Dejax's, though the top was longer, slicked back in a tall pompadour, the sides almost shaved. Her obese body was covered in a purple dress which reached to the floor. Her plump hands were covered in rings.

Her English was good, since she'd been educated in the US and I was relieved that my training wouldn't be conducted in Jertulian, since I'd only mastered a formal greeting, and words to express gratitude. She looked critically at me as I undressed. “You're too skinny. I'm surprised that Dejax would like a scrawny girl like you, even more disappointed that she allowed you to remain so unattractive.”

I took her criticism as passively as I could. “Dejax did warn me that your eyebrows twitch when you're upset. I'll attend to that today. And your pale skin looks very western. You'll be conducting your sessions in the sun to darken your colour. Take these pills, they will speed your tanning.” I took them without hesitation.

I wasn't allowed to wash myself: a servant attended to this, which I found so humiliating that I knew I was blushing. Madame Harosul observed this, but her face showed nothing of the anger I knew she felt at my weakness.

I was provided with a large breakfast: four eggs, a large bowl of a gritty porridge with fruit and honey, bread, cooked meats. “Is it more than you were used to eating in England?” Madame Harosul asked. I nodded. “Dejax has informed me about the meagre dining you're used to. You'll eat four meals a day of this size. If the improvement in your figure is too slow we'll add some supplementary foods. I won't tolerate a skinny bride, it would bring shame on Dejax.”

I started to eat but anxiety had affected my appetite. Nevertheless, I knew that Madame Harosul wouldn't tolerate food being wasted. It was only with a great effort that I managed to finish the meal.

I felt stuffed and bloated as I was taken into the nearby city. I started to see why Dejax was so fond of her country. The city looked wonderfully clean, a mix of ancient and modern. Ancient stone buildings, built in heavily decorated version of Romanesque, mixed with dramatic new architecture, but few of the new buildings (except for a single district of tall skyscrapers) were of much height. Obviously the city was planned so that the new buildings didn't overwhelm the ancient structures.

I was taken to a beauty salon where Madame Harosul gave a lot of instructions to the receptionist. She was a very pretty girl with a frizzy red bob, beautifully dressed, perfect make-up. Still, it was a surprise to see such a large girl as the receptionist at a salon. But I soon realised that all of the staff here were of similar dimensions. Madame Harosul had allowed me to wear one of my own dresses, which was tailored to show off my waist. Now I realised she'd chosen it deliberately so that my slim figure wouldn't be hidden. The figure I'd always been proud of was now a source of embarrassment, as I noticed how these women looked at me.

I was taken back to a stylist, Kadax, who showed me to a chair. I saw myself in the mirror and I looked anxious and fearful. Try as I might I couldn't soften my features to the bland passivity that I knew was expected of me. My stylist wore her hair in a rather extreme wedge cut, permed on top with a cropped lower section. I started to feel a panic as I imagined walking out of here with a similar cut to hers or, worse still, a recreation of Madame Harosul's mannish style.

My stylist chatted volubly with Madame Harosul, making no effort to hide the topic of her conversation: my appearance. “She says you look like a hungry peasant girl,” my tutor translated, amused. The stylist pinched my cheek with her chubby fingers and asked me something. “She asks whether you'll be a fat gamtre next time she see you. You will, won't you? Tell her.”

“Chxa, Nanga Kadax,” I said (it meant “Yes, Miss Kadax,” one of the few phrases I'd managed to memorise).

“Minanna,” she corrected. It was the term of address for a married woman. “You'll have to be fatter than me to do honour to your wife,” she told me, Madame Harosul relishing her role as translator. I couldn't hide my displeasure. Kadax was obese, a huge belly pushing through her white cotton dress, her arms thick and heavy, a noticeable double chin hanging from her neck.

My inability to control my emotions seemed to draw further disapproval and the two women spoke at length about me. Finally Kadax attended to my hair. She brushed it out (my hair was a soft brown, waist length, wavy since it had been allowed to dry naturally after my bath), then clipped it up as she covered me with a black rubberised cape. An assistant brought over a large bowl of pale cream which she aided Kadax in applying liberally throughout my hair. My eyebrows were treated with the same cream, which had a sour odour. My hair was wrapped in film, tightly bound to my head. I was stripped of the cape and Madame Harosul told me to go with the assistant.

My new guide looked very young (no older than sixteen, I guessed), and was the nearest to slim of any of the women I'd seen in the salon, but even she had a plumpness to her figure. She had shoulder length blonde hair, permed into tight curls. Almost all of the staff of the salon had been permed, I'd noticed, and obviously curls were a popular fashion here. She led me to a tanning bed.

“Nanga Xenia, please change into the robe. I'll then help you into the tanning machine,” she said in stilted English. I did as she asked and was soon reclining under the harsh light of the bluish tubes, my eyes protected by goggles. By the time my teenage guide allowed me out my skin felt raw. “I think I was in too long, I'm going to burn,” I complained. “My skin is very fair.”

“It's good,” she reassured me. “You took pills, yes? They will help you.” She applied a cooling balm over my face and body. She seemed untroubled as she applied it to my most intimate areas. I put on my robe and was taken to an adjacent room where I was put in the hands of a new beauty therapist.

My new therapist seemed to speak not a word of English and I soon wished that a translator was present as I saw her prepare a syringe. “What's it for?” I asked, panic rising in me. I knew that she could neither understand nor explain but I couldn't stop asking her questions.

She pushed my head back against the headrest of the chair and slid the fine needle into the skin of my forehead. For the next ten minutes I bore numerous jabs of the needle. The injections were mostly around my forehead and eyebrows but a few were made in cheeks and lips. My face was tingling and sore as she spoke reassuringly to me.

I was taken back to the salon area feeling shaky and nauseous. Madame Harosul smiled as she saw me. “You have a bit of colour! A bit too red, admittedly but I'm sure you'll soon ripen nicely.”

Kadax took me to a sink and washed the cream from my hair and brows. My hair was dried and wrapped in a towel, then I was escorted to the styling station once more. I looked in the mirror at my ruddy face, displeased to see how much my colour was affected by the tanning bed. But I was more concerned that my face looked oddly mask-like. My emotions barely registered but I couldn't attribute my blankness to a regain of emotional control.

Madame Harosul was watching me carefully. “Botox,” she said gloatingly, as if answering my unvoiced question. “She Botoxed you very thoroughly, and now your eyebrows won't twitch so horribly.”

“Does Dejax know about this?” I asked.

“Nanga Dejax,” she corrected. “You should use the formal address in public. And yes, of course she does. It was she who insisted you needed it.”

I tried to raise my eyebrows (they appeared darker but perhaps this was an optical illusion caused by the change of my skin tone) and saw that they were paralysed. I looked at my inexpressive face and saw that my eyes were full of tears.

Kadax seemed unaware of my distress, and pulled free the towel. My hair tumbled down and I saw that it was now jet black. I gasped in surprise, then looked apologetically at Madame Harosul. I knew such impulsive responses displeased her. She spoke very calmly to Kadax who withdrew to give us a private moment.

“Nanga Xenia, your behaviour today is most unbecoming for a woman of stature. If you continue to behave so deplorably I'll be recommending to Minanna Puas [Dejax's mother] that we put an end to your engagement. And If she intervenes, Nanga Dejax will agree to her instructions.”

My impulse was to complain loudly, to beg, to promise, but I remembered Dejax's words. I tried to calm myself, to give myself time to think. I remained silent, my face, I hoped, impassive. I knew that this was another test of my control. Madame Harosul continued to stare at me. After thirty seconds she nodded. “Better,” she said. “Keep this demeanour for the rest of your time at the salon.”

I retained my calmness as my hair was dried, smoothed over a round brush to remove the wave. As Kadax crimped my long hair I felt an enormous relief that my hair wasn't to be cut, although I was as careful to guard against showing my pleasure as my fear (the paralysis of my face made it easier). My black hair gained in volume from the crimping, and was now formed into loose braids, one at each side of my face. They looked impossibly thick.

My lips were painted a dark, matt brick red, and my eyes were thickly outlined with kohl. As my ears were hung with thick gold hoops, almost three inches across, I saw myself transformed into an exotic young woman. My darkened face and black hair made me look Mediterranean. The sense of exoticism was increased as gold ornaments were added to my braids and I had to fight hard not to show the excitement I felt at my transformation. I longed to see Dejax, to revel in the pleasure I knew she'd feel upon seeing me. It would be almost unbearable for us not to express our delight physically. Was I strong enough to resist giving in to my desires until my second wedding to Dejax could take place?

I left the salon dressed in a long black tunic, the bodice ornamented with embroidered white stitching in vertical bands. It was far too big for me, but Madame Harosul assured me it was the smallest available size. “You'll soon fill it out nicely,” she assured me.

Although I still felt bloated from my extravagant breakfast, I was now taken to a restaurant for lunch. As we entered I spoke up. “Madame Harosul, I still feel full from my breakfast. Could we wait a little before I eat lunch?” I made my request as meekly as possible and tried not to let any anxiety affect my facial expression, but my control did nothing to change her plans.

“You've got to learn to eat like a lady. You've hardly eaten today. By next week you'll be eating bigger meals so how do you think it would help you to let you stick to a British diet for now?”

We were taken to a small room at the side of the restaurant where we reclined on sofas as a waitress brought in a water pipe. “This may help you to gain a good appetite,” Madame Harosul informed me. “The herbs are very bitter and they will help you to relish your food. They'll relax you too.”

“I don't smoke,” I said sheepishly. I hated the idea of being made to smoke. “Is it tobacco?”

Madame Harosul looked at me severely. “Tobacco and other herbs. Now don't be difficult. If I tell you to smoke then you'll smoke, won't you? And reply in Jertulian!”

“Chxa, Minanna Harosul,” I said. The waitress took a generous pinch of the herbal mixture and chopped it with a small knife on a polished stone. She then pushed it into a cup at the side of the cylindrical pipe and passed me a long metal tube. As I started to inhale she lit the mixture which glowed red as cloudy bubbles burbled up through the water. I took a mouthful of the smoke and pulled the tube away from my mouth as I started to cough.

My tutor stared at me with a blank expression, but it was the waitress's barely disguised embarrassment that let me know I'd transgressed the boundaries of decorous behaviour. I suppressed my cough and inhaled more smoke, though as it entered my lungs the irritation became much more severe. I exhaled the thick white smoke with some relief but immediately became aware that I was becoming light headed. As I took another breath of the bitter smoke I started to feel a heaviness in my limbs and a sleepiness overtaking me. Madame Harosul was addressing the waitress but her voice seemed slow and distant.

When I rose I felt giddy and clumsy and the waitress took my hand to steady me as I was led to a table. The table was very low and I lay beside it on a chaise longue. A large bib was spread over my chest and clipped in place with a light chain around my neck. Madame Harosul was similarly equipped.

“Feeling more hungry now?” she asked. I sensed her amusement at my intoxication.

“Chxa, Minanna Harosul,” I replied. My voice seemed stretched out and the words seemed to come automatically, but paradoxically with a great effort. “That pipe is very strong. My head is spinning.”

“It will help you, I think. It'll keep you relaxed and help you to maintain an appetite. When you smoke the bitter taste will make you want to eat and later, when the effects wear off you'll find you crave food to recover. Both aspects of the herbs are to be valued. Our first course is here. Don't worry about making a mess, it's expected that you'll get food on your face and on the bib. That's why you wear it. In Jertul it's considered good manners to let some food spill.”

A platter was placed before me and I watched Minanna Harosul (I was trying to force myself to think of her with her Jertulian title) and copied her actions. We ate with our fingers, despite dining on wet food. I soon realised that it was impossible to avoid dribbles of oil falling from the spiced meat and cereal mixture and soon my bib was spotted and splashed with numerous stains, rather more than Minanna Harosul's bib bore, but then my intoxication made me clumsy.

The dishes were removed and the waitress cleansed my hands with a perfumed cloth. She then wiped my mouth (I found this rather too intrusive, but tried to refrain from showing my disapproval) and fitted me with a clean bib. Another course appeared minutes later, flatbreads and thinly sliced roasted meat. The bread was eaten by tearing off pieces and pinching some of the meat in a fold, then dipping it in the piquant sauce. It was too spicy for my tastes, but delicious. I realised I'd have to become more tolerant of hot spices to adjust to Jertulian cuisine.

I barely managed to complete my bread and meat, but as my hands were cleansed again Minanna Harosul informed me that two more courses would be served. “I'm really full,” I said apologetically. “I'm not sure I could eat another mouthful.”

I found myself being led away from the table by the waitress, dimly recalling a conversation she'd had with Minanna Harosul. I found myself back in the smoking room where she prepared another pipe for me.

I took a breath of the smoke and felt afresh the heaviness that it inspired. “Nanga, do you speak English?” I asked the waitress. She looked at me blankly, obviously not understanding, but I needed to talk to someone. “Oh, you've no idea what I'm feeling right now. My wife is making me into a completely new person. My tutor is making me smoke this stuff and it gets me so stoned. If I keep smoking I'll be in a daze all the time. And I'll be fatter than you in a few weeks and Dejax is going to have me tattooed so I look like a traditional bride. Why is everyone here so fat? Doesn't anyone ever take any exercise? I feel like a freak because I'm skinny... God, I'm not even skinny, far from it, just average. But I can see when you look at me you have pity in your eyes because I'm not fat.”

I took another puff of smoke. “I suppose it's just as well you don't speak English, but it feels good to speak honestly to someone, even if it's a fat waitress who doesn't understand a word. Just for now you're my best friend in the whole world. How sad is that?” I sucked more bubbles through the pipe. I realised that somehow I felt I could manage a little more food.

I leaned heavily on my mute friend as I returned to my dining. The waitress spoke at length to Minanna Harosul and I started to think that perhaps she'd understood every word of my self-pitying ramble and was now repeating it verbatim to my teacher. Maybe the smoking had made me paranoid but I realised that many of the younger Jertulians had learned English at school and I had to be more measured in speaking my mind.

I forced myself to eat a large bowl of a stew of mutton and vegetables. At first the heavy spices and oily texture made me dislike the dish but soon I'd grown accustomed to it and even started to relish it. I'd been made aware that the worst failure of good manners for a Jertulian was to leave food and I made sure that my bowl was clean, though I had to take regular sips of chilled tea in order to get the stew down me. By belly was stretched uncomfortably and I was now glad of the voluminous tunic, since my own dress would have now been horribly constricting.

The last course was brought out: a tray of sweets, small elaborate pastries topped with cream, honey, fruit and nuts, accompanied by a large glass of a heavy red wine, sweetened liberally with a scented syrup. As I devoured the last pastry and washed it down with the too-rich wine Minanna Harosul smiled at me.

“Well done, Nanga Xenia. You carried yourself with decorum, apart from your little heart-to-heart with our waitress. You've eaten half of your food for the day now.”

I tried to retain my composure. Had the waitress understood my comments? I tried to accept that maybe Minanna Harosul was aware of what I'd said, that even if she was I shouldn't blush. That I succeeded was largely, I'm sure, due to the sedation caused by my smoking.

I was taken home and my guide suggested that I should take a nap, which was most welcome following my excessive lunch. I was allowed to recline on a divan, my neck supported on a small pillow so that my hairstyle wouldn't be disturbed.

I woke feeling disoriented and confused. I thought I'd woken in the morning and it took me a minute or more to make sense of the time. It was mid afternoon. I rose unsteadily and went to the mirror to take in my new appearance. I gave a little shudder of surprise, still unable to quite believe that I'd changed so profoundly. My face was numb and seemed slightly swollen from the injections. There was something disturbing about its immobility, as if my features were a mask.

I felt horribly bloated, yet left with cravings. My smoking had left me with a strange taste in my mouth and I wanted something to rid me of it. I decided I should take a stroll around the garden to distract me and to help to digest my last meal.

Minanna Harosul was waiting in the garden. She greeted me calmly and invited me to join her. “A glass of heila?” she asked. I had no idea what it was but agreed.

The drink was a mixture of juices and herbs, with an obvious base of an alcoholic spirit. It was extremely sour but I was prepared to find the taste odd and didn't react to what I perceived as an unpleasant flavour.

“Do you like it, Nanga Xenia?”

“It's rather sharp. I'm not sure it's to my taste.”

My comment seemed to amuse her. “It's something of a national institution, Maybe it is an acquired taste, I remember when I first tried it as a young girl I found it somewhat shocking. You can add some honey to get you used to it. It's not conceivable that a lady would abstain from heila.”

She trickled honey into my glass from a spouted jug and stirred it with a silver stick (or was it platinum? I was astonished by the wealth on display in my new homeland). I tried another sip, which was more palatable now.

“You should take off your tunic,” Minanna Harosul suggested. “It's a beautiful afternoon and the sun will help to improve your colour.”

I knew her suggestion had to be obeyed and I stood to comply. She helped me to remove my dress without disturbing my hair and I stood naked and vulnerable before her.

She tutted. “I do find it distressing to see you like this. You're awfully pale and just terribly thin. I can't imagine why Nanga Dejax would have chosen someone so gauche and scrawny.” I felt angry with her goading, wanted to stare into her eyes and make her know that I wasn't the girl she described, but my reactions were slowed by the alcohol. I realised that she was always testing me. I kept my face soft and stared into the distance.

“I suppose I just have to try to make the best of you. I don't think you have the makings of a Jertulian lady, but at least I can make sure your figure is more becoming. Are you feeling hungry? Your next meal is being prepared. We'll dine in about an hour.”

“May I take a walk around the gardens, Minanna?” I asked. “I'm still bloated from the last meal and it may aid my digestion.”

“Yes, Nanga Xenia,” she said. “Walking helps to make sure your intestines are in good order. If you remain too sedentary you'll experience the most terrible constipation with your new diet. You must tell me if you don't move your bowels regularly. I'll give you something to help. When did you last pass a stool?”

I blushed at her directness. “It's been a couple of days,” I admitted. “But that's not so abnormal for me, especially after travelling.”

My walk was cancelled and I was despatched to my bathroom, still naked. A few minutes later a servant entered and spoke to me in Jertulian. She held up a large pill which I took from her and made to swallow. She grabbed it back from me and shook her head. She went to get Minanna Harosul, who explained that it was a suppository. “Bend over and let the girl do her job,” she ordered.

I asked them to leave and sat on the toilet, sobbing. My life seemed to be out of my hands now. Nothing was private. I longed to see Dejax, wished dearly that she would see how unhappy I would be here and return with me to Britain. But I knew that was a pipe dream. I knew that Dejax was so in love with her country and her family that she would never leave. I had to try to adapt.

The suppository was painfully effective and I left the bathroom feeling weak. Minanna Harosul looked at me with undisguised anger. “You've been crying! Come here while I fix your make-up.” She cleansed my eyes and set to work to repair my eyeliner. “You have no right to be here. I'll make it my work to show Nanga Dejax that you're not worthy of her or her parents. You should go back to Britain and admit that you're too weak to be worthy.”

I couldn't contain my anger with her for another second. “Don't you dare fucking say that! I love Dejax and I'm doing this to make her happy. You're a nasty, cruel woman, taking your pleasure in humiliating me. I'm stronger than you know and I'm going to succeed!”

She sat looking at me without her face betraying any emotional reaction. After a pause that seemed to last for minutes she spoke. “At last, I see that you have some feelings for Dejax. You need to turn that energy into meeting your challenges. Maybe there's hope for you yet.”

“Fregxe, Minanna,” I said, my anger resolving now (it meant thank you).

“But don't think you can speak to me like that without consequences. I've a good mind to take you to Minanna Puas now to let her decide a punishment for you. But maybe instead I'll wait for Nanga Dejax to return and discuss it with her. I'm sure she'll be much stricter.”

I couldn't believe that Dejax would be anything but forgiving of my outburst and I put aside my worries as I was taken for another meal. I ate with Minanna Harosul in the style I'd started to realise was the custom, reclining on a low bed and eating with fingers. This meal consisted of seafood, which was something I'd always avoided.

There were numerous bowls of what were presumably considered delicacies. I could only eat them with the utmost difficulty and tried as best I could to disguise the gagging which I encountered with the more outlandish tastes and textures. Many of the dishes were prepared in oil and I observed that Minanna Harosul drank the oil from the bowl after scooping out the morsels of food. I did the same but with none of the relish that she demonstrated. Inevitably, the meal was enormous and I was full before the bowls were empty.

“Struggling?” Minanna Harosul said condescendingly. I had to admit that I was. “Perhaps you'd like to pause to smoke?”

I didn't want to smoke any more since my earlier encounter had left me feeling sickly and dizzy. Not only that, I was sure that I could become hooked easily, and knew how hard it was to quit smoking. But I saw no alternative if I was to finish the meal and thereby avoid more harangues from my tutor.

She called a servant who took me into the gardens where she prepared a pipe for me. I once I'd inhaled some of the mixture I felt relaxed and time seemed to slow. By the time I was taken back inside I found I could eat the rest of the meal. The bitter aftertaste helped me to tolerate the unpleasant flavours of the meal. I was glad of the sharp, dry wine that was provided at the end of the meal.

I returned to my chamber to rest and soon after Dejax entered. I couldn't hide my delight at seeing her. She was clearly pleased by my makeover, and said she loved my black hair. I could sense she was tense, however.

“Minanna Harosul wants to discuss your behaviour with me. She says you were disrespectful.”

“Perhaps I was but she did provoke me.” I was hurt as Dejax silenced me. Now Minanna Harosul entered the room where she sat alongside Dejax. I remained standing.

“Minanna, can you give me an account of Nanga Xenia's conduct today.”

“At times she showed willingness to comply with instruction, but she is rather vapid and self-absorbed. She continually struggles to eat and completes meals with undisguised difficulty. She became very embarrassed about her constipation and spent a long time crying in the bathroom when she was aided. When challenged about her weakness she swore at me and questioned my professionalism.”

“Is this true?” Dejax said. She looked furious.

“Yes, but...”

“No excuses! You can't speak to an elder like that, Xenia. You can start by prostrating yourself six times to Minanna and begging her forgiveness.”

A half dozen times I was made to lie face down before my tutor, arms outstretched, as I pleaded with her to forgive me. I felt an awful sadness that Dejax was taking her side. She seemed to have become a different person, unrecognisable from the sweet girl I'd married in Britain.

“Xenia, Minanna Harosul can now make six demands of you to earn your forgiveness. Stay lying there while she lists her wishes.”

I knew that my life would become unbearable as she would seek to humiliate me. I pressed my face into the floor to hide my anger.

“Of course, it's your decision, Nanga Dejax, to decide whether the girl should have to meet my requests,” she said obsequiously. “Firstly, given the vehemence of her language, I feel a corporal punishment is essential. Say, six canings on her buttocks.”

“Granted,” Dejax said without hesitation.

“The rest of my suggestions are things to improve her behaviour, her discipline, her appearance. She looked disgusted when she ate a beautiful seafood meal today. I think she should have an exclusively seafood diet for a week until she learns to appreciate it, or failing that to make it look like she does.”

Again, Dejax agreed.

“She's terribly thin and I think four meals a day will certainly make her figure improve, but it's too slow for my liking. I'd like to see her eat an extra meal each day to speed her fat development.” Dejax agreed that I should eat five meals of seafood each day.

“She's already tried smoking. I think this should be encouraged on a more regular schedule. It looks very ladylike for a young woman to take a pipe.”

“Oh, you started smoking?” Dejax said with some surprise. “Yes, that's a good idea, Minanna.”

“Fifth, she turned her nose up when she was offered heila. It's such a part of our culture that she needs to learn to drink it. I suggest that she drinks a jug each afternoon, unsweetened.”

“Oh Minanna, she'll be drunk!”

“Learning to behave after consuming alcohol will do her no harm, Nanga Dejax.”

“OK, Minanna, granted.”

“The last suggestion is the one I fear you may not like. I think if you're going to look at making her very traditional we should go make her wear a flechxen.”

Dejax gasped. “Does anyone wear that style these days?”

“Yes, Nanga, it's still worn in the more traditional villages in the mountains by some women. I think it would suit your purposes admirably.”

“Oh, I don't know, Minanna. Apart from anything else it must be painful.”

“I think the girl can show bravery. It would certainly make her feel more embedded in Jertulian culture.”

I could sense Dejax's uncertainty. She pondered on the decision, but finally acceded. “Let's do it. I think it'll look beautiful.”

I had no idea what would be done to me but I knew I would find it challenging.

I started to sob as soon as Minanna Harosul left us. She'd caned me hard and it took all of my strength to keep from crying in her presence, but my obvious struggles to bear the pain still made her criticise me harshly.

Alone with Dejax I wept like a baby and poured out all my anxieties. “I'm not sure I can do this,” I wailed. “She's so cruel with me and I've never felt so unhappy. Please find me another tutor.”

“Don't be silly, Xenia,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “She's been a friend to my mother since they were little girls. She was my tutor too when I was young and she's like an aunt to me. She's a very good person, as you'll see once you start to learn from her. And look at you! She's already made you look so wonderful. Did she get you Botox?”

“Yes, she did. I hate it.” I was becoming sullen and I wanted to lash out.

“I love it though. You look so... blank. It makes me love you all the more. And you've already started to tan.”

She stripped me of my tunic and pinched at the skin of my abdomen. “It's thickening already. Soon you'll have a nice plump belly.”

“Like a gamtre?” I said shyly.

“Yes, a nice, tall, plump Jertulian lady. Oh, Xenia, you're going to be getting a flechxen! I can't believe it. You'll look adorable.”

“What is that?”

“You know you're not supposed to ask. That was our agreement.”

“But I heard you discussing it with Minanna Harosul and it sounded like you were worried.”

“Not worried. It's just fallen out of favour. I think it's a tradition worth reviving though.”

I realised she wasn't going to tell so I went silent.

“Are you sulking? I can't tell so easily now you've been Botoxed.”

“Yes I am,” I said. “You took her side and you let her cane me. It really hurts, Dejax.”

“Yes, but you did swear at her. If she went to tell my mother she might stop the wedding altogether.” She turned me to examine the weals on my buttocks. “Poor little baby. She did a real job on you.” Dejax went to pass a message to a servant. A few minutes later she returned with a pipe.

“You can smoke some of this mixture. It's stronger than what you had earlier and it'll help ease the pain.”

“I didn't think you'd like me smoking. You never smoked in England.”

“I don't here, either. It's seen as being a bit archaic. For a while it was even outlawed, when one of our presidents thought that we should come more in line with other western countries on drug use. But there's been a lot of interest in the last twenty years about old traditions. It makes me feel like you're becoming much more like my romantic vision of a lady to know that you smoke.”

She passed me the long silver stem and lit the bowl. The bowl bubbled and filled with white smoke which I drew into my lungs. I immediately sensed that this was a more potent mixture. My pain seemed to recede and I felt a great clarity, as if I could see more clearly. I saw Dejax staring at me admiringly.

“I never imagined seeing you like this so soon. You look beautiful, Xenia. It makes it very hard for me to stick to my vow to remain chaste until we're married.”

I laughed. “I want more than anything to be alone with you in our bed.”

“Then you have to be a good girl and do everything that Minanna Harosul tells you. She'll decide when you're ready to marry me, and she'll set the date. Now you see why you have to impress her?”

I nodded. There was a knock at the door and I saw a meal being delivered. I gave a soft groan at the thought of more food.

Once the dishes were laid out, Dejax looked at me. “You should never resent food. The servants will dislike you if you don't show gratitude for what you're lucky enough to receive.”

“I've eaten so much, though. And you know I never liked seafood.”

“Jertul is landlocked so seafood was always seen as a great treat, the rarest feast. You need to learn to savour it. Next week you'll feast with my parents and you have to show that you have a discerning palate. They'll undoubtedly serve some seafood courses, so I think Minanna Harosul was wise to suggest that you diet exclusively on seafood till you learn to love it.”

She told me the names of each dish and how it was prepared and made me repeat the information. Retaining information was more difficult than usual since I was numbed by my smoking, as well as still affected by the alcohol I'd consumed during the day. Somehow I managed to eat all of the large meal, though by the end I was close to being sick. I'd learned to tolerate most of the dishes but there was a sea urchin preparation which I found particularly noxious. Dejax allowed me another bowl of herbs to smoke to take away the taste. It made me so sleepy that she had to call a servant to assist her to help me into my bed.

The next days followed a similar pattern. I was constantly in the care of Minanna Harosul, who continued to push me hard and treat me with little sympathy. I was given five meals a day, only of seafood. If I started to adjust to the flavours and textures, I couldn't honestly say I derived any pleasure. I longed for something different. By the third day, Minanna agreed that if I ate my meals with decorum then I'd be allowed a dessert. I hadn't imagined that the offer of more food would motivate me, but I found myself delighted to be able to have a bowl of ice cream or one of the delicious local pastries. My smoking had now become a habit. I craved the taste of the smoke and the relaxation that it brought to me. I smoked a pipe six or seven times a day, which Minanna said was a respectable amount for a lady.

Dejax was working long hours at the new plant and so I saw her only for a few hours each evening. I was delighted when she said that the following day would be spent together, as she wanted to oversee my preparation for the imminent feast with her parents.

After we'd breakfasted together she informed me that we both had salon appointments. Her crop had grown a little unruly and I'd harboured hopes that she would grow her hair longer. “Are we going to Minanna Kadax's salon?” She confirmed that we were. “You know, almost everyone there has a perm.”

“Yes, they're very fashionable at the moment. Traditional styles in Jertul often involved curled hair, so it's an expression of patriotism,” she explained. “I'm going to get mine permed today,” she said calmly. I was uncomfortable with the idea. I hadn't liked many of the curly styles I'd seen and the prospect of an unflattering style on Dejax was hard to conceive. “Are you pleased?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “Perms seem a little old fashioned to me. They've not been popular in Britain for a long time.”

“Well, since you're getting one too you'll have to try to re-evaluate your ideas.”

I took a long slow breath. “Is my hair going to be cut too?” I asked.

“You'll still have long hair,” she smiled. “A betrothed woman should have long hair in our tradition.”

“But you're betrothed too,” I protested. “You should grow yours.”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, because I'm the superior. It would be more seemly for me to adopt a modern style, or even a slightly masculine look. I forget sometimes how little you know.”

We arrived at the salon and Minanna Kadax welcomed us in person. I was asked to sit with Minanna Harosul, alongside Dejax as she had her hair cut. As soon as she'd been caped the cutting commenced: the back and sides, which had grown to almost two inches, were clippered down to a few millimetres with great speed. Now Minanna Kadax removed the guard and started to clippershave the short hair high up Dejax's nape, fading the cut with the taper lever. I saw that she was a very skilled barberette, but I was less than happy at the severity of the cut. The sides were faded too, and Dejax's ears were now surrounded by almost bald scalp. A razor was used to shape the contour of the hairline: her hair was so short that barely a shadow remained, but even this shadow was removed as Minanna shaped her nape to geometric precision. Her sideburns were shaved completely to a high line level with the top of her ears.

The longer hair on top was now trimmed, but only to remove the tips. It was four inches or more long and looked strangely out of proportion to the bared sides, especially since Dejax had very thick hair.

Now the longer strands were twisted tightly and wound onto wooden rods which were carved with a helical thread. I could see that the hairdresser was pulling firmly at Dejax's hair to wind it, uncomfortably so, I'm sure, but she maintained a calm visage. Minanna Kadax was very practised and the winding proceeded rapidly. But then I only had to look about the salon to see how popular permed styles were among the affluent clientele (not to mention the staff) of the salon. As the amount of unwound locks receded, Dejax spoke to me.

“Darling, you'll be in the chair soon. I'd like you you stay very still and calm while you have your makeover but it will be challenging. You should go with Minanna Harosul to a smoking room along the street and take a very powerful herb. It will make you endure your test more easily. Do as Minanna says and be a good girl.”

I reluctantly left Dejax in Minanna Kadax's hands and went with my tutor. The smoking house was a small, exquisitely furnished room just a short walk from the salon. The whole place was scented with the herbs I'd come to relish so much in recent days. A young woman greeted us and led us to recline on pillows. She prepared a pipe for me and chopped the leaves on a polished stone. She added a dark resinous substance, crumbling it into the finely minced leaves, then stuffing the bowl, which was notably larger than those I'd seen on the pipes I was accustomed to. She lit the mix as I inhaled.

Within moments I was aware that this was a more deeply intoxicating blend than I'd experienced before. I became obsessed with the patterns of the carpet with seemed to seethe and live. The knots of wool became tiny creatures to my eyes, engaged in patterns of movement, a dance of sorts. I seemed to stare at them for hours but when Minanna Harosul spoke to me I could reply easily and with clarity.

However, my memory seemed fitful. I was back in the salon without remembering leaving the smoking room and I saw Dejax smiling gently at me as her perm was matured under a large dryer. Now Minanna Kadax welcomed me to the chair and spoke to Dejax and Minanna Harosul about my impending makeover. I was still unable to discern hardly any meaning in conversational Jertulian, but I felt a twinge of nervousness as I made out the word “ flechxen”. I remembered Minanna Harosul's suggestion of this to Dejax and her obvious shock. I still remained ignorant of what it meant but I presumed I would soon find out.

Minanna Kadax combed through my dark hair until it was smoothed of tangles, then made a part over the top of my head, from ear to ear. She smoothed back the rearmost hair and tied it loosely at my nape. She combed the front section forward so that it covered my face.

I felt her fingers caress the hair forward along the parting, then felt her grasp a fine strand of hair. I jumped as she tugged, pulling the hair free. I was numbed from the effects of my smoking and felt hardly any pain, but nevertheless I felt an inner pain as she tugged free another strand, and another.

She found a rhythm now, rapidly plucking nine strands from my scalp, then pausing briefly to lift away the plucked hair. I was muddled by the drugs I'd inhaled but soon had come to realise that it was clearly the intention that the front area of my scalp would be plucked bald. Even in my insensitive state I felt emotional turmoil as I imagined how distressing this style would be. I was glad that my hair covered my face, since I was sure I was blushing and unable to hide my distress. I had to try to conquer my fears to show Minanna Harosul that I was becoming a lady.

I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift. I became aware of pulses of colour slowly bursting before my eyes and as I allowed myself to be absorbed by this display the colours became much more vivid, with sharply defined geometric figures now forming.

Gradually I felt myself floating back toward the external world. I became aware of a burning sensation in my frontal scalp. With an effort I opened my eyes.

I saw a strange creature looking back at me. Her head was bald at the front, except for some fine strands at her left temple, which were rapidly being removed by the woman at her side. She was browless too. Her face was full, round, very darkly tanned, yet her scalp was pale. Thick black locks swept back from the furthest areas of her head.

I suppressed a groan as I came to acknowledge that I was seeing only my reflection. I'd hardly been aware how dark my skin had become, scarcely more cognizant of how my diet had fattened my face. And my hairstyle made me look alien, distressingly odd and ugly.

“This is the flechxen?” I said calmly to Minanna Harosul.

“Yes. It's a very ancient style that was worn by all ladies of the upper echelons in previous centuries. It's fallen out of favour except in a few distant cantons, but there is a feeling amongst some patriots that more ladies should adopt the style again. You're very privileged to be allowed to wear it.”

“Thank you, Minanna,” I said flatly.

Dejax came to see me as my hair was being wound onto long pegs by another hairdresser. Minanna Kadax had completed her style and her hair was now formed into tight spirals across the top of her head. The hair was curled so tightly that nothing stood more than an inch above her scalp. Her previously rather full eyebrows had now been plucked into pencil thin arches, simple arcs that seemed strangely artificial. She looked distressingly different and I wanted to cry, so unflattering was the metamorphosis that Kadax had wrought, but my emotions seemed to exist in a box locked far away from the surface and I maintained a passive face. Yet Dejax seemed delighted.

“Isn't it just gorgeous?” she smiled. “And just look at you! You look like a lady from a fairy tale, too pretty for words.”

Despite my distress I felt an intense pride that my sacrifice was so adored by Dejax. I wanted nothing else but to be thought fit to be her consort, to be allowed finally to live in privacy with my love. I looked past Dejax and softened my face, feigning the indifference I knew she found so seductive. I prayed that my makeover would make as good an impression on Dejax's parents.

My long hair took hours to be curled. I was offered various snacks during my time under the dryer, none of which I was allowed to decline. Minanna Harosul seemed to have developed sufficient confidence in my behaviour that she allowed herself the opportunity to have her own hair cut while I was suffering silently under the dryer (the newly plucked area of scalp in particular felt fiery). When she returned she had a more exaggerated version of the style I'd grown used to on her. The top had been sculpted into an even taller pompadour, the sides were buzzed very close and her sideburns had been razored away even more dramatically than Dejax's.

“Very elegant, Minanna Harosul,” I said.

“Thank you, Nanga Xenia. It's considered good manners to compliment a newly coiffed lady by suggesting that the style increases her nobility. So I might say to you: 'Your good breeding is enhanced,' or 'Your nobility radiates,' although it may feel forced to say such a thing to an outsider such as yourself.”

“Yes, Minanna,” I said humbly. I was under no illusions that my breeding or nobility would ever be considered adequate amongst the wealthy of Jertul, nor did it cause me concern, other than that it might cause Dejax disrespect.

Soon my perm was completed and I saw my new hair. It fell in thick, springy ringlets, even after it had been treated with a heavy oil which made it look wet and shiny. The fullness of my mane only seemed to add absurdity to the bareness of my forehead and temples. I was finding increasing difficulty in maintaining an expressionless face, since the effects of the drugs had long since diminished and I now found myself craving the opportunity to smoke.

Kadax now began to treat my eyelashes, and for a moment I was concerned that they would be plucked too. However, she obviously had other plans. They were coated with a glue and combed into small clumps. Minanna Kadax carefully shaped the clumps into spidery points, working rapidly, since the glue set quickly. Once the points were set she added extra layers to firm them and added longer fibres of feather to extend them.

The solvents were irritating and my eyes watered throughout the process, meaning I was unable to focus. The treatment of upper lashes was difficult enough to bear, but to access lower lashes my eyes had to remain open, to which end a hook was fixed under the inside of my upper lid. I was delighted when I was finally done, the tears carefully wiped with a soft tissue. Now my eyes were outlined by long, stiff black shards. Dejax was now beside me, her lashes now treated similarly. I looked at myself in the mirror, blinking as I tried to adjust to the sticky new appendages which I was assured would last for a week at least.

In compensation I had Dejax's enthusiasm for my new look. She only became more excited (her efforts to retain an aristocratic calm having long been abandoned) as my make-up was freshly applied. Kadax had disguised the paleness of my exposed scalp well and my lips were, as had become customary, stained a sombre crimson. My eyes were even more thickly outlined than usual and I felt a twinge of anxiety as I remembered how I'd looked back in England.

As we left the salon Dejax could no longer restrain herself and began caressing my bald forehead. “You look like Princess Hessijex in a picture book I had when I was a girl.”

Minanna Harosul began to laugh. “Let's hope she doesn't behave like her!”

I looked lost at the significance of the remark. “The princess was a murderess who lived in the seventeenth century. She was notorious for having poisoned several rivals for the hand of a young duke,” Harosul explained.

“But she was very beautiful, and somehow her evil only made her even more seductive to me.”

Minanna Harosul was amused by this and seemed more relaxed that I'd seen her before. “Nanga Xenia, you behaved well today. And I agree with Nanga Dejax, that your beauty is a credit to your forefathers.”

I felt a flush of pride that at last my tutor had praised me.

“You've lost your gauntness, too. Still, you have a long way to go. You're still far too slight to look ladylike,” she added, ensuring that I wouldn't become complacent.

We went home and my hopes that I would be allowed some time alone with Dejax were frustrated; she had business to attend to with Minanna Harosul, so I was left to dine alone. I'd not eaten for several hours and, accustomed as I was becoming to frequent large meals, I was ravenous. A servant brought me a generous repast (I was still eating exclusively seafood, but had developed a taste for most of the dishes, if not yet for the more peculiar tastes and textures) and I set to it with gusto once I'd savoured a couple of bowls of my favourite smoking mixture. I demanded a selection of pastries after the meal.

After finishing my meal I was lazily studying a book of Jertulian grammar when Dejax and Minanna Harosul returned, both beautifully attired (Dejax, most unusually, wore a dress and lots of jewellery). “You need to dress,” Dejax told me. “You're going to the feast with my parents in half an hour.”

I was beside myself. “Why didn't you tell me, Dejax?” I said, barely containing my anxiety. “I've just eaten a huge meal and I'll never be able to eat what's laid out for me.”

It was Minanna Harosul who replied. “You will eat every morsel, and with good grace. All of your training so far culminates in this evening's events. If you make a good impression on Minanna Puas then your future is almost guaranteed, but if you should disgrace yourself then you'll bring shame not just to yourself and your family, but to me and Dejax.”

I regretted smoking so much as Minanna Harosul took charge of dressing me. I was woozy and muddled, slow in thought and action. I was dressed in a long gown of thick pleated cotton, black with red embroideries. It had a high collar, but was cut away at the front to expose my décolletage, which had grown far more ample with my increase in girth. A heavy gold chain was placed around my neck, from which hung a heavy star pendant in platinum inlaid with fine strips of a black stone. My hair was so stiff that it had barely moved since Minanna Kadax had finished working on it. I was decked out with golden ornaments, a pair of stylised roses, which Minanna Harosul clipped behind each ear, better to expose my newly bared temples. More make-up was applied to ensure that the paleness of my scalp was evenly covered.

“You should smoke a little to relax,” Dejax suggested. I tried to tell her that I'd smoked rather a lot before my meal but she was insistent. By the time I arrived at the main house, accompanied only by Dejax, I was calm to the point of numbness, the smell of smoke hidden by the perfume which had been sprayed copiously into my new curls.

Minanna Puas and Kallaga Treskoa (Dejax's father; Kallaga was an honorific accorded from his old military rank) greeted me formally as I entered. He was a kind looking man, and I knew that Dejax adored him. We entered the dining room where we were each offered a small crescent of bread. All broke the bread and took a bite. Kallaga Treskoa stood and bowed to each of us in turn, then excused himself.

“This is a night for the women,” Dejax explained, but her mother pulled her up short. There was a brief exchange between them. “She wants us to speak in Jertulian, but I explained that your progress in the language isn't good. She says that within a month you'll not be allowed to speak anything but, so she'll find a new tutor to coach you in the language more intensively.”

“Chxa, Minanna Puas,” I said calmly. “Fregxe.”

We were supplied with the first course, sliced cold meats. Despite the fullness of my stomach I relished the delicate flavours, having been deprived of any variation in my diet for far too long. I felt Minanna Puas' gaze on me constantly, watching every action, but forced myself to remain slow and silent, kept a soft face, looked into the distance and avoided eye contact.

“Perhaps Nanga Xenia would enjoy smoking with me between courses,” Minanna Puas said in accented but very clear English. I was so taken aback to hear her speak in my own language that I must have looked at her curiously.

“I'd like that very much, Minanna Puas,” I said.

All three of us were brought pipes. The mixture that was prepared was flavoured with cherries and was very pleasing. After smoking, Minanna Puas seemed to have softened. “You have changed so much, Xenia. I'm astonished to see that you chose to wear the flechxen. Was it shaved?”

“No mother!” Dejax interjected. “We did it properly.”

Minanna Puas reached forward to feel my forehead. “You allowed it to be plucked? You're much stronger than I had anticipated. I adore the flechxen, the history it embodies. You bring honour on yourself to wear this style.”

Perhaps it was the effects of my excessive smoking but I felt that I couldn't trust Minanna Puas, still had a nagging doubt that I was in danger of being snared in a trap. I did feel a delight that she'd complimented me so generously but my concerns (and my slowness of thought) meant that I showed little outwardly. Of course, in Jertul, this was regarded as good grace, and I saw Dejax's face bloom into a wonderful smile to see how her mother had accepted me, and at seeing my restraint.

“You're still rather thin though,” she continued. “You will promise to develop a ladylike figure to bring respect to our family?”

“Chxa, Minanna Puas,” I said solemnly. “I adore the food here and it's an honour to be allowed to dine so well. I hope my figure will soon be ample enough to please you.” I knew I had given up all pretence that I could stop myself becoming obese. Already I knew my friends would be shocked to see how fat I had become.

“Then I think we should have the next course of our feast.” She signalled and we were soon served with a seafood course. The preparation was more luxurious than I was used to and the meal was rich in the more extreme flavours and textures that still disgusted me: sea urchin, sea cucumber, sea squirt. I was sufficiently practised to be able to eat them with decorum, however. I made a show of chewing them, fully experiencing the flavours.

Minanna Puas didn't take her eyes off me. “You don't enjoy this food,” she said as the empty dishes were removed.

“I... am becoming accustomed to it, but some seafood is more difficult for me to like.”

She smiled. “You did well to show such control. I like you Nanga Xenia and I wish to make you a gift.”

A large box was brought in by a servant, a beautifully inlaid wooden casket which looked ancient. Inside were various items of jewellery. Minanna Puas laid my hands on her lap and started to deck my fingers with numerous rings.

“These are very old rings which have been in our family, some for many generations. You must promise to look after them well.”

“I do,” I said.

“They're a little loose on you but I hope soon your hands will grow into them. You'll do us honour if they become fixed on your fingers.” She'd now placed rings on every finger, not just one, but a second, finer ring had been added to the second joint of each finger. Even my thumbs were ringed.

Now she took a pair of heavy bangles from the casket. They were three inches wide, with blunt protuberances studding the entire surface. They appeared to be made of solid gold and I couldn't even begin to imagine their worth.

She pushed my wrists through the opening and settled them into place. “Nanga Xenia, these will soon be permanently fixed in place too, I hope. There was an old tradition that when a young girl was betrothed she'd be given such a pair of bracelets which would become tight to her arms as she grew to a mature lady. The practice is rarely seen now, but a lady who wears a flechxen should surely be braceleted.”

“Minanna Puas,” I said, “I know it's expected that a lady should refrain from shows of emotion, but I'm so overwhelmed by your generosity and kindness to me that I think I'm going to cry.”

“And so your should,” Dejax said, her own voice cracking with emotion. “You're finally ready to be my bride, my darling Xenia.”

Even my future mother seemed close to tears. “You have my blessing, Nanga Xenia, but you must promise me that you will study hard at our language. In a month you must promise never to speak English ever again.”

“But what about when I visit home or speak to my family?”

“My dear, this is your home now, and we are your family. English, England, will be forgotten.” I was so eager to please Minanna Puas that I willingly made my pledge.

Now Dejax was sifting through the remaining jewels in the casket. “Oh, look at these!” she gasped as she found a huge pair of golden discs which were supplied with hooks to allow them to be suspended from the ears. “Please may she have them?”

“The hooks are far too thick for her ears. She'd have to be pierced.”

“They look delightful though. Please say yes, Huxi!” (this was an affectionate term for mother).

“Do you want to be pierced, Xenia?” Minanna asked. It was the first time she'd addressed me informally, which delighted me.

“Yes, Minanna Puas.”

She smiled indulgently. “In private you can call me Huxi.”

I was beside myself with joy. I'd been accepted as her daughter.

I woke the next morning with a hangover from drinking and smoking far too much. I felt happier than ever that I had been accepted into Dejax's family but I felt a sadness too as I remembered my pledge to sever my ties with my past. And then there was my promise to forego my native tongue in a month! I'd made so little progress with my new language that I knew I'd be almost helpless to communicate.

I wasn't allowed a lie in to recuperate. I was woken at the usual hour by a maid and bathed. My hair had to be kept dry, since the perm had to settle before I could wash it. After dressing I breakfasted with Minanna Harosul.

“I hear your feast was a great success. You impressed Minanna Puas. She says she likes you very much.”

“It was wonderful, Minanna Harosul, even though I felt like I was going to explode because I'd eaten a big meal just before I went to her.”

“Look at your beautiful jewellery! She's accepted you as her daughter. You have to work hard to make her proud of you. You have a new language teacher, since I've failed to teach you more than the rudiments.”

“Yes, I promised that in a month I'll only speak Jertulian.”

Minanna laughed. “You'll be like a toddler! You hardly know any words and understand less. I think that was a hasty promise. The English are very poor language students.” I nodded. “Still, you can just sit silent and look pretty. I think that's what Dejax wants from you. You just need to do something about your figure. Oh yes, she mentioned you need to be pierced. I arranged for a lady to come in later to fit your new jewellery.”

“Oh yes,” I groaned. “Those hooks looked huge. I'm going to need to smoke a lot before I see her.”

Minanna Harosul smiled cruelly. “No dear, we discussed that. Minanna Puas agreed that your smoking and drinking is probably affecting your studies. You'll only be allowed one bowl each night, and one glass of wine, until you're more fluent in our language.”

I couldn't hide my displeasure. I'd come to rely on my pipe as a way to relax myself in social settings, to help me to gain an appetite for the huge meals I was served and to soothe the pains I felt as a result of my rapid weight increase. I was aware that when I didn't smoke I got awful cravings. Life with such limited access to my pipe would be far less pleasant.

My new language teacher was far more rigorous in her methods than Minanna Harosul. She made me chant the declensions of the regular nouns (of which there were five types in Jertulian), conjugations of verbs (there were seven types of regular verb). She harangued me for any error and I was glad when just before noon our al fresco lesson (I was still encouraged to spend time in the sun, naked, to encourage a dark tan to develop) was interrupted by Minanna Harosul.

I was less happy when I discovered that my visitor, Nanga Siddera, had arrived to fit me with my new earrings. She praised me lavishly for my hairstyle (it seemed everyone felt that it was a very regal style, like something from a fairytale), and carefully tied back my curls so that my ears weren't occluded by my tresses. As she did I felt nauseous, having caught sight of the knife with which I'd be pierced. It had a long blade with a tapered point, like a fine scalpel.

Nanga Siddera cut some lengths of woody hollow stem, then crushed them with a pestle-like stone on a board. I looked at her questioningly. “The stem of the derrix bush has styptic properties and promotes healing. When you're pierced I'll insert a piece to act as an astringent.” I nodded. The thickness of the stem made me fear how big the hole would be.

I took the studs from my ears and gritted my teeth. Minanna Harosul was watching me closely and her attitude left me in no doubt that she would judge me on my performance. I wished desperately for a breath of smoke to ease my anxiety.

The tip of the knife was placed in the tiny hole in my left lobe, which was supported by a block of cork. With a swift jab, Nanga Siddera drove the blade through my lobe. I closed my eyes and tried to maintain my expressionless visage. The pain grew and I wanted to roar.

The blade was eased free of the block and then of my ear. I felt a drip of blood on my neck. The pain didn't subside as now a small length of stem was introduced to the hole, Nanga Siddera tugging at my skin to open up the aperture. The aromatic chemicals in the stem made my ear sting.

I couldn't suppress a groan as my right ear underwent the same torment. Nanga Siddera seemed cross for a moment at my weakness, but soon her implacable smile was back. She waited for the bleeding to stop, then snipped the stems to much shorter lengths. Short pieces remained in place as she introduced the hooks of the earrings.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

“They're very heavy. Maybe we should wait for the holes to heal before I wear these?”

She looked like I'd said something offensive.

“Of course Nanga Xenia is making a joke,” Minanna Harosul laughed. “The British have a sense of humour hard for us to understand.” Nanga Siddera joined in her laughter.

The golden discs weighed heavily against the fresh wounds.

“Ah, Nanga Xenia. Minanna Puas also suggested that you'd do well to wear this ring too.” She held up a much smaller earring, heavily ornamented along the lower part with filigreed ornaments. The closing wire was mercifully much finer than the hooks I now wore. I nodded my assent.

I immediately realised my error. The ring was for a nose piercing, evidently to be worn in the septum. Nanga Siddera had a strange device to allow easy access to her piercing needle. She pushed a clamp over my septum, a U-shaped iron piece gripping it on each side. There were curved prongs splaying from the stem which pushed up the wings of my nostrils so that the flesh of my septum would be more exposed. The stem was telescoped so that a rubber stub was aligned with my jaws.

“Bite on this,” Nanga Siddera instructed me. Now the clamp was held in place by my teeth and Nanga Siddera had both hands free to wield the needle.

Mercifully she worked quickly, pushing the needle through (it required a surprising amount of force). I felt my eyes fill with tears from the intensity of the pain. She eased the needle free, but left the hole filled with a thin strip of derrix. The stinging was intense, but it did rapidly staunch the trickle of blood.

I was allowed to open my jaws and the clamp was eased free (not without a shudder, caused by a fresh wave of pain). I wanted to scream when Nanga Siddera tugged on the lower part of my septum to open the hole so that she could fit the ring. I blinked to dispel the tears and saw Minanna Harosul scowling at me.

“It's an involuntary response,” Nanga Siddera explained. “The insult to tissues around nose and eyes provokes tears. Her eyes are watering but she's not crying.”

She gently washed my eyes and reapplied my make-up once the tears had ceased. I looked at her with a smile. She'd spared my embarrassment; she knew just as well as I that the pain had made me cry.

The next weeks became somewhat dull. I spent long hours with Minanna Ggretxer, my language teacher, trying to master the rudiments of the language. My reading remained poor but I did make some progress in expressing simple ideas. Gradually my comprehension improved, although I was lost when I tried to join a conversation with two others.

My body ballooned as my immense consumption of food continued. I found it hard to see myself in a mirror, but if I was embarrassed by how fat I'd become, everyone else in Jertul seemed to rejoice in my metamorphosis. The rings which had been so loose on my fingers (so much so that I was constantly in fear of losing them) had now become embedded in the swelling flesh and couldn't be removed. My bracelets caused constrictions in my burgeoning forearms and were similarly impossible to take off. The awkward, skinny English girl was now seen as a beautifully rounded Jertulian lady, and my deep tan (and it was extremely dark, the tablets I took daily making me tan far more than I would have believed possible) only seemed to add to the feeling that I couldn't possibly be a northern European.

Every four weeks I was taken back to Minanna Kadax's salon, where my hair was dyed and permed. The chemicals made my hair rather dry and frizzy, but since after each wash it was treated with the heavy oil, the poor condition was effectively hidden. My flechxen was maintained with a weekly plucking of any down that had regrown. I'd hardly come to terms with the oddness of the style, however. I longed to be allowed to regrow my hair, but the esteem that the style gave to me (and, through me, to Dejax) meant that I had to accept that my plucked forehead and temples were likely to remain a permanent feature.

My nails had been allowed to grow to long points, carefully filed to a soft point. I was expected to take great care to look after them; a broken nail would look shameful, I was taught.

Dejax was delighted with me, and she looked at me wistfully each time we were together. I longed to be allowed to be alone with her, but that was a rare privilege. We were mostly expected to retain a chaperone to ensure propriety. Dejax had undoubtedly changed from the girl I knew in England. Physically she'd gained weight (although I was now much heavier than her) and she'd retained the severely cropped style with the tight curls on top. I'd struggled to like this style but somehow I now felt it was beautiful, perhaps because everyone I knew told me how becoming it was. She dressed in smart trouser suits, but these were tailored in a distinctly Jertulian style. She was almost unrecognisable from the girl I'd fallen in love with.

But if her outward change was remarkable, the inner metamorphosis was even more profound. She was bold and demanding, sometimes confounding me with her seeming insensitivity to my position. She seemed to take a cruel delight in my struggles to come to terms with my new life. She would tease me and patronise me about my difficulties with the language. She hinted that I had more changes to come that I would find more difficult than anything I'd so far endured. And yet, my devotion to her was undiminished. Her changes seemed to complement my own, and I craved her wilfulness, since my purposefulness seemed to have diminished. I adored being moulded to the woman she wanted me to be, the Jertulian lady I was becoming, however imperfectly.

She would tell me how beautiful I was becoming (always becoming, never had my metamorphosis proceeded sufficiently to satisfy her), but would then taunt me with threats to break off our relationship because I was so poor at behaving like a lady or mastering the language she held so dear.

“How would your friends in England feel if they saw you now? So fat, so dark... And your hair has been plucked so long that I would doubt it will ever grow back now.”

“They'd tease me. Probably wouldn't be seen with me,” I said as best I could in my broken Jertulian.

“Yes, I remember how people looked at me when I arrived, and I was hardly fat at all. My little gamtre would be despised!”

“Please, Dejax, I adore you. Never send me away,” I'd plead.

“Then you have to try harder to behave well. And you have to compensate for your gaucheness by becoming more traditional. I want you to look like the ladies from the romances I read when I was young, so that you look so beguiling that no one will notice what a poor conversationalist you are, or how crude your manners are. I think sometimes you don't apply yourself because you still want to keep your Britishness, that you want to go back there some day. If you really loved Jertul you'd be more committed, you'd know how beautiful our land and culture are and it would satisfy you.”

“I do love Jertul,” I'd insist. “And I want to be a better woman for you. I'll try harder for Minanna Ggretxer. I want you to be proud of me.”

A few weeks later my resolve was tested. I was driven into the city by Minanna Harosul, accompanied by Dejax and her mother. Their presence signalled that something out of the ordinary was happening and I was immediately on edge.

We arrived at a small hospital, which was so richly decorated that it could only be a very exclusive clinic. As we entered I asked Dejax why we were here.

“You're getting some surgery to correct some defects. You'll be more beautiful when you leave here. That's really all you need to know, isn't it? You'll consent to treatment because I think it's essential if you're going to make a good bride.” She called over her mother. “Huxi, I was telling Xenia how the surgery will improve her and she's consented to everything. Isn't she a little darling?”

Minanna Puas looked pleased with me. “You are a good girl to allow this. I think we should set a date for the ceremony, Xenia.”

I tried to maintain my calmness but I felt tortured. I was filled with panic about the mysterious surgery I would allow to permanently change me, but also felt enormous gratitude that I would soon finally take my place as Dejax's wife.

Soon a doctor came to greet our party and we were taken to an office. The doctor seemed very taken with my appearance, particularly my hairstyle, and repeatedly stroked my plucked forehead. “What a beautiful flechxen!” she enthused. “I hardly ever saw any women who wore the style, mostly older women from the northern regions. I think it brings honour on a modern urban family to revive this style.”

Minanna Puas thanked her graciously. “Do undress, Nanga Xenia, and let the doctor examine you.”

Now I stood naked, displaying my bloated, tanned body.

“A few stretch marks,” she observed.

“She was awfully thin when she arrived,” Dejax explained. “She's gained very rapidly, but she's been massaged daily to reduce the stretch marks. I do find a few more than attractive.”

“Yes, she's quite beautiful now, very soft and round. Her colour is most pleasing. It makes her appear very much like a traditional rustic lady. But I think my work will give her an air that's more noble.”

I was asked to sign the consent form, which I did. I scanned through the pages rapidly but my reading remained poor, only decoding each letter with effort. I had no idea precisely what treatment was detailed. Soon, still naked, I was taken into the operating room where a team of nurses in scrubs waited for me. I lay on the bed and felt a needle being inserted into the back of my hand. I felt a need to escape, felt with clarity that I was giving away too much. Everything started to fade.

I woke feeling nausea. I was too confused to be much aware of anything but the need to control my need to vomit. I was being spoken to but Jertulian seemed too complex to be meaningful. I nodded, seeming to sense unconsciously what was being asked. I only wanted to sleep to avoid this pain and sickness. Soon I succeeded and slipped back into a reverie.

But the dreams were no consolation. I found myself in a strange tower, labyrinthine and baroque. I wanted to leave but the corridors led me back to my starting point or else ended in a blank wall and I'd have to retrace my path. I encountered numerous inhabitants of the tower: strange, menacing grotesques who treated me with disdain and cruelty. Even the servants treated me badly, refusing to do my bidding, conspiring to bring calamity on me.

I woke feeling suddenly alert. I was in a white room and Minanna Harosul was seated nearby. I greeted her. “Are we still at the hospital?” I asked. My voice was strange, nasal, low, lisping.

“No, you're in Minanna Puas' residence. You'll stay for a week to recover.”

“Did everything go well?” I asked, now aware that my tongue felt sore at the tip.

“Of course. Please be more circumspect when asking about your surgery, Nanga Xenia. It makes it sound like you have no trust in your excellent surgeon.”

I apologised and said I'd meant no disrespect.

“What has been done to me?” I asked.

“Some enhancements to your face. You've had a little piece of tissue excised from the tip of your tongue too. It will give a nice shape to your tongue but it's primarily to induce a lisp which is desirable. And your vocal cords have been treated to lower your voice. You did have a rather grating voice before and our hope is that you'll sound more attractive. The doctor has given you a new mixture to smoke to help maintain a deeper voice without making you too woozy to follow your lessons.”

I could see that I had a dressing over my nose and my lips were so sore that I knew they'd been altered, but my tutor wouldn't supply any more information. It was only when I asked to visit the toilet that I realised that my genitalia had been subjected to modification. I cursed in English as I realised that I was heavily stitched, but my swollen belly stopped me from seeing what had been done. Minanna Harosul was furious with me for my reaction but I demanded to know what had happened.

“It's my body. You can't do this to me, can't do this and then not even tell me what has been done. It's my body!”

Soon she'd taken control again. She used a leather strap to beat the palms of my hands until I was crying. I sat sobbing on the edge of the bed.

“It most definitely is not your body, Nanga Xenia,” she spat angrily. “You've betrothed yourself to a young lady of a very fine family and as her betrothed you owe yourself to her, body and soul. You do her and yourself dishonour in this childish behaviour. Prostrate yourself to me and beg forgiveness. Three prostrations, now.”

I did as Minanna Harosul asked, with great difficulty given the soreness of my body. By the time I rose from the floor for the third time I was exhausted and shaking, worried I'd done something to damage my healing wounds. “You're forgiven, Nanga Xenia,” she said. “Let's put your behaviour down to the medication and never speak of it again.” I thanked her.

I was surprised that the smoking that the doctor had recommended now took the form of cigarettes. I'd never so much as tried a cigarette and my use of the pipe seemed somehow different to smoking as it was practised back in Britain. Now I had to accept that I was a smoker.

“That looks rather common,” Minanna Harosul commented as I lit my first ever cigarette. “I think you should only indulge this habit in private. I think I'd die of shame if Minanna Puas saw you like this. Still, it will help you to develop a richer voice. The doctor wants you to hold the smoke in your throat to maximise the effects.”

My throat felt raw following my recent treatment and the smoke was unbearable. I tried to suppress my coughing reflex, since that only produced sharp pain. Minanna Harosul looked at me with undisguised disappointment. “Despite all my efforts there's still a coarseness to you that seems irredeemable. I suppose we just have to work harder at perfecting the surface so that the deep flaws might go unnoticed. At least you should have a cigarette holder to add a little respectability. I'd hate to think you'd have yellow fingers like a common factory worker.”

The revelations of my new appearance came gradually. I was, after a few days, allowed to see a mirror and saw that my lips had been puffed up (extra tissue had been grafted in, meaning that the change was permanent). I could see that my cheekbones had had implants inserted and now pushed outward through the soft pads of fat that had grown over my cheeks. My nose remained covered by a dressing, though bruising was visible around my eyes. I'd had my Botox renewed and my face was stiller, less mobile than ever.

More days passed and I returned to the hospital. The stitches were taken from my genital wounds. “May I see?” I asked the doctor, who was more obliging than my tutor or my new family, and provided me with a mirror. I saw, to my horror, that a full labiaplasty had been performed and my sex was strangely smooth and featureless. “The reconstructed hymen has taken well,” she observed, “but you should be gentle with it until it heals.”

“Is it ready to be pierced?” Dejax asked excitedly.

“I see no reason why not,” the doctor replied. A few minutes later I felt a sting as I was pierced in my new hymen. I felt glad of the pain, felt that I needed suffering to remind me that I was alive. She pulled the dressing from my nose and examined it. It was still tender and as she tugged at my septum ring I thought I would faint, so intense was the shock.

“I'm very pleased,” she smiled. “You look so different, Nanga Xenia.” She held up a mirror.

I wanted her to tug at the ring again to hurt me, so anguished was I by what I saw. My nose had been narrowed, but as I turned it from side to side I saw that the skin at the bridge was stretched tight over a large implant. My nose was extremely prominent, jutting, eagle-like.

I looked at Dejax imploringly. Surely this was a joke, something that could be undone. I saw only happiness in her expression, a serene joy. Could she really find this huge nose attractive?

“She looks like Princess Hessijex more than ever,” she said ecstatically.

The doctor agreed. “Yes, the regal nose, the roundness of her cheeks, the high flechxen. She is a real beauty. She just needs the bridal...”

“Please, doctor, she doesn't need to know. She prefers to find out gradually. It helps her to become my perfect bride a little at a time.”

The doctor smiled indulgently. “I'm sure she's very happy with what she's becoming. You are most lovely, Nanga Xenia.”

I felt like I was going crazy, or more specifically that everyone else was. If everyone else shares the same delusion is the sane person crazed?

I was so shocked by my new appearance that I wanted to retreat into myself, yet Dejax seemed so taken with my transformation that I found her eager to take me out to show me off. Everywhere we went I drew admiring comments. People would ask to have their picture taken with me and Dejax made it clear that I should always treat this as a sincere compliment and indulge them. Dejax was less hurtful when she spoke to me now. It seemed that I had become so lovely that her heart melted every time she looked at me.

And yet I was profoundly hurt each time I saw myself. I had become fat and ugly, my ludicrous nose and hair just unbearable. My eyelashes were now always gummed into the spidery clumps that Dejax favoured (twice weekly I had to endure them being re-glued by a maid: the removal of the glue always pulled out more lashes and each time my eyelids were more sparsely fringed so that the treatment had now become unavoidable), only adding to my discomfort in my appearance. My thighs were so massive that my gait was affected. I could not accept that I was beautiful.

It was as my healing was progressing that I was introduced to Hallena. Minanna Harosul introduced her as my donor, so I thought but as the introductions continued I realised that I must have misheard her and it was I who would be her donor. Hallena came from a poor family in a distant town and had from an early age been very spiritual. She had decided to become a nun within a devout community based on the teaching of Munk.

I was very surprised at her appearance. She was, I discovered later, about to reach twenty-one but looked younger. Unlike almost every girl I'd met in Jertul, she was slender and fine boned. She was extremely pretty and looked most un-Jertulian. She was fair skinned, but had very long black hair, which was exceptionally fine and glossy. She was dressed in worn cheap jeans and a faded t-shirt, which I knew in Jertul was a style of dress only adopted by the poorest, but she would have been completely at home in Britain.

“There was an old tradition, mostly no longer observed, but worth reviving, that every bride would, prior to her nuptials, take on a novice nun to act as a guide. In return for her gift, the bride will pay for the novice to be accepted into the community. Hallena's family are very poor and could never pay for her to enter the community, so through your benevolence you can allow her to attain a status otherwise beyond her. And she's an English student so I've agreed that you can converse in English to allow her to improve her language.”

I was immediately very taken with Hallena. She was shy, self-conscious, self-deprecating, but highly intelligent, sensitive, full of wonder and curiosity. She'd always questioned convention and was fascinated to hear about how life was where I'd grown up. I told her that in England she'd be considered a great beauty, but she refused to believe me.

“I always took to heart the passage in Munk where he says that we should take what we need from the world and no more. I ate sparingly, which upset my parents. People always said I had a pretty face but I'm so skinny, like a... guffekx.” I looked at her without understanding. “An old, scrawny goat that can't give milk. That's what we call girls with no flesh.”

“Well in England fat women are teased about being unattractive. You'd find a lot of admirers there, and everyone would find me embarrassing.” She thanked me but I knew she found it impossible to believe me, and thought I was being less than honest out of kindness.

I enjoyed Hallena's company very much but her presence in my house brought other pleasures too. Because I took regular instruction with her (actually no more than long chats) my lessons with Minanna Ggretxer were reduced. And I was allowed regular trips into the city with Hallena. On the day after our introduction we went to purchase her robes. The poorly dressed girl emerged wearing deep red robes, embroidered in a typical Jertulian tradition. She turned shyly to show off her clothes. “Nanga Xenia, I feel so grateful to you. I've always dreamed of devoting myself to spiritual study but my family are so poor that I thought I would have had to take a job in a factory. I'd almost given up hope when a member of Minanna Puas' family heard about me and came to offer me the opportunity. A week later and I would have sold my hair and the chance would have gone forever.”

“Sold your hair?” I said, shocked. “Why?”

“I looked after my hair because I always hoped I might have a donor position become available one day. But hair like this is no good for a factory so I would have had it cut and sold it for a few notes to repay my family.”

“But you have lovely hair! That would have been so sad.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I'm proud that my hair pleases you. That's my gift to you.”

“You're so sweet, Hallena. I wish you could be with me always.”

Minanna Harosul interrupted and told me that I had a beauty appointment, but that Hallena could accompany us, since she might help to keep my spirits up. I felt wary at this, wondering what sort of appointment could be so threatening to my mood. We arrived soon after at a dentist and I knew something awful was planned.

I wasn't wrong. I was told that I would have some gold crowns fitted, a sign of beauty and traditionally thought to bestow good luck on a marriage. I lay back in the chair and tried to prepare myself. The dentist appeared, faceless behind a mask, a net covering her hair. Only her eyes were visible behind tinted glasses. She had a provincial accent that I found almost incomprehensible, but her gestures made me aware of what was expected of me to comply with my latest humiliation.

I accepted the painful injections stoically. I'd long since accepted my helplessness in the face of Dejax's plans to transform me. I tried to tell myself that I'd endured worse, but I'd always been proud of my even white teeth and as I felt the drill start to remove the surface of my upper central incisor I wanted to cry.

It was late in the afternoon when I was fitted with the newly cast crowns, after a long delay while the gold was cast. I looked in the mirror and pulled my lips back in curiosity. I heard a gasp of delight from Hallena. “Nanga Xenia, you have a diastema!”

I realised that she meant that I had a gap between my central upper teeth, which now glittered, smooth and golden. The incisors immediately below were also now capped in yellow metal, but no gap separated them. I intuited that the gap was seen as desirable in Jertulian women.

“It's rather a small diastema,” the dentist explained apologetically, “unavoidable with her teeth. But with regular insertion of a wedge it can be expanded to something more substantial, or, should I say, less substantial?” she laughed. She pressed a narrow taper of slightly spongy wood into the gap, then pushed it in with considerable force. It felt like a large seed had uncomfortably lodged itself in my teeth.

“You can wear this during sleep and between meals when in private. You need to wear it frequently to get the maximum effectiveness.” Minanna Harosul and Hallena promised to ensure my compliance.

The tension of the day had exhausted me and left me with a headache, but my return home was treated with great importance by Dejax, so much so that I had to show off my new teeth to Huxi.

“It looks simply beautiful,” Huxi said. “I wish that more young women would be as open to tradition as you, Xenia. I think you're an example of good grace and noble appearance.”

I thanked her but felt more separated than ever from the person I was inside.

The work at the chemical plant kept Dejax increasingly busy and for a few nights at a time she would not return home now. My loneliness was kept at bay by my new friendship with Hallena. She was a delight to be with, although my pleasure at her presence was tinged with a guilt that my feelings toward her were rather more than was appropriate for a betrothed woman.

Since she tended to follow me everywhere I was unsurprised when she accompanied me on a visit to my monthly appointment with Minanna Kadax, more surprised that I was allowed to make the journey without Minanna Harosul. I had grown to resent the full day my treatment took, the perming taking most of the time. But first I lay back in the wide framed chair that was now necessary to support my ample body as Kadax plucked my eyebrows and forehead to ensure that I remained immaculately smooth.

“Your friend, would you agree that she would look very honourable if she were to wear the flechxen?” Kadax asked, studying Hallena. I was taken aback at this suggestion. Hallena had such natural beauty and I felt it would be sinful to inflict on such a tender girl the brutal plucking I'd endured.

Yet when I looked at her she was blushing with pride and I saw in her eyes as she glanced shyly at me that she was begging for my approval. I couldn't bring myself to grant it so easily.

“Hallena is to become a novice, she's to enter a community. Would it be appropriate for such a spiritual young woman to wear such a style?”

My attempt to spare her the indignity was a failure. “The flechxen was worn as a symbol of purity and devotion to the teachings of the most humble leader,” Hallena informed me, referring to Munk.

I mumbled a few words to Kadax giving my consent, but I was hurt at what I felt was a betrayal of Hallena. Within minutes she sat at my side and her hair was being torn from her scalp.

I was taken to another part of the salon to have my roots dyed black and for an hour I was unable to see Hallena. As I returned to my earlier place I saw a new Hallena smiling gently at me. Her beautiful eyebrows were gone and her lovely hair was wound onto the wooden perming rods that I'd had to endure so often. I felt an intense sadness that her natural beauty was gone now, that she was undergoing something of the same process that had made me into the odd creature I saw in the mirror.

Hallena had collected the long hair that had been plucked from her and was braiding it intently to provide some purpose during the long hours that our perms would occupy. I found myself feeling morose to see her so altered and once my rods were in place and the chemicals applied I demanded to be accompanied to the smoking room, where I asked for one of the stronger mixtures to be prepared. I'd been denied such potent mixtures at home for the most part since they clouded my mind and made me less able to perform well in my lessons. But today I would seek solace in the numbness that they provided. I wanted the tedious hours that the perm took to pass more quickly, wanted to forget my misery at my enforced exile, wanted to forget the hurt of seeing my beloved Hallena robbed of her innocence.

The pipe had piqued my appetite and I requested a large meal to be brought. After feasting I made my way back to the salon and fell asleep under the dryer.

I'd seemingly lost some of my tolerance for the herbs I'd smoked. I had vivid dreams of the home I'd left behind and awoke feeling sad and lonely. I glanced up and saw Hallena. Her hair had been fixed into a braided style, impossibly cumbersome on her fine head. I stared at her plucked skull, astonished by how far back her hairline had been plucked (yet, I had to admit, no more had been stripped than on my own head). Her delicately boned skull was exposed at the front, enclosed by the intricately wound voluminously frizzy braids.

She wore make-up for the first time since we'd met. Her bright eyes were thickly outlined, cat-eye points sweeping outwards. She had thin arching lines in place of her annihilated brows and her lashes were gummed into the same spiny clumps as mine. Her lips were painted with a black Cupid's bow.

It was all too much, it only detracted from her natural beauty, and yet, she looked delighted. “Nanga Xenia, look at me! I never imagined I could have such beautiful hair and make-up. Thank you so much for letting me have this.”

I wanted nothing more than to see her happy and found myself trying to accept her makeover.

Minanna Kadax seemed intent on giving me a style much more elaborate than Hallena's. I left the salon with a huge teased beehive style towering behind my plucked forehead, the style supported by a scaffolding of foam blocks concealed under the sweeps of stiffly lacquered hair. The back had been twisted into an overly complex pleat, decorated with numerous jewelled pins. I despised the style but had to admire Kadax's craft. It was certainly ambitious and she'd executed it with considerable flair.

Back at my lodge I realised that no one was present and I relaxed with Hallena. I lit a cigarette (I'd become hooked now, after weeks of Minanna Harosul's insistence on regular smoking to encourage my deeper voice). “May I try one?” Hallena asked.

“You don't smoke, do you? They're bad for you. I don't like smoking in front of you, it reminds me how weak I am to need cigarettes.”

“Please, Xenia, I want to be a normal girl for once. All the girls I knew back home smoked but I was never allowed, because I was supposed to be a good girl. I was never popular because I was so thin. It got worse at puberty when all the other girls started to fatten themselves and I was eating less because I had vowed. It was a very lonely time.”

I reluctantly offered her one and lit it for her. She nervously took some of the smoke into her mouth and blew it out. She smiled at me. “It's very harsh. I'm not sure I like it.”

“I don't want you to. It's very addictive.” She took another drag, deeper now. I stared at her and felt my lust growing. Hallena was like a stranger to me, with her severe make-up and radically changed hair. Now she was smoking too and her purity and innocence seemed lost, but that only made me feel a terrible desire for her, despite my betrothal and her vow to become a nun.

She stared into my eyes and I sensed that my arousal was reciprocated. “I don't know you any more, Hallena,” I whispered. “You're like a stranger.”

“Don't you like me any more?”

I reached out to stroke her plucked scalp. “Oh, my sweet little Hallena, I wish this hadn't been done. You had such lovely hair. And such a naturally beautiful face. You don't need this.”

“Don't say that, Xenia. I wish I was a beautiful as you. You're the most lovely woman I ever saw. Since we met I've been struggling with my vows, wishing I was as beautiful as you, wanting to let myself be transformed.”

“Oh Hallena. Sometimes I've wished I could be with you. Run away from here, go back to England with you and start a new life.”

“That can never be. They'd never let you. You're betrothed to someone from a very powerful family. If you tried to break off your engagement Dejax would have you sent to a Munk community and you'd become a nun for the rest of your life.”

I smiled. “She wouldn't do that. She loves me.”

“She would, Xenia. Her family are very traditional and impropriety isn't an option. Besides, you can't go back to England, you're a Jertulian now. I overheard Harosul talking about it. They had your British citizenship ended. You'll never be allowed to leave the country again.” I wanted to think that it was all a lie but I knew that Hallena couldn't possibly make up such a story. And I'd perhaps sensed that Dejax's refusal to allow me to maintain my ties with home had implied that she would make it impossible for me to leave, but I was anguished that such important decisions had been made without my consent.

“If you'd stayed in England you'd still be as thin as me and we'd never have met. I'm not sorry that Dejax brought you here.” She put the cigarette to her black lips again and drew in more smoke. She looked cruel, evil to me now, yet more beautiful for all that. I stroked her bald scalp again, caressed her stiff curls. “Kiss me,” I begged her.

She put her lips to mine and I felt her passion, her hot blood. I took her slender body in my heavy arms and drew her to me. “We shouldn't, Nanga Xenia,” she said, shame audible in her voice. “Even a kiss would condemn us.”

“Then we've already damned ourselves, haven't we? We have nothing more to lose from going further.”

I started to undress her and she was unresisting. I maintained the haughty indifference that I knew Dejax found so seductive and I sensed that it was no less affecting to Hallena. She moaned, despite her efforts to resist this transgression. “Please, Nanga,” she panted. “My hymen is intact. It would be disaster for me if it was torn.”

“Mine has been repaired too and you have to make the same promise.” I pulled up my skirt to show her my surgically altered sex, still faintly scarred with pink lines. She gasped and knelt before me, kissed gently at the sensitive tissue. “Strip me naked,” I begged her. “Be rough with me, reproach me for my weakness.”

She tugged at the buttons of my robe and bared my bosom. She sighed and leaned forward to take my nipple in her mouth. I felt my joy grow as her tongue slid over the stiffening tissue. “Your body is just perfect,” she sighed. “I've been in love with you since we met. And those teeth just made you irresistible. I'm going to ruin my life but I can't help it. It's all your fault, you're a siren,” she laughed, but I knew there was sincerity in what she said. We were both taking a terrible risk.

I became more passive as her passion inflamed, since I knew that a Jertulian woman would find my behaviour very enticing. I wasn't wrong. I constantly had to remind her not to disturb my hairstyle (or her own), since that would arouse suspicion. Hallena was a virgin but what she lacked in technique she made up in energy. She was young and healthy, exercised regularly (a rarity in Jertul). I was so easily tired now that I was glad that there was no expectation that I should match her level of energy. Eventually, I was sated by her verve and took her in my heavy arms, pulling her tight to me. We looked into each other's eyes and I saw that she the sadness that had been in her eyes since she'd arrived was gone.

“I can't believe that the most beautiful woman I ever saw would like a scrawny girl like me.” I put my finger to her lips.

“You must stop doubting your beauty. You're a lovely person, inside and out. And I was brought up to admire slenderness, and I haven't lost that conditioning. I find you very beautiful. Now stop speaking and enjoy me holding you in my arms.”

It was only with a great effort that we rose from my bed and covered the traces of our indiscretion. I tried as best I could to repair Hallena's make-up. “We must never speak of this,” she said. “And we can't ever give in to weakness again. But I have no regrets. This was the happiest day of my life.”

Nor did I feel regret for my infidelity. I was guarded with Hallena now, even during the long hours we were alone together, for fear that we would be discovered. I had noticed a change in Dejax's behaviour toward Hallena. When she saw her new hairstyle she complemented her on her transformation, but then teased her cruelly about her slenderness. In the following weeks she couldn't resist making comments about Hallena, intended to embarrass her. I feared that she suspected something of our indiscretion, or else was jealous of my closeness with Hallena and wanted to undermine her position. All that she succeeded in doing was making me feel that I had to choose to side with one or the other and I invariably found myself liking Hallena better.

There was another matter that made me feel uneasy around Dejax, the issue of my British citizenship. I didn't know how to bring up the subject but it was making me uneasy, constantly on my mind. I hadn't been allowed to call my parents in months and each time I did Dejax would say it wasn't possible but that she'd arrange it in a few days.

Eventually I could contain my feelings no longer. We'd dined and I'd had a few glasses of wine. “I was thinking that I'd like to make a trip back to England next month. It's dad's sixtieth birthday and I want to see him.”

Dejax suddenly became stern. “No. No trip to England.”

“I want to go. I'll book the flight. Just give me my passport.”

She started to laugh. “No trip to England. You don't have a passport. You're a Jertulian citizen now, and you don't have a passport so you can't leave the country.”

I looked at her angrily. “And when did this happen? Didn't you think I should be asked?”

She glowered at me in silence for what seemed like hours. “Don't ever take that tone with me again. I've seen how you are with Hallena. If I mentioned it to Huxi she'd have you sent to a nunnery for the rest of your days and Hallena would be sent to work in a factory. You'll be a good obedient wife and accept my decisions without complaint or I'll make Hallena pay. And first I want to hear you accept that you think I did the right thing to end your ties with Britain. Tell me that you want no more involvement with your old life and that your new family is the only family you need.”

I looked at her with tears in my eyes. “Please Dejax, I can't not hear from my parents ever again.”

“Say it now or Hallena will be working in one of my father's factories tomorrow and I'll make sure she has a very difficult life there.”

I was sobbing as I realised I had no choice. Dejax wouldn't let me ever leave the country, and all she wanted was my promise to accept her decision. But I couldn't bear to think of Hallena's dream of becoming a student of her religion being taken from her, of her being condemned to a life as a factory worker. “I accept it,” I said, defeated. “No more links with my old life.”

She gave a gloating smile, triumphant in the power she held over me. “Now get to bed, Xenia, I can't bear to look at you right now. Tomorrow all this will be forgotten and we'll never mention it again.”

I expected that my relationship with Hallena would now be curtailed, since Dejax appeared to know of our feelings (did she know that we'd gone beyond mere longing?), but surprisingly she did nothing to limit our contact. Dejax now began to take me to social events, and more often than not Hallena acted as our chaperone. I realised that my appearance was now the subject of admiration, that everywhere I went Dejax's standing was increased by the beauty of her consort. In particular my hairstyle brought compliments. We were often asked to pose for photographs.

“I've always loved the flechxen,” she would say to those who paid me compliments, “and I didn't see any reason why it couldn't be revived in modern Jertul. This one” (she indicated Hallena) “wears it too, but I'm not sure it's so becoming on such a guffekx.” I started to realise how Hallena must always have been bullied and mocked because of her appearance. She took the insults without rancour but I knew she was hurt.

Within weeks of my debut into the social milieu of the upper tier of Jertul I realised that I had started a trend. A friend of Dejax was also engaged and her fiancée (a short, timid girl named Greantcha) had soon metamorphosed from modern dress to a look much closer to mine. Her long curls had been plucked, exposing the front of her scalp in a flechxen almost as severe as my own. I was astonished to see that she seemed pleased with her new look. Within a few months I'd seen a dozen or more women adopt the hairstyle.

I was allowed to meet up with some of my new acquaintances during the day for lunch. They were mostly rather dull women and I rarely joined in their conversation (partly because I still found it difficult to comprehend Jertulian when more than one person was talking). However, my reticence seemed to give me a Sphinx-like mystery, rather than being regarded as mere rudeness. I was soon regarded as something of a mentor by these women and everything I did say was received as if I'd said something meaningful.

But it was Hallena I longed to be with, and I admitted to myself that I loved her more than Dejax. I saw my wife rarely (I still regarded our marriage as valid, though no one else in my adopted country felt the same) since she worked ever longer hours. I frequently fell asleep before Dejax returned home and days would pass when we wouldn't say a word to each other.

Hallena confessed to me that she felt enormous guilt about our liaison. She had vowed to remain chaste and to avoid intoxicants and on that day her actions fell short of the high standards she'd always set for herself. Worse, she had lied to her teacher about her indiscretions, because she knew that to tell the truth would hurt me. We pledged never to physically act again on our mutual feelings. I knew it had to be this way but it was with a heavy heart that I acknowledged that Hallena's relations with me would now be platonic. But for all that I adored her company. She was wise and tender and full of bright humour.

It was during one of my teaching sessions with Hallena that we were summoned to the main house. I entered and sensed that something important was happening. Dejax and her mother were present, along with two other women, who were introduced as Huxi's sisters.

“We've decided that the wedding feast should take place in two weeks,” Dejax informed me. “You'll undergo all of the necessary ceremonies to prepare yourself to be my bride, Nanga Xenia, and on the sixteenth of this month we'll be married.” I knew that the feast was an elaborate affair, with numerous guests, and I knew that the decision to stage it on this day must have been made many months previously, but that I was the last one to be informed.

“It gives me great honour, Nanga Dejax. I hope I may be a worthy consort to a fine lady of your standing.” I had no trouble maintaining an expressionless face, for in truth I felt no joy at the prospect of being Dejax's bride. However, my new aunts were impressed with my passivity and lavishly praised my beauty.

Huxi was keen to point out my earlier failings. “Minanna Harosul has worked miracles with her. When I first met her she was so awkward, and, I have to say, quite the little English guffekx. She was skinny and pallid, she had brown hair (her lovely dark hair is dyed, to let you in on a secret). She took a long time to adapt her behaviour but I soon began to see how she'd been hiding her beauty in that unbecoming body. Once she started to enjoy her food she blossomed.”

Dejax now spoke. “You and Hallena can go to see Minanna Kadax this afternoon. She'll get your hair looking nice and pretty. Tomorrow is Hallena's big day, the donor ceremony.”

I knew better than to ask what was the meaning of the ceremony. Within an hour I had arrived at the salon with Hallena but once there I was the subject of much attention from some of the other patrons, because of my imminent nuptials. I had to abandon Hallena to Kadax's care as my new acquaintances insisted on taking me to a lavish luncheon. I returned an hour or more later, my belly now stuffed and my consciousness dulled by excessive smoking.

Hallena smiled modestly at me from beneath the dryer where her perm was being baked into tight curls. She looked so tiny and vulnerable, the chair made for the comfort of those of far more ample body than Hallena, the huge hood, towering monstrously over her delicate head.

Kadax took me to a private booth where she congratulated me. “You've become quite renowned for your beauty and your presence is an honour to my salon.” Her obsequiousness was far from her treatment of me in the early days of our acquaintance. “I hope that when you're a married lady that you'll continue to bless my modest enterprise with your patronage.”

“I'd hope that would be so, my good wife permitting.”

She started to pluck at my bare scalp, ensuring that it was free of fine hairs. “The day I gave you your flechxen was a happy day for me. I didn't imagine it would cause such a stir. I've seen more and more women returning to the style. I've even considered submitting my own tresses to a small flechxen, although it would have to be a modernised version. Do you think it would be acceptable to adapt such a tradition for a contemporary style?”

I realised that she was asking my permission to wear a flechxen, as if I had some ownership of the style. Her hair had grown somewhat since our first meeting, but was still short: the nape was cropped close and the curls on top were styled into a voluminous short bob, swept into a side part and jutting out widely at the sides over her half exposed ears. “I think it would enhance the nobility of your features, Minanna Kadax,” I said coldly. “I see no reason why you shouldn't adopt the style immediately. Perhaps you could be plucked this afternoon while I'm being permed. It would amuse me to see you being made beautiful.”

Kadax seemed unable to resist me, my every word being accepted more as an order than a suggestion. As two stylists wound my long locks onto the rods she asked for a chair to be set up before me. She sat and an older stylist, who I knew to be Kadax's deputy, began to remove the hair from her forehead.

I wore a faint smile as I watched her grimace at the unexpected discomfort that the plucking caused. Perhaps the experience would allow her to be more sympathetic to her customers. She was clearly unprepared for the suffering her colleague was inflicting.

Her hair was ripped out with ruthless efficiency and I was reminded of my first experience of the flechxen. But I felt only pleasure in Kadax's discomfort. She had treated me with disdain for the greater part of our acquaintance, only recently seeming to regard me as sufficiently influential to seek to cultivate a closer relationship. “Perhaps you should make a deeper flechxen,” I suggested, knowing that Kadax's obsequiousness wouldn't allow her better judgement to prevail.

“Yes, I think that's a good idea,” she said to her tormentor. Soon a large area of her scalp was bared, glowing red and obviously tender from the plucking. Kadax took in her new image in the mirror, smiling vainly. “Oh my...” she whispered, seemingly entranced by her own loveliness. I thought it only revealed her absurdity, her rather heavy features exposed unflatteringly by her growing baldness.

Soon after Dejax arrived to supervise my treatment. She looked at Kadax with undisguised anger. “Whatever did you do?” she asked after a long pause to intimidate the hairdresser. “It looks absurd that you tried to adapt a tradition to a modern short cut. I think you bring dishonour on Jertul with this.”

Kadax looked ashamed and made several attempts to defend herself but each time her words foundered.

“By day's end I'd hope you'd use extensions to make your hair look acceptable. But if you are going to wear a flechxen you should adapt your clothing too. You can't wear such a noble style with westernised dress. You are paying attention, aren't you?” Kadax was obviously hurt by this criticism and her anxiety manifested as great distraction.

“Yes, Nanga Dejax,” she said softly, her voice on the verge of breaking tearfully. “I'll make sure my wardrobe adapts to your suggestions.” She was dismissed with an irritated waft of Dejax's hand.

She then turned her attention to me. “I've been studying an old treatise on beauty, written some time in the fifteenth or early sixteenth century. It described the flechxen as being a plucking of the forehead and nape. I think the tradition became lost at some point and we should revive it in its original state. Ladies, would you please pluck Nanga Xenia's nape up to here?”

Her indication of the extent of my new torture was lost since it was out of my eyeline. I knew I was expected to maintain my passivity and that is what I did. I felt the rods being eased from my hair upward from my neck and beginning with the fine, downy hairs on my neck, my stylists began plucking me. The pain grew as they tugged away small clumps of thicker hairs. I regretted that this hadn't been performed earlier when I was still numbed by the herbs I'd smoked, since their effects had largely worn off. I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the gnawing discomfort.

I looked at myself in the mirror as a little more of my self-image was eroded. A bald nape was by no means the worst that had been done to me, but suddenly I saw myself with a clarity. I hated what I'd become, a parody of the girl I used to be. My black hair was wound tightly on the wooden bobbins and my baldness looked more exposed than ever. My face was round, cheeks bulging, my chin almost lost in the roll of fat which had grown around my thick neck. I parted my thickened lips and saw the gold teeth, which had now been wedged apart so that a wide gap separated them. Worst of all was the nose that had been grafted on, a large, ugly intrusion that I would never be able to accept as beautiful, no matter how many times my new acquaintances told me how noble it was. I maintained a calm face solely because of the Botox that had paralysed my expression. I wanted to cry.

Presently my nape was declared completed and Dejax confirmed her approval. I lifted my hand and felt the smooth scalp that had been bared high up my head, almost to the top of my ears. I saw the plucked curls and felt a horror to think that half of my head was now devoid of hair. My remaining hair was doused with the smelly perming fluid and my head was wrapped in plastic film before I was taken to recline under a huge dryer. The heat made my tortured nape burn agonisingly.

Despite my discomfort I fell asleep as the curls were fixed into my hair and dreamed that I was walled into a cell in some religious commune. My only contact with the outside world was a small hatch through which I passed the bucket in which I expelled my waste and where food was passed to me by some unseen wordless keeper. Despite the paucity of the provisions (dry, tasteless biscuits), in my dream I remained obese. I was despairing in my loneliness and called out constantly, begging someone to say something, but I'd heard no human voice for years. I awoke feeling intensely sad.

Dejax stayed to approve the styling of my hair but didn't accompany me home. I returned in Hallena's company, but I couldn't bring myself to engage in conversation. Her long hair had been curled into ringlets and she'd been given harsh, aggressive make-up, similar to that on the day when we'd committed our act of weakness. I couldn't bear to look at her: I disliked this excessive make-up, but was at the same time fascinated by how it made her look (there was something dangerous, evil in her features now), and I was afraid I'd weaken again. I asked her to leave me once I was home.

I stared in the mirror at myself. My thick, frizzy curls had been wound into two thick plaits which hung over my ears, and reached almost to my waist. I stroked sadly at the tender bared skin on my nape. I let my tears flow, mourning my loss, and my outpouring of emotion only seemed to intensify my regret. I was lost, lost forever in this land which would always remain foreign to me. I knew that to go through my ceremony with Dejax was a mistake, that I no longer loved her, but I recognised that the time when the mistake could be remedied had long passed. My life would now follow an inevitable course and I had no control over its direction.

I cried until I fell asleep through exhaustion. It was much later when I was awakened by Dejax. She looked to be in a terrible mood.

“Look at you,” she scolded. “You've been crying. This is supposed to be the happiest time in your life and you look miserable and ugly. What is wrong with you?”

I looked at her in shame. I could never tell her how I felt, since I feared her rage would lead her to violence. “I'm homesick,” I said meekly. “Imagine how you would feel if you were never to see Jertul again.”

She snorted. “It's hardly the same. I never heard you once express the same sort of pride in your homeland as I feel for this place. It's in my thoughts constantly. You're privileged to be allowed to live here.”

“I am,” I agreed. “But still, all of my family, my old family, my old friends... I miss them.”

“And you decide to ruin our festivities by upsetting yourself with all this nonsense now? I should end our betrothal and send you to a nunnery for the rest of your days. And I would if it didn't bring shame on my family.” She left the room and returned after a few minutes. In her hands were some heart-shaped leaves, their fine surface marked with a red reticulations, she folded two of the leaves into a wad and passed them to me.

“Chew at them gently and hold the juices in your mouth. It will relax you. For the time until we're married you can chew some gherts leaves each day. They're a powerful sedative and they will take away your sadness.” I bit on the leaves and tasted an intense bitterness. I started to salivate immediately and struggled not to swallow.

Dejax wiped the smeared make-up from my face. “Your lashes are ruined, you naughty girl,” she said, but her admonishments were playful, her anger burnt-out now. “Kadax will come in the morning to fix them. But you are so beautiful, Xenia. Look at how big you are! I never dreamed when we met that I could make you so fat and lovely. You were just an ordinary British girl but now every day you start to become a princess from a fairy tale. People everywhere think you're the most beautiful woman they ever saw but on our wedding day you'll be lovelier still. I want you to be famed throughout the land for your perfection.”

I felt weirdly split as Dejax's compliments inflamed a desire in me, my earlier depression and doubt not dispelled, but at the same time believing that she had made me beautiful. My confusion only grew as I was provided with a spittoon to allow my excessive saliva to be expelled. I was ashamed as a stream of greenish liquid dribbled from my lips yet Dejax seemed to see nothing shameful in this. For a moment I hoped that she would finally end our long period of chastity, but she was too strong willed to submit to her desire, particularly since soon she would no longer have to restrain her feelings. My own inflamed passions were suddenly curtailed by an intense sleepiness induced by the herbs.

I awoke the next morning feeling a troubling aching throughout my body, as well as an intense hunger. Dejax had arrived very early to oversee my preparations for my donor ceremony and seemed unsurprised by my malaise. “It's the natural consequence of chewing gherts. There's only one sure cure, which is to chew more.” I was unresisting as she slipped another wad into my mouth, the bitterness seeming somehow more attractive than it had at my first experience. Soon the aching in my limbs was replaced by a delicious tingling heaviness. After a substantial breakfast had dispelled my hunger I was bathed by a servant and my hair combed out and braided again. I was dressed in a tightly fitting robe of deep red, a lavishly embroidered sash tied around me. My neck was hung with numerous heavy chains of precious metals.

Kadax was waiting for me as I left the bathroom. She was almost unrecognisable from the woman I'd encountered a day earlier. She now had long hair, fashioned into a dozen braids hanging behind her bald frontal area, the tresses decorated with golden rings and pins. Her make-up was traditional and her westernised clothes were gone, replaced by a white embroidered gown of archaic design. She looked very much the traditional Jertulian matron now.

“Minanna Kadax, what a noble look you have,” I said, causing her obvious pleasure.

“I've been expressing my delight in her transformation,” Dejax said. “I've been telling our good stylist how she should work toward making her salon a much more traditional establishment. I have powerful friends who think that Jertulian women should adopt a more historically aware image, purged of outsider influences and a salon that catered to these ideals could be very well regarded.”

“So all of your employees would have to wear the flechxen?” I asked.

“I think that would be essential,” Dejax answered. I could see that Kadax was less convinced. Some of her stylists were very vain and imposing such a radical style on them would obviously be problematic.

“Well, in theory I like the idea but it may cause some of my best stylists to leave.”

“Don't you worry, I'm sure they can be persuaded,” Dejax laughed. “I'll speak to them after my wedding.”

Kadax thanked her obsequiously.

My eyelashes were renewed into the glued spikes that had become my permanent look. As Kadax removed the glue my natural lashes were temporarily exposed. The process had meant that my eyelashes had been damaged, the heavy adhesive causing many hairs to be pulled out. My lashes were now very sparse, which only looked more absurd because the hairs were abnormally long. Kadax expertly applied the glue and the long strands of feather to frame my eyes in the style which so pleased Dejax (of course, Kadax herself had now incorporated the glued lashes into her personal image). Today my lashes were made longer than ever before, and then I was given a heavy mask of make-up. Black lips, thick kohl around my eyes, glittering powder over my cheekbones, thin pencilled arching brows. My septum was fitted with a new ring, filigreed with gold, and from the stretched holes in my lobes were hooked large discs of tooled platinum.

Dejax was delighted with Kadax's work and told me I looked more lovely than ever. She was taken to dress and informed me that she would meet me at the hall where the ceremony would take place.

A car took me out of the city into the neighbouring mountains. At the top of a peak was an imposing building of red stone, surrounded by high walls. The inhabitants were all women, swaddled in deep red robes (they wore headdresses, and only their faces and hands were left uncovered). I assumed that they were members of a community, adherents of the same philosophy as Hallena, since their robes were very similar. A group of these women welcomed me and took me inside.

I was taken to a comfortably furnished room where I was provided with drinks. I was surprised to see that beside the drinks was a pile of gherts leaves. “You should chew these,” an older nun told me. “The ceremony is long and demanding and these will help you to maintain your dignity.” I nodded my agreement and started to chew of the bundle she made for me.

Since I could still feel the effects of the herbs I'd consumed earlier I soon felt more intoxicated than I'd previously experienced. I felt very calm yet elated, but I was also aware that everything seemed dreamlike. As I was told to rise and follow my guide I felt like I might be hallucinating everything that I was seeing.

I entered a large hall which seemed somewhat chaotic. A gallery was filled with musicians, most of whom were producing a loud drone over which a repetitive melody was being played on a braying brass instrument. There was a large body of nuns seated in two groups, left and right, chanting continuously, but each group's chant was unrelated to its opposite, and to the instrumental music. Various members of the groupings came and went, adding to the impression of disorder.

I was taken to sit at the right side of a low platform at the front of the hall. I lowered my heavy body awkwardly onto the soft cushions and made myself comfortable, aware that I would in all likelihood be here for a long time.

Two young nuns now knelt at either side of me, chanting all the time. They carefully removed the ornaments from my hair and laid them neatly on a low table. Then they unwound my braids and combed gently at my long curls.

I saw another woman being led toward the platform, my mood rising as I recognised her as Hallena. She was robed like the other nuns, but her head was bare and she wore the excessive make-up as at our last meeting. She didn't acknowledge me, but looked very serious and tense. Some older nuns sat before her and she chanted various prayers to them, repeatedly prostrating herself before them. Although my comprehension of Jertulian had increased greatly, this ceremony was being conducted in a formal, archaic version of the language, which was impossible for me to follow. Eventually Hallena knelt before them and received a blessing.

The older nuns left the stage and went to sit among the larger congregation. Now Hallena was joined by two younger nuns and they began to wash away the cosmetics from her face. They tugged at the glued lashes and my assumption that they were removing the additions to her lashes was shown to be inadequate: Hallena's lashes were being plucked from her and within minutes her face was scrubbed clean and her eyes were oddly bared by the removal of the framing lashes.

Now her attendants combed her hair, forming it into about a dozen sections which were tied close to her scalp. I saw them take shears and cut each of the tails from Hallena's head. I was sure that I was dreaming now, since I felt calm and untroubled. But now I saw Hallena with ragged tufts of hair instead of the beautiful hair she'd always had. A trickle of water was poured over her scalp and one of the attendants rubbed it across the remains of her hair to wet it. She lifted a long knife and began to press the blade over Hallena's head, shaving every trace of her dark hair.

The shaving was accomplished with astonishing rapidity. Within minutes Hallena had been transformed into a pale, delicate and utterly hairless girl. I wanted to weep for her loss, but I knew that I was expected to behave with decorum. Hallena was trying to retain her dignity but I could see a sadness in her eyes. I saw the long hanks of thick hair laid on the table beside me and two nuns began to separate the tails into fine sections. These were now carefully braided into my own hair at the roots, so that my own hair would be thickened by extensions donated by Hallena. For the first time the nature of Hallena's donation became clear to me.

The braiding of the extensions was a time-consuming process, even with two attendants working on my hair. I watched with curiosity as Hallena knelt expectantly before an older nun. Her bare scalp was carefully measured, the nun using her hands to carefully mark particular points on her cranium, which were marked with dots of ink.

Now a hooked stick was taken and the nun tapped at it with a stick so that the end repeatedly struck Hallena's scalp. Only as she dipped the tip into a small dish did I understand that she was tattooing my beloved friend. A curling line was marked on Hallena's head, at the uppermost point of her skull. Now more lines were tattooed, spiralling out from a central point. I watched with a grim fascination as a cap of lines slowly extended outward from this central point, disfiguring the pale skin forever. I wondered if Hallena would now have to maintain a shaved head forever, wondered if these other women were also bald and tattooed under their veils.

My neck was aching from maintaining a stiff posture as my hair was thickened with the added hair. And yet I knew my suffering was negligible compared to Hallena's. She had to hold her kneeling bowed posture (I estimated that the tattooing had been going on for an hour now and the design was far from complete) and endure the repeated pricks of the needle.

Now I was provided with a large meal, served on a large wooden board. Only in Jertul, I thought, would a solemn religious ceremony include such a feast. In my narcosis I had become barely aware of what was unfolding around me, or else I could concentrate on only one thing to the exclusion of all else. I became aware that another woman was beside me, sharing my feast. It took me a moment to recognise her as Dejax. She was dressed in a similar robe to mine, her head bound in a dark turban. I looked at her features and saw how marked her weight gain had been in recent months (though Dejax was now much lighter than I had become). She wore little make-up today and I was reminded of the innocence I'd seen in her face when I'd first encountered her. I felt embarrassed that I'd not been aware of her entry and had no idea how long she'd been sat alongside me. I hoped that my lack of acknowledgement of my fiancée would be perceived as a manifestation of the feigned indifference that Dejax had cultivated in me.

After completing the meal, which was accompanied by a strong wine, I noticed that a small bundle of the red tinged leaves had been placed on the board. I took them into my mouth and started to chew. I already felt a little drunk, and was still somewhat numb from my earlier exposure to the intoxicant. I began to wonder if the fresh dose of gherts was necessary to ensure my compliance with some particularly onerous section of the ceremony.

My fears weren't unfounded. Time seemed to become plastic as the gherts worked into my nervous system. I found myself becoming fascinated with the sound of the droning music, hearing every subtlety of the clashing overtones. I looked at Hallena and realised that hours had passed. Her scalp was now tattooed with a cap of intricate patterns, arranged in concentric bands emanating from the central point atop her cranium. The inked design extended onto her forehead, well below her hairline. She rose stiffly and as she raised her eyes toward me I could see how she was suffering. She prostrated herself three times to the nun who'd tattooed her and chanted a prayer. Her head was dressed with leaves, which I presumed would aid the healing of her injured scalp, and a cloth was tied to cover her scalp.

She now knelt with her head bowed and with a feeling of dread I saw the tattooist come toward me. I felt her hands reach around my head, feeling for prominences in my skull, finding the point at the top of my head, all the time softly muttering incantations. The apex that she identified was hidden just behind my hairline, but she soon remedied this. She plucked more hair from my scalp, pushing my flechxen to an even more extreme state (I later saw that it had been taken into a wide V shape, with the point about an inch further back than my previous plucking had extended). An oil was smeared over my bared pate and scrubbed away with a rough cloth with a camphoric odour. I felt the needle tapping at my scalp and I couldn't suppress a soft wail, which no one but my tormentor could hear. I was so intoxicated that I couldn't resist, and besides, I couldn't be sure that what I felt wasn't hallucinatory. Surely I wasn't being tattooed across my scalp?

The growing pain, numbed as it was by the gherts, made me feel sure that what I felt was real. I kept glancing at Hallena, although she maintained her humble posture. Would my tattoo extend across my forehead too? Would I never be able to conceal it, even if my hair was allowed to grow back?

I felt the tattoo grow in bands (it seemed that the structure was the same as Hallena's, concentric bands surrounding the apex, though mine were only arcs rather than complete circles) and as it got further forward felt an urge to beg for her to stop. I felt the needle trace a new line down the centre of my forehead, stopping only an inch above where my eyebrows had been. I could hear my breathing and I felt sure that I would no longer be able to maintain my control. I could feel tears in my eyes and imagined Dejax's reaction when I started to sob.

“Pass her the coins and prostrate yourself to her,” Dejax's voice whispered to me. I felt like I'd been roused from sleep and glanced up to see Hallena standing before me. I saw a small calfskin purse at my side, filled with gold coins. I passed it to Hallena and leaned forward to lie face down before her. I stayed in this position of humility, which I felt was appropriate for me. “Up now,” Dejax ordered and I rose with difficulty.

I was shaking as I left the hall. In the small room where I'd been earlier I was welcomed by Dejax, Huxi, Minanna Harosul and some other members of the family. I walked over to the large mirror and felt a dread at what I saw. My scalp was now permanently marked by heavy black swirls, a huge area tattooed darkly, extending to low on my forehead. And behind my hair was thicker than seemed natural or reasonable. My own hair was thick, but now I had Hallena's hair woven into my own and the heavy mane looked absurd.

But now my adoptive family gathered around me to tell me how beautiful I was. They lavishly praised my hair and my tattoo, and I saw that their admiration was sincere. It appeared that my acceptance into Jertulian society had necessitated this metamorphosis which I could surely never accept.

Bottles of champagne were provided and various toasts were made to the success of my union with Dejax. I eagerly drank up, hoping that drunkenness would provide another level of numbness to take away the horror I felt each time I glanced at the mirror.

Gradually my companions took their leave and eventually only Dejax was with me. “I think you should be allowed a moment's privacy with Hallena to say your farewell.” Hallena entered and Dejax stepped out of the room.

I looked at her sadly. “Hallena, my poor little baby, what have they done to you?” She started to sob. I took her in my arms and pressed her to me.

“It's what I wanted,” she said. “I've always wanted this, but I'm in shock. I think I'm vain, more than I'd imagined and I felt something was wrong when my head was shaved. But now I'll have a long time to get used to it,” she laughed, even though she was still crying.

“What will happen to you now?”

“I'll be sent away to live in another community. I don't know where I'll be sent, and they won't tell me even when I live there. But that's not important. I'll have no contact with the world outside. I'll dedicate myself to learning, to being disciplined.”

“Will you keep your head shaved?”

“I have to. I accepted that as part of my vows. The tattoo is a design that symbolises Munk's philosophy and to allow it to be covered with hair would be sinful. I'll shave every day. As I pass the razor over the patterns I'll think on their meaning and this act will become a meditation.”

I took the cloth from her head. She didn't resist. “You had such pretty hair,” I wailed. “And look at you now, bald and tattooed! I wish we could change all this. I wish it was us getting married.”

She looked at me sadly, but wiped away her tears and composed herself. “Xenia, you're the loveliest person I ever met but I wouldn't change anything. This is the life I chose, and you chose your life. We make a choice and that leads to a path we can't foresee but we must follow it anyway. You must love Dejax with all your heart and you must accept that she is your superior now. You will accept her will in all things. You struggle to adapt to your life in Jertul because you want to assert your desires. You have to recognise that your wilfulness is the root of your unhappiness. When you feel that Dejax has pushed you too far you should ask her to push harder still. Only then will you finally discover a stillness in your life.”

I looked at her and felt confused. Perhaps I'd never understood her, despite our closeness. Perhaps I could never really understand someone who'd grown up in such an alien culture.

“I must leave now,” she said. “We'll never meet again, Xenia, but I hope you'll remember something of me. I will certainly remember you.”

“Can't I write to you?” I said desperately. “You're the only friend I've had in Jertul, I need you, Hallena.”

“You know that's not possible. I won't even know where I live. Goodbye, Xenia.”

I tried to find some words of farewell but I stood open mouthed and wordless. I watched her slip from the room and tried to accept that she was gone from my life forever.

I awoke the next day feeling deeply ill. The gherts and champagne had combined to give the most awful hangover. My mood only worsened when I looked in the mirror. The tattoo seemed even larger and darker than it had in my memory. It seemed to dominate my features entirely. I wanted to cover it and never have to acknowledge it, yet I knew that Dejax would never permit that. I called for a maid and as Felashi entered I saw her look of surprise as she saw my tattoo.

“What are you staring at?” I asked angrily.

“Nanga Xenia, you look so beautiful. Like an angel.”

“Really? You'd like to have a similar tattoo, would you?”

“Nanga, I can only dream of such a thing. A girl so humble as me has no right to look so lovely.”

She was a sweet young girl, innocent and unassuming but I felt a real anger with her at that moment. “Well maybe you should try having your hair plucked. How about I send you to town to have your hair styled into a flechxen?”

She looked embarrassed now but she was too polite to tell me that I was acting badly. “If Nanga Xenia chooses...” she mumbled. I found myself making a call to Kadax to book her in. Kadax agreed to accept her immediately, eager to please me. It seemed that now I was regarded as influential and people wanted to have me as an ally. I called a taxi and dispatched Felashi to be made to suffer.

I chewed some gherts and took a bath. As my pain receded I started to regret my actions. I decided to call the salon and tell Kadax it had been a mistake but I realised that time had passed more quickly than I had realised (gherts always made me lose track of time) and that I was too late to save Felashi. Not only did I feel guilt about my treatment of Felashi, I felt sure that Dejax would be furious with me.

An hour later she returned with her hair plucked. I was horrified at what I'd done to her, but she seemed pleased at her transformation. She thanked me profusely. “Nanga Xenia, I never dreamed I could ever be pampered in such a lovely salon. I felt like a real lady. And my hair looks so elegant. It hurt more than I could have imagined but the pain was worth it.”

I hated how she looked. She had a round, plain face and now her brows had been plucked and her forehead extended she looked pitiful. “I'm sorry I made you suffer. I was cross and I shouldn't have acted as I did.” She looked confused by my apology.

“Nanga Xenia, no one has ever treated me so nicely. I hope I can continue to serve you after your happy day. You can be assured of my devotion to you and your noble fiancée, soon to be spouse.”

I nodded, baffled by her loyalty. “Nanga Dejax has the final say on household matters, but I'll be sure to put in a good word on your behalf.” She looked delighted and excused herself as she went to attend to her duties.

Dejax came home in the afternoon (she was away from work for a full month to attend to our ceremony). I looked at her guiltily as she greeted me. “I think you may be angry with me,” I said anxiously. “Our maid, Felashi? I sent her to Kadax's salon and had her given a flechxen.”

Dejax started to laugh. “What a lovely idea! I think that when we move to our new home we should have all of our household servants dressed traditionally, and all wearing the flechxen. I'm not sure we should send them all to Kadax's salon though. She is rather expensive.” She immediately called for Felashi and the young woman came, almost running to demonstrate her willingness.

“Oh my, look at you!” Dejax gushed. “You've become a real lady all of a sudden. I never realised you were so pretty under all that thick hair. You'll have so many admirers now. Don't be running away to get married, will you? I'd like you to be in our service for a few more years before you find a spouse.”

I was astonished at Felashi's happiness. She couldn't stop smiling, and Dejax's compliments made her breathless. “Nanga Dejax, I promise I'll serve you to the best of my ability for as long as you favour me with employment. And even if I hope one day to find a spouse, I pray that it will be a member of your household and that we can serve you together.”

Dejax agreed that this would be a blessed outcome for everyone and that she would remember Felashi when she made an offering at the convent on her wedding day.

The days passed quickly, but started to merge together in my memory. I had to attend numerous long ceremonies in various prayer houses around the city and beyond. Each time I entered I scanned the faces of the nuns, hoping that I would recognise Hallena, but she was never present (I felt certain that Dejax would have made sure that she would now live far from here, in some remote mountain retreat).

The ceremonies seemed ill-organised, and interminable. For hours, a leader would chant archaic prayers while other nuns came and went, seemingly haphazardly. I would sit at the front of the hall alongside Dejax, feeling nothing but a desire for my boredom to come to an end.

At home I rarely saw Dejax, whose time was spent ensuring that the wedding feast would be perfect in every detail. My main discomfort was that the gap in my teeth was being pushed and was wedged tighter than ever to try to ensure that it would be a little wider by the day of my marriage. I dreaded the new wooden wedge being forced home, my teeth feeling like they would break with the tension.

And finally the day arrived. I awoke early. My maids were supervised by Minanna Harosul, who directed them like a military officer. Kadax was in attendance too to see to my hair. For the first time since I'd been tattooed my head was plucked. She was careful as she went over the blackened skin (it was still a little scabbed in places), but was as thorough as ever in ascertaining that no hair remained. My nape was subject to equally stringent attention, then she put her skills into coiffing what remained of my mane.

It had to be treated with delicacy as it was combed now, since much of the roots were interwoven with Hallena's hair, but Kadax seemed skilled in managing my thickened curls. She used a sort of crimping iron and I felt myself growing embarrassed at the thought of just how much volume my permed hair would gain. Eventually she completed the treatment of all of my hair, and then carefully wound the frizzy hair into huge braids. My hair was parted down the midline of my skull, although because of the extent of the plucked areas, fore and aft, the parting was shockingly short.

My hair was fixed at the ends by being stitched, the ends doubled back and hidden so that the braids now ended in thick, blunt tips. They hung to my waist, impossibly thick (the ends were over an inch thick, and at the top, adjacent to my ears, more than three times that) and when I saw myself in a mirror the volume of the black hair made it appear that some strange wig had been fixed to the back of a bald, tattooed scalp.

I expected that adornments would be added to my plaits, and that an elaborate mask of make-up would be painted to enhance my features, but neither seemed to be part of a bride's accoutrements on her wedding day. Instead my face was anointed with a delicately perfumed oil which made my skin tingle and glow (particularly when applied to the healing tattoo), and gave a glossy sheen.

I stood naked before Minanna Harosul who smiled with satisfaction. “Today will be your transition into a new maturity. And today you must show character as you undergo the last changes to who you are. In a few hours you'll be Minanna Xenia and I want you to be fully aware of the pleasures of your commitment to Nanga Dejax. I've heard of how you enjoy being intoxicated, but today you'll have nothing to sedate you until you can be called wife.”

“Yes, Minanna,” I agreed, though with a heavy heart. I'd become dependent on my smoking and on chewing gherts. I was already anxious and I'd planned on getting though by numbing myself.

My maids now dressed me. I wore three gowns, each of the most lavish workmanship, intricately decorated with embroideries. The outer gown was of heavy crimson silk, trimmed with a yoke of leather. The silk was embroidered so thickly that I knew that months of work had been involved. The leather was patterned with brightly coloured beads of glass.

The outfit was heavy and warm. I knew that it would make me very uncomfortable during the ceremony (the weather was humid and hot), but that it had been designed precisely with this in mind. A good bride would rise above such physical challenges and focus on higher issues. I would conduct myself with the decorum that was expected of me, maintaining a visage of indifference throughout the day.

I was allowed to see myself in a mirror. “Your last look at yourself as a single girl,” Minanna Harosul gloated. “Next time you see yourself you'll be a wife, a woman.” The loose robes made me look heavier than ever, the form of my body lost within the mountainous folds. I found myself wondering what changes would be imposed on me to allow me to be accepted as Dejax's spouse.

I travelled slowly in an open carriage across the city towards a large convent (the largest and most opulent in the city) which I had attended for some of the other ceremonies. As the carriage passed I noticed that passers by would come to a stop to wave and call out messages of good luck. And as we approached the convent I saw that a large crowd had gathered, blocking access to the gate. “They want to see how pretty you are for themselves,” Minanna Harosul explained. “We'll walk the last part so that your admirers can meet you. Just stay focussed and say 'Bless you' when people wish you well.”

I walked the last couple of hundred yards to the gate very slowly, constantly muttering 'Bless you,' as there was a continuous stream of good wishes from the throng. I was initially moved by this spontaneous outpouring of goodwill, but as the crowd pressed around me, eager to touch me, I became intimidated. They pressed too close and at times I was unable to move for minutes. Only when a party of nuns opened the gate and physically began to force back the assembly was I finally able to enter.

Minanna Harosul made a few swift adjustments to my clothing and I was escorted into the large hall. The space was filled with a rich incense and the chanting which seemed to accompany every ceremony was audible. A large congregation, lavishly dressed had assembled to witness our nuptials, and on the platform at the front of the hall was Dejax. I felt my anxiety increase as I recognised that a TV crew was present, three cameras recording the ceremonies in detail.

She was dressed in a jacket which was very masculine, and a kilt-like pleated skirt. Her hair had been shaved entirely from the back and sides and the top was set with wax into rows of stiff coils, separated by narrow shaved lines, around a centimetre wide, running from front to back. Her face was ornamented with strong black make-up around her spiny lashes, and she had thick arched brows. She smiled warmly at my approach and I was astonished to see that her smile now contained a gold incisor, which hadn't been present only the previous morning.

I found myself reclining on a low cushion across the platform from Dejax. The ceremony began with the giving of gifts. A procession of nuns approached me (there were some gifts for Dejax, but an overwhelming majority were for me) and announced the name of the benefactor. I acknowledged each with the words “I am blessed.”

The most frequent gifts were hair ornaments. Soon my braids were heavy with golden pins, the more lavish clustered with precious stones. The wealthier friends of Dejax's family had given larger items of jewellery in addition, and I was soon adorned with new bracelets, bangles and necklaces. I had become used to the wealth of the families within the milieu in which Dejax's family moved, yet the lavishness of these gifts was extraordinary. Amongst the gifts was a new ring for my septum which was fitted with considerable pain: its thickness was greater than my piercing allowed, but the nun saw that my benefactor wasn't insulted and forced it home.

In the midst of the donations a nun approached who bore no jewels but rather the implements of the tattooist. I looked at Dejax with some alarm (trying to retain a soft face) but she held the cloying smile that had been ever present on her features since my arrival. As more pins were added to my hair I felt the nun brushing ink over my chin and lips. A camera moved closer and I knew that my face was being filmed in close up through the long lens.

I felt the tapping of the needle and closed my eyes as I tried to bear the pain. The stinging was intense and, unlike my previous experience of being tattooed, this time I had nothing to numb me. The lines descended from lip to chin, and my skin seemed to swell and sensitise. Each new line seemed to hurt more than the last and by the time that she worked her ink into my lips I was gritting my teeth to hold in my desire to scream out my agony. I felt betrayed again; my face permanently disfigured to please Dejax's desire to turn me into some bride from a folk tale. And all the time I was aware that a camera was pointing at me, recording every moment of this torture.

Finally, the tattooing was complete. I felt my face being cleansed and glanced at the cloth, which was discoloured with ink and blood. When all of the excess ink had been wiped away I felt some leaves being pressed over the wounded skin. It initially made the skin burn but within moments I felt a coolness and the stinging decreased.

The leaves were peeled away and an ointment was spread across my lips and chin. An old nun now approached and gestured for me to stand.

I approached Dejax and at a sign prostrated myself before her (she was sat in a throne-like chair of black wood, set with large coloured stones). The nun chanted a list of my duties as a wife (again using such archaic language that it was almost unintelligible). I indicated my obeisance by rising and prostrating myself again. Some of the lists took more than ten minutes to announce.

Finally I was told to kneel. Dejax rose from her chair and a young girl approached bearing a cushion. From the cushion Dejax lifted a large set of shears. She opened them and slid them across my cheek. I felt nausea as I realised that my new status would be sealed with the cutting of my hair. I felt the blades saw into the thick braid. It wasn't just my hair, but Hallena's too being cut, and I felt violently emotional as I realised that another link to my beloved Hallena was literally being severed.

The cutting took a long time, since the braid was so thick. Finally it was laid on the cushion which had borne the shears, and Dejax now cropped the long hair from the right side of my head. My head felt light and bare without my long hair. I was unsteady as Dejax helped me to my feet and pledged her eternal loyalty to me. The nun made a long pronouncement and finally we were joined in marriage. Dejax pressed her lips to mine and the entire assembly made a rhythmic chanting to celebrate our union.

I was in a state of alarm as I retreated to a private room behind the hall. I lifted my hand to feel hacked short hair above my bald nape. I saw a mirror and rushed over. I saw that my chin was marked with thick black filigree, the entire area below my mouth tattooed from lip to jaw.

And my lips too, they were blackened: the entire outline was marked with a heavy line and the inner surface was dotted with ornamental forms, seemingly related to some ancient form of the alphabet. Dejax followed me to the mirror.

“Don't cry, Minanna Xenia,” she said firmly, her words no consolation but rather a warning. “You look beautiful. I will make you my wife fully once our feast is complete. You're the most beautiful woman in Jertul now, as befits someone who is to be my consort. Now your behaviour must match your physical perfection.” She kissed me with a furious passion, pressing her lips to mine, which were so tender from the abuse of tattooing. “You'll dress for the feast and Kadax will attend to your hair.”

“Thank you, Minanna Dejax,” I said. I felt more like her servant than her equal now, and I knew this was exactly as she intended our relationship to be.

I was taken to a small room where Felashi was waiting. She smiled at me humbly and helped me from my heavy robes. Kadax entered and told me to sit.

The remains of Hallena's hair were unpicked from mine, the glue eased free and the braiding unwound. I watched in a mirror, appalled by the state of my hair. It was untidily chopped and terribly short. Once the extensions were all gone Kadax trimmed my own hair to a neat line, but it was absurdly short, more than half way up my ears. I would have preferred to see it shaved entirely. It looked like some strange masculine style, the bare front seeming more than ever to be a result of male pattern baldness.

Kadax now separated a narrow strip of hair around the perimeter of my entire scalp. She braided it tightly, as close as possible to my head. Then Felashi assisted her, holding a strip of embroidered red satin to my head, which Kadax carefully stitched to the braided hair. She pulled the thread tight, making me grimace as it pulled at my scalp.

Soon all of my dark curls had been contained within the satin. It bulged out like a horseshoe shaped cushion about my plucked scalp. It was strange and medieval, yet I had to admit, it was preferable to seeing my shorn hair, but less than comfortable. I wondered if now my hair would be always hidden beneath a headdress of this type.

I was dressed in a heavy white gown with elaborate red ornaments, my feet bound into white leather boots. Kadax now applied thick kohl around my eyes and looked me over, nodding her satisfaction. I entered the feasting hall and blushed as I heard gasps and a spontaneous ripple of applause. I took my place at Dejax's side, feeling uncomfortable as I observed the cameras were still present.

Dejax had once more adopted the self-satisfied half smile she'd affected throughout the earlier ceremony. There were numerous speeches made by various members of my new family, almost unintelligible to me because of the formal version of Jertulian used. Each ended with a toast and I drank more than was necessary, eager to still my anxiety.

The feast proper began, and numerous courses were supplied. I ate everything that was laid before me, as was expected of a Jertulian lady. I felt more alone than ever, my last ties with my previous existence now, my appearance permanently altered so profoundly that I knew I could never be accepted again in my homeland, yet I felt that my acceptance into Jertulian society was entirely superficial, that my presence here was only tolerated because of my compliance in looking and behaving as my wife demanded. My inner self was buried beneath a body that felt alien to me.

The guests began to dance, a slow heavy folk dance that appeared to be popular amongst more traditionally-minded Jertulians, but it appeared that the married couple didn't join in. I was a passive observer in everything. I had become expert in passivity, the greatest virtue a lady like me could possess. By the end of the feast, as the guests started to disperse, I was drunk, pleased to feel the numbness that the wine had given me. I had to be helped to stand and was supported to walk out of the hall by Dejax. We went to a small room where I realised that we would be interviewed for TV.

My horror of embarrassing myself was proved to be unfounded. All of the questions were answered by Dejax. She spoke for me, so that even questions asked of me were answered confidently by my new spouse. I heard that I was delighted to be Dejax's wife, that I loved Jertul and had become very patriotic, that it made me feel a sense of pride which I'd never experienced for the land of my birth. I listened and looked modestly at Dejax, my features a perfect mask of blankness, the soft face I'd been told so often was necessary for a decorous lady.

The presenter, an overly chatty middle aged man, repeatedly praised my beauty. Dejax ended the interview by saying that it was a cause of shame to her that so many young woman in Jertul had turned away from tradition and that she hoped they would be helped to finding the true path by observing my ways. “Xenia is an outsider, yet has perfected her status as a Jertulian lady. I fervently wish that our education system can adapt to instil not just national pride in our youth, but a revival of tradition.”

We spent the night in an apartment within the convent. Dejax was forceful with me, stripping me naked and forcing me onto the bed. I was compliant with her every demand. She teased me about my tattooed face, told me that she loved that I looked bald. I knew she was testing me, that I had to show no reaction to her insults, maintain my indifferent expression. She became aroused so intensely that there seemed something demonic about her. She equipped herself with a strap-on and penetrated me roughly, tearing my reconstructed hymen, so painfully that despite my greatest resolve I couldn't help but cry out.

“You're mine now, body and soul,” she said. “Don't think I don't know what went on between you and Hallena. If that ever happens again, if you even feel a moment of attraction to another you'll be sent to a nunnery for the rest of your days. The rest of your little mop of hair will be shaved and your tattoo will be completed.” She traced her fingers over the still healing design on the front of my head. “I don't think you could live like that. Locked up in your little cell with just a few books of Munk to study.”

“Please, Dejax, I'm sorry. I was weak and confused. I'm your wife, and I meant all of my promises to you. Please let's start afresh. We have our entire lives together now. I love you.”

----------

My hopes that I could restore happiness in my relationship with Dejax were dashed the following day. We left the monastery and travelled to a lakeside villa at the edge of a mountain resort where we would spend our honeymoon. Another woman was already at the house, a young German blonde named Sigrid. It became apparent immediately (no attempt was made to hide the truth) that Sigrid was Dejax's lover. My meek demands for an explanation were met with a stern response.

“Minanna Xenia, go to your room! You have no right to make demands of me. I shall do as I please and your role is to support me in all that I do. You've offended Nanga Sigrid and embarrassed yourself so some time alone to contemplate your foolishness seems appropriate.”

I stayed alone, locked in the bedroom for the rest of the day. I sobbed as all of my pent up frustration was finally allowed an outlet. How could I spend the rest of my days in a relationship where I was only useful to Dejax as a companion for public display? It was clear she had no regard for me as a person and was keen to humiliate and hurt me.

For the rest of the week I was silent and cool toward my companions, but my greatest humiliation was that Dejax was so besotted with Sigrid's presence that she seemed barely aware of my mood. I was expected to sit alone as Dejax went for walks with her new belle, my meals were served in my bedroom (on Dejax's orders) and I was amply supplied with gherts leaves to keep me quiet and compliant. I knew that I was in danger of becoming dependent on them, but it seemed to me that given a choice of addiction or the hurt I felt when sober, then the former was preferable. I spent much of the week in a narcotic stupor.

We returned to the city and now took possession of our new house. It was a huge house on a hilltop at the edge of the city, many miles away from Dejax's parents' estate. A new household had been assembled, with only Felashi transferring across from our previous staff. On the day we arrived all of the household assembled to meet us and I was presented with a large bouquet. Dejax looked pleased with herself as she addressed them.

“Ladies,” (the entire household was female, even the gardener and the chauffeur, which in Jertul were more commonly male roles) “you all made a commitment to upholding traditional national virtues during your interviews. I'm going to demand that you all show that you're patriots by adopting the hairstyle that my lovely wife and Felashi wear so beautifully.”

I looked around the faces of the assembled women. Most were so young that they were still girls. I saw that many couldn't hide their discomfort. Their shock was compounded when Dejax selected a young maid and had her sit. Moments later she was sitting open mouthed, hardly able to mask her pain as a hairdresser started to pluck hair from her scalp. Felashi was assisting and it soon became clear that she was being trained to act as the household hairdresser. Soon she was taking part in stripping her colleague's head of hair.

The hairdresser provided her with tweezers and told her to remove the maid's eyebrows too. Felashi seemed so delighted in her role that the suffering she was causing didn't register, even though as someone who'd undergone the same treatment she might be expected to empathise. Soon the young maid was told to clean up the tangle of hair that clouded the floor. She rubbed at her bared forehead in shock, not even granted the privilege of seeing how she looked now.

By the following day I struggled to differentiate between the staff. They had all been plucked into flechxens and were dressed in identical uniforms (a black robe embroidered with the crest of Dejax's family on the breast). Their individuality seemed to have diminished. When I mentioned this to Dejax she nodded.

“That's intentional. There's too much emphasis on individuality in the west, and that's not the Jertulian manner. You're going to be in charge of the household often since I'll be travelling a lot. You need to maintain a distance from the staff. They're not your friends and if you start to treat them as such it will lead to difficulties. I don't want a repeat of your silliness with Hallena. Just keep in mind that I will punish any girl that you choose to become close to, so if you do have an affair you'll condemn your lover to a life of misery. In fact I want you to be very strict with the household. I want to hear that you're unpopular, regarded as a tyrant. If you try to court popularity I'll go out of my way to embarrass you in front of them. It's not considered noble to want to associate with your inferiors, and since you're an outsider you should be especially hard on them. It's the only way you'll gain respect.”

I nodded my agreement but being strict didn't come easily to me. I hated conflict and the thought of treating my maids with cruelty was repellent. Still, my fear of Dejax's reprisals was not to be ignored. I knew she could intensify my misery at will. She set the pattern for my relationship over the next few days. Each morning the household would present themselves for my inspection. On the first day Dejax whispered some failings she'd observed (subtle errors of dress that seemed insignificant to me). I had to reproach this carelessness, and Dejax egged me on to be more aggressive in my criticism (her approach to instructing me demonstrated very clearly the attitude she expected in me). Soon I could see that the inspections were feared by all the staff, lest they should be subjected to one of my angry tirades about poor standards. It was soon clear that I was respected through fear and not affection.

My headdress had come somewhat loose in the stitching and Dejax suggested that we should pay a visit to Kadax. “I've decided to invest in her salon, but it will no longer be the westernised type of salon. I want to have a place where women can turn to to be assured of being treated as a Jertulian woman should. Traditional beauty, shorn of western decadence. I've negotiated that Felashi will serve as an apprentice two days each week so that she can learn the skills to keep the household suitably coiffed and maintain our styles on a day to day basis.”

The following morning we arrived at the salon, accompanied by Felashi who was full of enthusiasm. I was surprised to see that the salon was closed as we arrived, but on entering I saw all of the stylists sat in a semicircle. There was a nervous expectancy on their faces as they stood to greet their visitors.

Dejax was formally introduced by Kadax, then stood before her audience to address them.

“I've become an investor in this salon, buying a controlling share. I've discussed the requirements of this deal with Kadax, who will remain as the artistic director. However, the salon will no longer cater to western modes of fashion. As I'm sure you're aware, I'm active in the Free Nation movement, and this salon will reflect the aims and ideals of the movement. All of the staff will adopt Jertulian styles in dress, jewellery and hair. The salon will be redecorated so that it will be more akin to the salons of my grandmother's age.”

It was the first time that I'd heard mention of the Free Nation, but soon I would become aware of their aims, and Dejax's role in this political organisation. She continued her speech:

“Minanna Kadax has expressed that some of you are ambivalent to more traditional styles and that your vanity will impede your acceptance of traditional modes. I'm less forgiving of such disrespect to our land than my good friend and I will take a very dim view of any who choose to terminate their contracts. The Free Nation will soon begin a concerted programme of propaganda against shops and salons which promote western looks. I will make sure that any salons which employ disloyal staff will be targeted for particular negative attention and I think your prospects for employment will be endangered unless you show that you're willing to accept that your appearance is an expression of your patriotism.”

I looked at the salon staff and it was easy to discern who approved of the new direction and who didn't. There were a few staff who couldn't hide their anger at Dejax's threats. I was ashamed to be associated with such blatant bullying.

“A small, temporary shop will be opened to see to existing customers during the renovation, which will take three weeks. By the end of this period all of my staff will be dressed in a style which I approve. Are there any dissenters?”

I looked around the faces, hoping that someone would dare to challenge this craziness, but those who were opposed were so intimidated that they hung their heads in defeat. Dejax looked delighted at her power.

I was now taken to a private room to have my hair styled. As the stitching was picked free I saw my hair for the first time since my wedding. I was appalled at the short, frizzy locks that surrounded my bald, tattooed pate. Kadax brushed through the short hair, tutting to herself.

“It does look unbecoming,” Dejax agreed. “It only looks acceptable when she wears her headdress, but as that comes loose it look unruly.”

“I will train Nanga Felashi to braid and stitch a headdress but I think we should do something that looks more attractive without the covering.”

“Can't I grow it,” I asked. “I've always had long hair.”

Dejax looked at me, pained by my crassness. “Long hair on a married woman denotes an inferior rank.”

“But Minanna Kadax has long hair and she's married.”

Dejax groaned. “Do you think she needs to be reminded of her inferiority as an artisan? You are so pretty that sometimes I forget how ignorant you can be. You will prostrate yourself to Minanna Kadax and beg her forgiveness for your bad manners.” I was filled with shame as I complied with the demand.

As Kadax plucked my scalp the discussion resumed.

“Perhaps we should take the hair shorter and perm it very tightly to her head in tight spirals, similar to how you used to wear the top of yours,” Kadax suggested.

Dejax seemed interested. “There'd still be sufficient to braid to stitch the headdress?”

“Yes, I'd make sure that the headdress would look most becoming.”

“Let's do it then,” Dejax smiled.

Once the front and nape had been maintained in their hairlessness, Kadax began to trim my bobbed hair. She divided it into vertical sections and sheared off roughly half of the length. The curls sprung back, close to my head. I hated how short my hair was, so much so that I couldn't hide my sour expression. Dejax looked at me with a forced smile but I could sense her displeasure.

“Did you eat something disagreeable, my lady?”

I shook my head. I felt like a naughty girl being chided by her mother. “I don't like my hair so short. I'd rather it was all shaved off, it looks ridiculous.”

The disdainful smile vanished and a glance at Kadax was enough to make her withdraw (along with Felashi) to allow us some privacy. Once we were alone the tirade began.

“You're very privileged to be allowed to wear such a beautiful bridal style, and you dare to speak of it with scorn? When you voice such ignorance you speak of your country with disrespect and that is unacceptable. Only nuns shave their heads, and if you continue to offend me I'll make you vow into an order. Then you'll get your wish of seeing your head shaved every day, but you'll live without any material comfort. It would amuse me to think of you sleeping on a cold stone floor. Don't think this is an empty threat, Xenia. You need to be useful to me, and you're only useful for as long as you behave as my pretty wife. If you continue to embarrass me you will be shaved and sent to a convent in the mountains.”

I wiped away my tears. “I'm sorry, my lady,” I snuffled. “My hair is yours. I meant no disrespect. Please forgive my ignorance.” She stared at me in silence, then called in Kadax, who I sensed had listened to every word.

“Perm her,” Dejax ordered. “Make sure the rods are in nice and tight, I don't want the roots to be loose.” Kadax made an obsequious reply, fully understanding of Dejax's intention. She wound in the wooden bars, tugging harder, much harder, than was necessary in order to make me suffer. My scalp was aching as she pinned them in place and I struggled to hide my pain. As the fluid was poured over the coils of hair the soft wood swelled and increased the tension further. I had the indignity of seeing Dejax and Kadax smiling at my suffering. There was an expectancy that I would fail to bear this pain, and then they would rebuke me for my weakness. I endured and was led to the dryer.

My short hair now hugged my scalp in little black coils. More than ever I was reminded of male pattern baldness, the curls not even protruding an inch from the height of my plucked scalp. “It looks marvellous, Minanna Dejax,” Kadax said. Felashi seemed delighted at my latest makeover too.

“It's finely rendered, Minanna Kadax,” Dejax agreed. “In private I will cherish your craft but let's bind her hair so that she can look noble in public.”

More suffering as a thin perimeter was braided so tightly that my hair felt like it was being pulled out at the roots. Kadax was expert in the braiding but now Felashi was asked to work on the side which remained loose. She was clumsy and unpractised and I winced as she tugged awkwardly. Kadax tutted and unpicked her work, then made the tight braid herself.

“You need to practice, Felashi. You'll spend the next two days here until you can be trusted to work to a high standard on your ladies. With your permission, Minanna Dejax, I thought that one of our trainees might be given the same style as Minanna Xenia to allow Felashi a head to practice on.”

Dejax was clearly troubled about my hairstyle (the style of a noble inferior bride) being given to a young, unmarried woman of low caste. “Couldn't she practice on longer hair?”

“Shorter hair is more difficult to braid. I'm afraid she can only master the art by working with identical hair.”

Dejax nodded. “Very well, but she's not to be seen outside a private room with this hair. She'll be veiled in public until her hair grows. In fact, better still, once Felashi has proved her adequacy you'll shave her model.”

As Kadax praised Dejax's wisdom I could think only of her callousness. I wanted to speak up, to spare the victim by allowing Felashi my hair to develop her skills, but fear prevented me from speaking.

I returned home with Dejax, my short curls hidden beneath a tightly stitched white headdress. As soon as we were inside I was pushed into the bedroom and ordered to undress. Dejax was beside herself with excitement and pushed me to the bed. She tore at the headdress, ripping it free (the thread was so strong that I feared it would tear out the braids into which it was bound). She tugged at my curls venomously. “Look at you, Xenia. So pretty, but so undeserving. You're ashamed of our traditions, even though you look so perfect. Your hair will always be like this now, you dirty little outsider. And don't you ever embarrass me with bad manners again or I'll have another piece docked from your tongue, but this time enough to do more damage than making you lisp.”

I tried to make an apology but she pushed her hand over my lips. “Shut up! Soften your face and don't talk.” She gave a cry of passion as I affected a bored expression. I looked up at the ceiling past her shoulder, my eyes half closed. She started to finger me urgently. “Oh, Xenia, I'd forgotten how sexy you are. Crass, boring, ignorant, but so pretty.” I sensed only through my humiliation could she now rouse her attraction to me. Nevertheless, I found myself responding to this physical expression of her love, which was something that had been denied for so long.

She was rough with me physical and emotionally. She pulled aside my lips to better view my gold teeth, teasing me about them because I'd never been able to hide my dislike of them. “Maybe you'd appreciate more gold? Or for me too, a full set of gold teeth.” She was provoking me, but expecting me to maintain my expressionless face. The more successful I was the more aroused and cruel she became.

As she penetrated me with a long strap-on I slid into a wonderfully warm orgasm. I turned my head aside and gave a long, silent exhalation, hiding my exhilaration, but giving just enough signal to Dejax to know what had happened. I knew that nothing inflamed Dejax so much as seeing a repressed orgasm and she shrieked with delight as our bliss became mutual. She lay heavily on top of me, panting, her face nestled in my deep bosom.

There was a long, tender silence. “I do love you, Dejax,” I finally whispered. “I've missed these moments between us.”

She looked up, her eyes hard. “I have to humiliate you to find you interesting now, Xenia. You're useful as my companion, but nothing more. I never felt for you a fraction of what I have with Sigrid.” I looked at her in disbelief. Even in this moment she couldn't maintain some affection for me, too eager to humiliate and hurt me.

“Please, Dejax, if that's how you feel, dissolve the marriage and marry her. You're only making me unhappy and I'm in the way of your happiness.”

She gave an exasperated groan. “Sigrid is my mistress, and that's how she'll remain. She'd never allow herself to be made like you, and I wouldn't want that. Weren't you listening? You're useful to me, necessary. As long as you can continue to be then I'll keep you here, with everything you need to be comfortable. If you outlive your usefulness then you'll be dispatched to a convent. Don't think there's any possible life better than the one you have now. You can't even understand the texts you'd have to read for the rest of your days. And it's so cold in the mountains.” She gave a little shiver and a cruel smile. “So just be a good wife to Dejax and never complain.”

The next time that Dejax became passionate toward me was following the broadcast of the TV programme that featured our wedding ceremony. It was a section in a large documentary about the Free Nation movement, but I was appalled at how uncritical the reporting was. I was later to find that the owner of the channel was a supporter of the political party and his political beliefs clearly influenced the work of the reporters.

It was more hagiography than reportage. The leaders of the movement were allowed to make long speeches, unchallenged as they made outrageous claims about the dangers of following any ideology but theirs. Dejax watched it, rapt, nodding and smiling at every pronouncement. I felt my heart sinking as I realised she'd allied herself with these people. Then she gave an shriek of excitement as she appeared on screen.

“Prominent within the party, often regarded as the popular face of the movement, is Minanna Dejax Falleeji, daughter of the highly honoured Kallaga Treskoa Falleeji. Her recent marriage was considered by many to be the social event of the year, and her bride, Minanna Xenia, despite her British origins, is often considered a model for young women of nationalist spirit. We were allowed special access to their happy ceremony where the couple celebrated the nuptials with a carefully researched return to the ancient traditions of our homeland.”

Dejax's disdain for me seemed to be forgotten as the reporter extolled the virtues of our union. She took my hand in hers and said how wonderful I looked. I felt uncomfortable as I watched my face being tattooed and my hair sheared.

“The beautiful Minanna Xenia, Princess Xenia, as she's become known to her adoring followers, has set a new standard of beauty for the women of Jertul. Already her revival of the ancient hairstyle, the flechxen, has been adopted by numerous other women, and it's seen as a signal that the values of the Free Nation movement have moved from the fringes of our society into the mainstream.”

There followed a series of interviews of ordinary people, picked from passers by in a city, asked about their opinions about my appearance. Without fail they were excessively positive about me and my influence on the nation. Amongst younger girls in particular I seemed to be popular. “Would you wear a flechxen?” the interviewer asked a group of teenage girls. The most outspoken of them took the lead.

“I'd do it tomorrow if my parents allowed it. I love it, I think every girl who's proud of her homeland should wear a flechxen. I argue with my mother about it all the time!”

“See, it's the older people, the ones who were brought up when there was too much Western influence, who are holding back progress,” Dejax said angrily. “Those girls shouldn't be held back because of their parents' stupidity.”

I was shocked by what I was seeing. I had no idea that I had become a celebrity, that there seemed to be a cult around me. But to be figurehead of such a dangerous political movement horrified me.

Now the girl was asked about my tattoos. “I think they're very beautiful and noble. When I marry I want to choose a man who's loves Jertul as much as I do and who will insist that I'm tattooed just like Minanna Xenia.” Her friends, in a show of bravado, encouraged her and committed to the same values.

“You see, the people love you. The Free Nation will succeed because of you, Xenia. Everyone loves you and wants to marry you or be like you. You're the best PR we could ever have.” She pulled me close to her and kissed me. I now realised how I was useful to her, how I could further her political ambitions. It wasn't hard to look cold and indifferent as she kissed me. Everyone loved me, I knew, except her.

By the following day her affection had dissipated and she was largely absent from my days, her time occupied with her work establishing the new industrial complex for her father's corporation, her political machinations and her trysts with Sigrid. I was frequently left for days with only the company of the household staff, and I was in no doubt that I was not to let any familiarity develop with them. I found the tedium and loneliness unbearable and spent my days drinking and chewing gherts for solace. Each morning I would wake feeling depressed and sick, and it was in this mood that I would carry out my inspection of the staff, allowing my frustrations to be vented on anyone that was found wanting. I hated myself for it, but I knew that if I didn't make this performance then I would be punished by Dejax.

As it happened, on one of her return visits she confronted me about my behaviour. “You're drinking too much,” she said curtly. “Smoking cigarettes in front of the household as well. This is unacceptable, Xenia. From now on I've instructed Felashi to ration your medication, as we'll refer to it. No more smoking except a few pipes a day, and you'll only be allowed to drink a small measure of heila. If I find you trying to obtain more or trying to persuade Felashi to increase your ration you'll be going cold turkey. You're a disgrace to your family.” I nodded, feeling that for once her criticism was perhaps just.

“Please, Dejax, I know I've behaved badly. But I have to have some company, something to occupy my time. I'm so lonely here and I feel like I'm going crazy. I know you're very busy but I would like to spend some time with you occasionally. It would be good for us to be seen together in public, wouldn't it?”

She looked at me angrily but she considered what I'd said. “You may be right, I think you could be used more. You look unwell though, so maybe I'd better get you tidied up. I do have my doubts about you making too many public appearances though. You might just open your mouth and say something disastrous. I'm starting to make a name for myself in politics and you have to be aware that everything you do has to reflect well on the party. I sometimes think you have no real allegiance to this country and you'll work to undermine it.”

“I'll do nothing to harm your party if you just let me have something to occupy myself. You can have someone coach me in what I should say and how I should behave. I just want to be a good wife.” I hated my cowardice. I thought the party was a dangerous right wing populist movement which wanted to make Jertul revert to a dictatorship, but I was so unhappy that I was prepared to work for their aims if it meant that my life was more bearable.

“Very well. You show me that you have your behaviour under control for a week and I'll get you tidied up, look at some public appearances. But if your behaviour gets worse I'll send you on a retreat for three months in the mountains. No drinking, no drugs, no comforts. We don't have cosy rehab facilities in Jertul, and I don't think you'd like that regime. You show me which way you want to go.”

The next week was difficult as I realised how strict Dejax had been in my rationing. I had to survive till after lunch each day before I was allowed any intoxicant, and by that time I'd be unbearably sick and pained. I stayed in my room as much as possible and ate more than ever to try to compensate. I raged at poor Felashi as she timidly denied my requests to bring me something each morning but I suppose her fear of Dejax was greater than her fear of me and she didn't waver.

By the end of the week my cravings seemed undiminished, but at least my suffering was reduced. I was no longer subject to the cramps and nausea each morning. Dejax arrived unexpectedly and was critical of my slovenly appearance (I'd refused to bathe for a few days) but was slightly more sympathetic toward me after she interrogated Felashi and heard that I'd managed to cope with my reduced intake of “medication”. I felt terribly guilty as Felashi glossed over my poor behaviour, loyal to me despite my cruelty to her. She was instructed to bathe me and dress me for a trip to Kadax's salon.

“Her hair's beyond fixing without professional intervention, she said, tugging the covering cloth free (the stitching had come away but I still cried out in pain as she tugged it free of the braiding. “Wash it and dress her with a veil,” Felashi was instructed.

I emerged wearing a long blue gown, my hair concealed beneath a long veil, pinned at the temples, which exposed my tattooed pate. “Much better,” Dejax said without any show of pleasure, “although you do look ill, Xenia. Your face looks puffy and pale. We need to start getting you out in the sun.”

I was driven to Kadax's salon and saw it for the first time since it had been remodelled. The facade had been completely rebuilt, the original stone revealed by the removal of the previous western-style shop sign. There were now small leaded windows which didn't allow the interior of the shop to be seen. Only a long pennant hanging from a pole identified the shop.

And the interior was no less radically transformed. The lighting was soft and warm, candlelight subtly enhanced by soft electric lighting. There was a smoking area where patrons reclined on low couches and took the pipe, and at the centre of the shop was an ornamental stone pool, carved with faux-archaic ornaments. The hairdressing chairs were set behind pierced wooden screens.

And the staff were no longer the same mixture of girls with modern hairstyles and western clothes. All wore a uniform now, a black tunic with a fringed sash of gold. I noticed with some discomfort that all of them had been given a flechxen, with one exception. An older woman had had her hair cut in a very short style, the back and sides clippered short, the top waxed into a stiff, vertical block. “Why doesn't she have a flechxen,” I asked Dejax, surprised at her lack of uniformity.

“She's a dominant wife in her marriage,” Dejax said, not seeking to conceal her frustration at my ignorance. “I'm not sure I like that cut though. I'll have to say something to Minanna Kadax.”

Kadax came to greet us, apologising profusely for the delay in her welcome. “I hope you're pleased with our new establishment, Minanna Xenia.”

“It's a suitable environment for noble ladies,” I said without enthusiasm. I was offered a pipe, but Dejax declined on my behalf.

“Minanna has had a chest infection and I'm trying to persuade her to smoke less,” she lied. “She needs a perm and a trim. I want her to look at her most beautiful, since we have some events to attend.”

I was placed in the hands of a young stylist who I recognised from previous visits. Her hair had been long, straight, red. She was now bald over the front of her scalp and her hair had been permed and coloured black. Dejax smiled as she examined her new appearance.

“Vanna, isn't it? Kadax tells me you were more reluctant than most to agree to your flechxen. It looks most flattering and does nothing to hide your noble spirit.”

“Thank you, Minanna,” she said shyly.

“And why were you reluctant to have your hair styled so beautifully and patriotically?” Dejax was no longer friendly. Vanna was obviously terrified of her.

“I come from a very westernised family. My parents and my girlfriend, well, she's my fiancée, they didn't want me to get a flechxen.”

“I'm very disappointed to hear that. Is your fiancée a patron of this shop?”

“Not any more,” Vanna admitted. “She's got long dyed hair.”

“You're to tell her that she's to get a fitting style for a betrothed woman. Kadax will make the arrangements. If not you're to break off the engagement. I don't want my employees marrying people who aren't patriotic.” Vanna looked horrified. “If she doesn't comply you'll find yourself unable to get another job as a hairdresser. Understand?” She nodded. “Maybe you can cut it yourself. You do know how a wife of her status ought to wear her hair?”

“Yes, Minanna,” she said meekly.

“You know and yet you allow her to wear her hair long. Show me. Kadax!” she called angrily. The shop manager approached. “That woman with the short hair, it's not really a suitable cut. I want Nanga Vanna to prove that she knows something about propriety by giving her a new cut. Send her to me now.”

The woman, whose name was Deaggix, was immediately excused from her task, which Kadax herself took over. She looked a little sheepish, overawed, as she approached.

“Minanna Deaggix,” Dejax said, “I'm less than pleased with your haircut. It's rather too long on top for a woman of your status and it's too individual. I understand that we have to allow some growth in our traditions, but your style oversteps what's proper. Sit in the chair and Nanga Vanna will improve your standing with a more noble style.”

Deaggix seemed not hurt at all by the criticism, but rather to be delighted that she would be given guidance by someone she evidently admired. She sycophantically thanked Dejax for taking such an interest and fitted herself with a long black cape.

Vanna had taken up her clippers but seemed unsure how to proceed, uncomfortable with the scrutiny of someone as important and Dejax. “Shaved on the back and sides. Full height on sides, dipped slightly at the crown.” The attachment was removed from the blades and soon the soft furry growth on Deaggix's back and sides was being stripped to the scalp. “You should keep it shaved with a razor, every day too,” Dejax informed her. And you should make sure your fiancée does the same, Vanna.”

As Vanna oiled the stubble and started to shave it with a straight razor, Dejax suggested that Deaggix might like to have the top partitioned. Dejax herself had maintained her hair since the wedding in the same style, with wide stripes shaved front to back through the thick hair on top.

“Oh, Minanna, I'd love that,” she said. “I've adored your haircut since I saw it on TV on the day of your wedding.”

“It's a very historic style which I read about in an old treatise. I've been very disappointed that some people don't think that it's a tradition of Jertul. Of course, yours would have to be modified. The shaved bands should be narrower and shorter hair on top would be more appropriate to your status.”

“Minanna, you can be sure that I'll inform people of the nobility of the style and encourage others to revive it. I'd have had it done before but I was afraid that it would seem like I was copying your beautiful style.”

Dejax was pleased with the flattery. “As I said, it's not my style, and I'd be more than happy to see it revived by more people. I would love to see far less individualism in Jertulian society. I'd be happy if women had no more than a handful of possible styles to choose from. The style should indicate status and no more. I find that far more beautiful than any wrong-headed notions of individual vanity.”

Vanna now had the opportunity to demonstrate that her razor skills extended beyond a simple shave. She parted the long hair on top of Deaggix's head and opened the parting up to a razored stripe of scalp around five millimetres width. Soon the top of her head had been marked with six such stripes.

The remaining hair was cropped to approximately half of its previous length, which is to say roughly two inches were spared. A gummy oil was massaged through the short hair and Vanna carefully used her comb to sweep the hair back in long fin-like strips over the top of Deaggix's head. She looked enchanted with her makeover.

“Minanna Dejax, how can I ever thank you for your guidance? I never imagined I'd be so privileged and I promise to keep my hair exactly like this.”

“You see how becoming and noble this style is?” she demanded of Vanna. “And my respects to you for your skills, Nanga. I think you'd be admirably suited to making your fiancée look like a suitable match for you. Perhaps we could arrange for her to visit you right now.”

Vanna looked sickened by her dilemma. “She works, Minanna Dejax. She's a secretary at the new chemical plant.”

Dejax laughed. “Then I'm sure I'll have no difficulty arranging an hour away from her work, since I'm a director of the plant. What's her name?”

Dejax made a call to the plant, spoke to the line manager of the unfortunate girl (Nanga Reddulaj) and arranged for her to be sent immediately by car to the salon. “You don't need to know why she's coming here, nor does she. It'll all be explained once she arrives.”

Vanna was instructed to stop looking so worried and to attend to my hair. I was left alone with my stylist as Dejax went to meet with Kadax.

“You look very upset,” I said. She was shaking and I could see that she didn't trust me. “Will your fiancée allow her hair to be cut?”

“I suppose she will,” Vanna said tersely.

“I love my wife but sometimes I find it hard to see how she bullies people. I'm sorry you had to have your hair plucked. I preferred it before, but you still look very pretty.”

Vanna looked shocked at my statement. “Minanna... I don't know what to say. I thought you of all people would have hated my old style.”

“I had no choice in my style either. I didn't fully understand the nuances of my wife's beliefs when we became a couple. I take it you don't share her love of the Free Nation?”

“Minanna, we should be more guarded,” she said nervously. “In this establishment no one ever criticises the Free Nation.”

“You're right, and I did promise to never bring disrespect to the party. Still, you should tell your girlfriend that she can keep her hair as she pleases.”

“It's not so simple...” She stopped talking as Dejax emerged once more.

Dejax inspected my nape and forehead to ensure that Vanna had made them perfectly hairless, then issued instructions for my perm. I'd still have tight spirals, but Dejax seemed keen to let them grow a little. Vanna wound my hair mercilessly tightly onto the rods. I'd felt some bond with her when we talked and I suspected that she was overcompensating, avoiding showing any softness toward me. There was no necessity to hide my roots today since Felashi was now dyeing my hair every week now.

As Vanna added more rods to my hair Dejax taunted her. “Are you going to insist on Reddulaj letting you cut her hair? It would seem a little inappropriate for the inferior fiancée to make such a demand. Still, it's more inappropriate still to hold to western values, isn't it? In many western countries same sex relationships aren't accepted, even now, by many people. Jertul is much more enlightened than these foreigners who would corrupt our values. Isn't that true, my darling?”

I had to admit that many nations did have a shameful history of persecution of minority sexualities. “Minanna Xenia comes from Britain. They locked people up for loving someone of the same sex, even in the nineteen sixties. You must feel very glad to no longer have to be associated with such a cruel nation, my darling.”

I smiled and agreed that I thought Munk's teaching of tolerance was most admirable. My irony wasn't lost on her and I saw her features harden.

“Tolerance is such a strange concept to Jertulians. We tolerate what is good and struggle to overcome falsehood. It's not good or wise to tolerate that which we know to be evil. The west has become afraid of what it finds difficult to comprehend, squeamish about telling people that their beliefs are mistaken. This fear of offending has diluted western values until no one knows right from wrong any more.”

“It's not always simple, Minanna Dejax, to know what is right,” I said playfully.

“Yes it is! It is simple!” she said angrily. “The child can see what is right, but the sage can't. This is what Munk teaches us. We mustn't overcomplicate out ideas. Everything can be broken down to simple choices. You have so little understanding of the world, Xenia.”

She stopped short and looked angry, angry at herself for her public loss of control. “Nanga Vanna, you seem a well educated girl. Do you have difficulties knowing right from wrong?”

“No Minanna,” she said assuredly.

“Well then, it might be your lucky day. I've arranged for a journalist to stop by for your fiancée's makeover. If the two of you can make the right replies then I might just see to it that your wedding will be a grander affair than you could have planned as long as you agree to the ceremony being used for some publicity. How does that sound?”

Vanna looked stunned, confused. I could see that she was upset about her girlfriend's makeover being taken for granted, but the offer of a luxurious wedding was clearly tempting. “I can't really afford anything special,” she said.

“No, of course, but I have influential friends who could pay for a big wedding. As long as it's good publicity for the movement then I'm sure I could make it happen.”

“I don't know what to say, Minanna Dejax,” she said, humbly. “I don't think I deserve such things.”

My perm was postponed (despite having my hair tightly wound already) as a journalist and photographer arrived to meet with Vanna and her fiancée (who was expected imminently). I saw a nervous looking young girl with long light brown curls enter, sure that this must be Reddulaj. She was thinner than most Jertulians, so slim that I knew she would be regarded almost universally as unattractive.

I was asked to come over to meet her, my hair once more hidden beneath my veil. “Nanga Reddulaj, welcome,” Dejax smiled, at her most charming now. “Do you recognise me and my wife?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling excitedly. “I'm sure everyone knows you, Minanna Dejax, and your beautiful wife.” She looked very young as she squirmed in the chair, too young to be considering marriage.

“I've been discussing your marriage with your fiancée and I'd like to get your union off to a good start by helping to arrange a nice ceremony at the Breatcha Convent. All of the bills would be met by my friends if you agree to allow the ceremony to be filmed and broadcast for publicity purposes, as well as doing some press. How would you like that?”

“Oh, Minanna, it would be like a dream. But why us?”

“I think you're a lovely young couple and a good example to young people throughout Jertul. You are members of the movement?” Reddulaj looked at her, not following. “The Free Nation movement?”

“No,” she said, taken aback.

“Oh, you'd have to be members of the movement. But I can sign you up right now, OK?”

Within a few minutes Reddulaj and Vanna had pledged to be true patriots.

“We can start the publicity right now,” Dejax smiled. “Vanna was telling me that you've been resisting a more traditional look, but now that you're a member of the movement it's time you let her cut your hair.”

Despite Vanna's efforts to warn her, Reddulaj seemed completely taken aback by this suggestion. “You really want me to cut my hair?” she said, stunned.

“It really would be for the best,” Dejax said. “It's part of what you agreed to when you signed your oath of allegiance. You agree, don't you, darling?” she asked me.

“A good patriotic woman should wear her hair to show her status, not for personal vanity,” I said, parroting Dejax's earlier sentiments with a bitterness that was lost on the others. I sensed that Reddulaj was amongst those who idolised me, and I knew that my encouragement would break down her resistance.

“You and Nanga Vanna will look just like Minanna Xenia and me on our wedding day. You'd like that, wouldn't you? And your fiancée is such a talented hairdresser. Go on over with her. Look, there's a photographer who'll get some pictures of the two of you now, then after you've been made to look nice and respectable.”

I watched as she posed for some pictures, looking sick with anxiety. “You do know how to make people do as you wish,” I said to Dejax.

“Don't try to spoil it,” she cautioned. “It's for the best. You have your part to play. She likes you and one word from you and she'll do as you ask. If you're a good girl today I'll look into making sure you have things to fill your time. I wouldn't want you getting depressed again.”

We walked over to see Reddulaj being caped by Vanna. “What are you going to do?” Reddulaj asked. Her eyes were big and bright with fear, but she knew that she had no control now.

“I think it's best to go bare on the sides. I do like that for a senior wife, it looks more bold.”

“Oh my, really?” she said. “I'm sure it'll look too severe on me. I'm very thin, you see. I'll look very boyish.”

“You are thin,” Dejax said. “It's not the worst thing for a senior wife, but still I'd be happier if you could try to gain for your day. You have a pretty face too, very nice features.”

Vanna spoke up. “Reddulaj has a gastric disorder. It affects her appetite. She's had a terrible time with it but she's so brave.”

Dejax put her hands around the girl's neck. “You poor little thing! I'll tell you what, if you're a good girl and get your hair cut nice and neat I'll see about sending you to a specialist and seeing if we can't put a bit of padding on you.”

She looked beside herself with joy. “Oh Minanna, I'd love to be a normal girl for my wedding. How can I ever thank you?”

Dejax laughed indulgently. “Well start by telling Nanga Vanna to give you a nice cropping.”

She glanced at her fiancée in the mirror and nodded. I could see that her emotions were in turmoil, fear, joy, excitement all mingled. Vanna's hand was shaking as she pinned up the long curls on top of Reddulaj's head.

“Can't we leave some hair on the sides?” Vanna asked. Dejax squeezed my hand.

“I do think it would look most distinguished to shave her. Besides, it's what you want isn't it, Reddulaj? I think it's only right for you to assert yourself, as you must in your marriage.”

“Yes, it's right, Vanna,” she whispered. Moments later her curls started to fall as the clippers moved up the side of her head. The photographer insinuated herself into a good position to record the moment when Reddulaj lost her long hair. “That looks beautiful, doesn't It, Minanna Xenia,” Dejax prompted.

“Yes, she looks so much more grown up. You won't look like a girl any more, Nanga Reddulaj, you'll be a woman. Vanna will be so proud of you.”

“You know, we should get her a nice outfit to change into when she's done. Give me your measurements and I'll have something sent over.”

Kadax had now joined us and was watching the work of her protégée with interest. “How long do you intend to cut the top?” she asked.

“About two inches, Minanna Kadax,” Vanna replied.

“Yes, even a bit shorter. She's very young so a shorter cut is worthy of her status.” Her lowly status is what she meant.

“On your wedding day you can have the partitioned cut like mine,” Dejax added with delight. “And I'm sure that Nanga Vanna will look delightful with her flechxen tattooed.”

Vanna gave a gasp and stepped back from her work. “Tattooed?” she asked, incredulously.

“Of course. All of the ceremonies which will be conducted at the convent will now include the tattooing of the bride.”

I could see my words of balm were expected. “I have no regrets at all about my tattooing. You do agree that it adds nobility, spirituality? My tattoos are a prayer on my body.”

“Of course, Minanna Xenia. I just had never thought I would be tattooed. I've never been especially interested in spiritual study.”

“All the more reason to undergo the ceremony. Your thoughts will be changed by this outward submission. You're blessed to be allowed this privilege, aren't you?”

“I am, Minanna Xenia. Thank you, Minanna Dejax, for our blessings.” Her good manners couldn't hide her shock and revulsion.

I could see that Reddulaj was now thinking less about her ongoing metamorphosis than the more permanent changes that would soon be forced on her wife-to-be. She glared in the mirror at Vanna, and I could sense as her eyes flickered toward me that she was trying to imagine her sweet young wife with the dark tattoo that dominated my head. The vision clearly didn't please her.

Vanna's shocked reaction brought a reprimand from Kadax. “You must be professional, Nanga,” she hissed, “even in circumstances as exceptional as these. I don't care if it is your fiancée in the chair, every customer must receive a first quality service in this salon. Do you understand?”

After her sincere apology Vanna set to oiling the stubble which was now the sole reminder of the abundant curls which had surrounded Reddulaj's temples and nape. She took a safety razor to complete the shave. I could see that she was far too nervous to safely wield the cut throat razor that she'd used so skilfully on Deaggix.

Reddulaj's scalp soon gleamed brightly, not a trace of hair shadowing the pale skin. Dejax made a satisfied sigh as she rubbed the bald girl's head. “Very nice work, Vanna. I think I'll sit for you later for a nice shave.”

As Vanna let loose the remaining curls, Kadax questioned her. “What other styling do you recommend with this cut for Nanga Reddulaj?”

“Feathered lashes, Minanna Kadax,” she said. “Plucked brows.”

“Yes, I think that would look very pleasing, Nanga Reddulaj. You'll look most becoming when Nanga Vanna is finished in her work,” I said in encouragement.

Vanna was now crudely shearing away the bulk of the curls from the top. Once the length was all gone she wet the hair and began cutting it very precisely to an even length, only an inch and a half left. Reddulaj's eyes were moist and she chewed anxiously at her lip as she tried to find the strength to accept her new cut. “Dye it black,” Dejax insisted.

“Her natural shade is dark brown,” Vanna pointed out. Dejax looked at her sternly.

“I don't care. She'll have black hair from today.”

An hour later Reddulaj posed with her fiancée for the photographer. “She looks like a little fascist,” I whispered to Dejax in English. “Like a little version of you. Now you just have to get inside her head and make her believe in the same lies you do.”

Reddulaj's cropped black hair had been oiled and slicked flat over her skull like a very short bowlcut. Her sticky lashes and pencilled arched brows took away all softness from her features, and her new outfit (a tailored woollen jacket and pleated, chequered trousers) gave her a military look. Her initial shock seemed to have subsided, and she and Vanna now looked happy as they were showered with compliments by the journalist and photographer (hard line nationalists both, it was obvious).

“You played your part well, don't forget,” Dejax said. “You think you're so superior but don't think I can't get into your head too. If you think I can't just take a look in the mirror. And don't ever forget how expendable you are. Every time you start to think how important and popular you are, just remember that it's Sigrid that I love and not you. That'll keep you grounded, won't it?”

I could tell myself that I no longer loved her, yet still her words hurt me deeply. I felt a sense of despair to think of Dejax lying with Sigrid while I was always alone.

“And don't console yourself with your popularity amongst the people. That's dependent on my patronage too. If there were some terrible stories in the newspapers about marital infidelity, drug addiction... A messy divorce, with me as the wronged party, nobly fighting to overcome the hurt and carry on with my important work.”

I glowered at her. I knew that her media friends could make the entire country turn against me.

“And imagine what that would do to poor little Hallena! She'd be cast out of her order and I'm not sure she'd find it so easy to survive. Who'd want to have such a snake working for them? You see, Xenia? You have power only for as long as I allow it. If you don't use your influence to do exactly as I want then I'll crush you. A pretence isn't enough, you have to play your part with sincerity. None of the irony you've thought so amusing today. Now be a good girl and go and congratulate the happy couple and tell them that you expect their regular attendance at party meetings. Tell them how much that would mean to you.”

I did precisely as I'd been told. My tearfulness seemed to the young women to be a result of my intense feelings for my adopted country, I'm sure, and they pledged to do as I asked. I looked at them and wondered if they would soon be converted to party zealots, cut off from the moderating influence of their families.

At home I was alone again with far too much time to reflect on the events of the day. I was beside myself with frustration. I was becoming aware just how dangerous the Free Nation movement was, and how manipulative Dejax would be to obtain power. I felt helpless. Did I have any choice but to assist her? I knew how ruthless she could be and I had no doubt that she'd press home her advantage and make good on her threats. Divorced, I'd be lost and friendless.

I woke up early the next morning with a start. I had been dreaming and although I couldn't consciously recall the dream I was left with the feeling that I'd spent so much time with the movement's faithful that I'd come to believe in their vision too. I was close to tears as I imagined how easy it would be to lose my sense of right and wrong. I thought of Reddulaj and Vanna, and how Dejax would now ensure that they were socialising with her friends now, how they would feel compelled to agree with everything that was said, until they finally started to believe it. They'd be bought easily, they were young and apolitical, but their propaganda value would be valuable to Dejax and her allies. A young couple, inspired to move beyond their previous western values and suddenly elevated to celebrity status for a brief moment. And I was complicit in their conversion. They would surely not be the last.

A few days later Dejax was at home. She came into the house and dismissed the staff. “How's my darling wife?” she said disdainfully. “Still thinking of how you can undermine the Free Nation?” I shook my head ruefully. “You mean you tried thinking of every possible way but realised you were helpless?”

“Yes Dejax,” I admitted. “Something like that.”

“Well, acceptance of your position is a sort of progress, at least. Maybe you should have a tutor. It would give you some purpose and help orient your thoughts. I want to be sure that when you appear in public you won't try your sarcasm again. I'm going to have to really punish you if you do that again.”

“I find it hard to watch how you manipulate people. Bully is maybe a better word.”

She looked at me with pity. “Yes, people should have freedom to make their own decisions. To behave terribly and to ruin life for everyone. That's how stupidly you think. I don't think it's honourable, or good, or kind, to let people act badly. And if I can prevent that by applying a little pressure, then that's better than letting them do real damage and facing serious consequences later. Just because you don't know right from wrong doesn't mean other people don't. And the illuminated have a duty to guide those who have a lesser understanding of truth.”

“Ah, I see. What you believe is the truth? I'm so pleased that you're here to guide us from our moral turpitude.”

She rose to her feet and stood over me. “Don't forget who you're talking to. You're my wife and you took a vow to me. And I expressly told you that your sarcasm is unacceptable. From now on, Xenia, darling, what I say is inarguable fact and you will support it entirely, and not just in my presence. Understood?”

There was something violent and threatening in her face that I hadn't seen before and I was more afraid of her than ever before.

“Yes, Dejax,” I said.

“And now you've forced me to have to punish you. Prostrate yourself six times.”

I did as ordered, rising each time from the floor with increasing difficulty, out of breath as I raised my heavy body. At the fourth time of rising I saw that she held a leather strap in her hand and smiled menacingly. “I'm going to have to make you hurt. It's for your own good, to save you from lapsing into poor judgement and trying to pass your errors on to others.”

I finally rose for the sixth time. “Pull up your skirt and bend over the sofa.” I could barely get my breath as I did. I wanted to beg for mercy but I was too proud, or maybe it was merely that I knew my punishment was going to take place regardless.

I cried out as the heavy leather struck my buttock. Dejax was strong and she hit with all the force she could muster. “Six on each buttock, then six for each hand. And every time you so much as think of contradicting me this is what you get. You make such an easy target now, you big fat pig,” she laughed. “Your arse used to be so small the strap would have covered its full width. Now you need to be beaten twice as many times.”

I was sobbing as she told me to stand up straight and hold out my hand. “Keep your arm firm and don't try to soften the blow.” I could barely raise my hand after the first blow, so much did my hand sting. It took me all of my resolve not to pull my hand aside as I saw the strap descend to inflict more suffering. By the time both hands had received their full complement I was weeping like a baby.

“Next time I may use it on your face, you weakling,” Dejax added vitriolically. “I'd like seeing those big round hamster cheek with purple bruises. Do you feel in the mood to show me how ironic and witty you are, Xenia?”

“No, Minanna,” I moaned as I pressed my throbbing hands beneath my armpits.

“Then perhaps I've helped you to learn something,” she smiled. “But I think a more permanent reminder of your new status is needed today. Do you remember Nanga Siddera? I'm going to have her attend and fit you with a new piercing.”

I was sent to my bedroom where I waited in anguish for, what I was sure, would be a painful and humbling experience. After about two hours I heard Dejax approaching and she entered with Siddera.

The young woman had been remodelled in the image of a devout nationalist since our last meeting. Her hair was hidden under a veil, but the front part of her head was exposed and was plucked. I greeted her sullenly and she complimented me on my marriage.

“Take off all of your clothes,” Dejax said coldly. I stripped with some difficulty, my hands so swollen that my grip was compromised, and my buttocks so sore that and movement caused me to wince.

I stood naked and Siddera examined my mound, her fingers tracing the scars where my labiaplasty had now healed. “Two rings on each side?” she asked. “It's possible but I'll have to go quite deep into the flesh. It's always more intrusive where the labia are absent, but of course, cosmetically so much more pleasing.”

Dejax smiled. “I've let Siddera know about your addiction to pleasuring yourself. This will help you to control your urges. It's for your own good, darling. I know how ashamed you feel.”

“As I said, Minanna Dejax, if her compulsion continues to be a problem I could easily arrange for excision of the clitoris. I'm sure you know how effective that can be in moderating the indulgences of weakness.”

My resolve to conduct myself with dignity through this trial was broken. “Please, Minanna, not that,” I begged. “I'll do anything for you but don't do that to me.”

“You have a chance to redeem yourself, don't you darling. I'm not going to do it today and if you show me that you can be very obedient to me then we don't have to think about it again.”

I found myself thanking her copiously, tears streaming down my cheeks. I could see that Siddera was embarrassed by my emotional display.

I was told to sit on a stool with my legs splayed, which made me groan as my abused flesh pressed onto the wooden seat. Siddera made some marks in pen on the edges of my vulva. After making necessary hygiene arrangements, she applied a clamp to pinch a fold of flesh where a slight scar showed where the inner tissue had been excised. I sighed as she pierced the site, feeling the shock of pain induce a cold sweat. I closed my eyes and tried to endure the pain and nausea, prayed for the suffering to pass. Of course, I had three repeats of this process to stomach. I held my head back, afraid to see the wounds, gasping for air to save me from fainting. I felt the derrix stalks being introduced to the wounds, a sharp stinging as the oils staunched the bleeding.

“I do apologise for Minanna Xenia's weakness,” Dejax said with scorn. “She's not been herself lately and I'm in despair sometimes to know how to make her improve herself.”

“As you said, perhaps you've been too lenient with her. I'm sure your new, more robust way with her will bring about a rapid improvement. I think that's what you need, isn't it, Minanna Xenia.”

“Yes, Nanga Siddera,” I sobbed.

She held up a ring to show me. “These rings need a special tool to open them so you won't be able to remove them yourself.” She slid the ring into the fresh piercing and closed it.

Now it was Dejax's turn to show me something. She held up an X-shaped metal object composed of two near identical layers. “This will be locked over the rings,” she informed me, opening the object so that I could see that the end of each limb formed a tube. “I'll hold the key and it will prevent you using those toys.” She passed it to Siddera who slid it into place and locked it. It was quite heavy and placed a strain on the rings.

“Do I have to make Nanga Siddera put a big piercing in your clitoris or do you promise to refrain from touching it?”

“I promise, Minanna,” I said, broken.

“And if you break your promise?”

“It'll be removed,” I said.

“Very well, I'll give you a change to prove yourself. Now gather all those awful toys of yours and call Felashi to dispose of them.”

I looked at her pleadingly. “Please, Minanna, may I dress?”

“Minanna Xenia, do as you're told before I punish you further.”

I went to a cabinet and took out the dildos and vibrator I'd acquired. I held them out toward Dejax to show her.

“Four? That's all of them?” I nodded. “Ring the bell.”

Within a minute my maid had arrived. I stood before her, my newly occluded slit evident to all. She was sufficiently competent to hide her shock at what she was seeing. “Please Felashi, could you see that these are safely disposed of? I don't need them any more.”

“Yes Minanna Xenia.” She couldn't hide her revulsion as she reluctantly took them in her hands.

“Minanna Xenia is not herself,” Dejax said to her. “I think she may benefit from a purgative. You're to administer them to her twice a day for the next week, Felashi. As soon as I leave the house you can give the first. You should also talk with Nanga Siddera before she leaves. She'll instruct you how to care for the new piercings that Minanna Xenia has.” I felt like I was being regressed to a state of helplessness. Felashi was now responsible for caring for the body which was no longer mine.

Soon I was alone again and I looked in the mirror at the horrible metal cross that bound the wounds and sealed me against pleasure. I wanted to cry but knew that Felashi would soon return and it was expected that I should behave with dignity before her. I'd already brought disgrace on myself for my weakness.

When Felashi did come to me she set to her tasks in silence. She carefully wiped the blood from the wounds, then took a small pot of a dark gum. She dipped a brush in it and prepared to apply it. “What is that stuff?” I asked, assuming it was some antiseptic.

“It's callachi, a resin from a conifer. Minanna Dejax has specified that I must apply it to you each day and inspect your fingers. If you have the callachi on your fingers it will stain them and the smell is impossible to hide. I have to inform Minanna Dejax if this happens. May I apply it now, Minanna?” I grunted my assent, appalled that I was no longer allowed to so much as touch my own sex. The sticky gum was applied over my clitoris.

“It'll stain your undergarments, but Minanna says it's necessary.” I thought I saw a flash of Schadenfreude in her eyes, pleasure in the humiliation of the ill-tempered head of the house. I couldn't blame her, Dejax had ensured that my behaviour toward the staff was anything but considerate. Now she would oversee my punishment for daring to try to resist Dejax's will.

My instinct was to take to my bed and retreat into myself. The following day this was exactly what I did and I was only disturbed by Felashi to undertake the measures that had been ordered by Dejax. I was so sore that sleeping seemed the only way for my body to overcome what had happened. On the second day Felashi woke me early.

“Minanna, wake now. You have to bathe and dress. Minanna Dejax is coming with a guest and she wants you ready to greet them.”

“I'm ill,” I moaned. “Leave me alone, Felashi, I'm staying in bed.”

“Minanna, you most certainly are not. Minanna Dejax has given me an order and her word is paramount in this house. Get from your bed or I'll pull you out by your nose ring.”

I'd never heard Felashi speak so boldly and I sat up in shock. I saw that she had no fear of me any more. It seemed that my humiliation had taken away all respect from the household. I felt sure that Felashi had whispered about what had happened to me to all of her colleagues. I stiffly eased myself from my bed and went to my bathroom.

An hour later Dejax arrived with a middle aged woman that she named as Doctor Lapalli. She wore the severe masculine hairstyle that marked her out as a superior wife. After the introductions I was told that I should make my daily inspection of the staff and I called them to assemble. I inspected their dress and could find no fault. “All very good,” I said, feeling that I was more the subject of scrutiny than any of the servants.

“Did you inspect the house yesterday, Minanna?” Dejax asked. I admitted that I hadn't since I'd been indisposed. She turned to the doctor and shrugged with frustration. “You see?” she muttered.

The staff were dismissed to attend to their duties and Dejax's tirade began. “The kitchen is so untidy and some of the bathrooms haven't been cleaned in a week. You're supposed to ensure that a basic level of standard is maintained. You're lazy and slovenly. If you let this happen again, I'll make you clean up while the servants watch you!

“I'm so sorry you had to witness this, Doctor Lapalli but I thought you should see how far removed from propriety her behaviour can be. I think much of it is because she grew up in such an amoral country. Minanna Xenia, Doctor Lapalli has agreed to tutor you three days a week. I hope she can do something to give you some pride in your country and in yourself, because you're a Jertulian now. She's a woman of great learning and you should always treat her with reverence and obedience.”

“It's an honour and a privilege to be your humble student, Doctor Lapalli,” I said warmly. She showed no reaction. She seemed colder and sterner than my old teacher, Harosul.

“I thought you could teach her something about history, the geography of Jertul. And of course, Munk's writings. She's struggled to read the Text, because her comprehension of the language is flawed. I'm sure you'll be an able guide to illumine her path.”

“And is there anything else you'd like to learn about, Minanna Xenia?” she asked.

“I always liked art and music. I'd like to know more about Jertulian traditions.”

“That's excellent,” she said, showing some enthusiasm for the first time. “I think without some grounding in culture none of our traditions have value.”

Dejax left us and Lapalli immediately began my first history lesson. She had me read from an early twentieth century text, patiently correcting my mistakes in grammar and pronunciation. She was happy when I paused and asked for clarification or explanation. She answered all of my questions fully and confidently and by the end of the morning I had taken a liking to her. She wasn't warm but she did have a dry wit and she was the first person in a long time to treat me as an intelligent human. For an hour or two I was able to forget my cares.

We took lunch together and I asked her about the complicated parliamentary system of Jertul. The president was no figurehead, but carried the ultimate authority. He served a ten year term, elected by popular vote. Beneath were three councils, only one of which was elected. There was a small executive council, each member appointed for life by a president, and these elected the members of the next body, the senate. Senators had to be re-elected every five years, but in practice it was rare for them to lose their place unless they had disgraced themselves. The elected representatives, the Parliamentarians, were also elected every five years. There weren't political parties as I'd been used to them, but rather fluid alliances of those with shared interests. To be elected as a Parliamentarian the support of one of the groupings in the senate was needed.

“And Dejax is seeking political office?” I asked.

“She is. There are three senate seats to be filled next year and she'll get one. She's interested in taking charge of education policy, serving under the Presbyter for schooling. She's discussed this with you?”

“No, she doesn't tell me much of her professional life,” I admitted.

“Then I shouldn't discuss it either. It's unseemly to find out about your spouse from hearsay.”

The afternoon was passed in more lessons, now about the geography of the nation and how the physical isolation had given Jertul its isolation and uniqueness. At the end of the lesson Dejax joined us to inquire of my conduct.

“She's a good student,” Doctor Lapalli stated. “Her main difficulties are her reading skills. I think I can help her progress with those, however. She's shown a curiosity and an eagerness to learn. I've encouraged it although she was asking about your political career which made me a little wary.”

Dejax gazed at me. “Minanna Xenia, were you not told that you were not to ask about current political issues?” I felt my terror growing. I was genuinely frightened by her now. I tried to think of a time when I'd been warned from discussing politics but I couldn't recall any such command. Nevertheless, to question her in company would be unacceptable. I nodded, my fear growing. I heard raised voices telling me off, but I was panicking so much that I couldn't take in their meaning. “Your hand!” Dejax said insistently, as if she'd had to say in numerous times already.

I held out my right hand and gasped as Doctor Lapalli beat me across the palm with a strap. “The other,” she said firmly. My left hand received the same treatment, three sharp claps of the leather.

“I hope you'll learn to be more discreet in your curiosity, Minanna Xenia,” she said. I promised my obedience.

After my tutor had left Dejax stared at me in silence. Finally she spoke. “Spying on me now. What did you want to know from her?”

“We were discussing... I asked about the parliamentary system. And I asked if you were standing for office.”

“What did she say?”

“She said you'll become a senator next year.”

Dejax's surly disposition vanished. “She said that? You're sure she said I'd become a senator?”

“Yes, she said there are three positions and you'll be appointed to one of them.”

“Oh my! She's very well connected, so she knows about these things. Oh, Xenia, you've no idea how good this news is.”

“She said you're interested in being involved with schools policy,” I added, keen to disclose fully what I'd learnt, for fear that she'd discover this from Lapalli and I'd once more be accused of being underhanded.

“Yes. I suppose you don't approve.”

“I'm sure you'll do a fine job, Dejax.” My words sounded hollow, not even sincere to my ears.

“You have your part to play. I'm opening an academy and you can appear to help me to find suitable young ladies. And of course to get our media interested. The newspapers always like to have a new story about Saint Xenia. If only they knew.”

[residualsociety-blog-blog]

Therapy 3 (Removing Bandages)

1. Knowing that I have been insulated with a privileged life, has this led me into an existence of melancholy that has no foundation?

I have always been drawn to the melancholy. Blame it on my upbringing of suppressive emotion from the hardened baby boomer Irishmen around me or on the self-detrimental music I listened to (probably symptomatic of reason #1). In my more religious days, the idea of being sick without a cure always brought an egocentric tear to my eye. I’ve always resonated with the idea of being deprived and stuck on a hopeless ship with no ending destination. Does this fantasy have any merit?

Relatively speaking, probably not. Yes, this life is built on the foundations of pain that we build houses on; creating illusions of safety and decorating them in distracting ways. I grew up in a part of the world though that was well nourished, both literally and figuratively speaking. My parents had flaws, of course, but relatively speaking these flaws were incredibly minor in nature. In fact, the loving/sheltering nature of my upbringing is probably my biggest flaw, since I lack the understanding of how dark the darkness can get. I misperceive my shadow as epitome of darkness, when there are far darker dungeons of pain that exist. I try to understand the hierarchy of pains, sometimes successfully, but even then I still lack the feeling that reinforces the idea and brings it to life.

So why not use the positive force in my life to become a beacon of hope to others, or at the very least not pretend that my life is any harder than anyone else’s? Well, thats where it gets complicated. 

Maybe I’m trying harder with all of the self improvement actions I’m taking. I rarely speak of my demons and are way more present for others (for the most part, I think I’m trying). Maybe just slowing down and stepping into the shoes of others and being more realistic about the depth of my own problems is the keys. Being conscious with the realities around me.

2. In what circumstances have I ended relationships with friends and girlfriends? Were they worthy of these measures?

This is going to be hard.

Rachel: Lack of trust. I always assumed she was up to no good. This was textbook overthinking mixed with a large heaping dose of insecurity. The first time I broke up with her was because I thought I could do better. The second time was the opposite.

Amy: We were not compatible, though I wanted us to be. She had a kind heart, was very caring, and on paper was an ideal companion. However, everything personality and value related just did not compute. I always went into a meeting with her with a “lets make this a good night” attitude and left emotionally exhausted from a night of personality dissonance.

Relationships:

Lex: This one is two sided. I did not trust Lex, similar to Rachel, but there were things to not trust. I always had the sense that Lex was up to no good, and I don’t think that was a misguided notion. Lex loved conflict and drama, and spent most of her time digging into the shit of others. I can’t imagine this did not spill into our relationship as well, although it’s hard to tell where.

I also was not very fair to her. I, again, was very insecure, and would constantly be checking her location (one of my more alarming qualities). She was obsessed “fitting in”, and would put scandalous pictures on her social media for attention. It was fair for me to have issue with this, but I would present it in ways that were not fair to her. I should have communicated it in a simple and non-judging way, which I don’t think I did.

It’s weird, I loved spending time with her but I don’t think I actually loved her. She was something fun to experience but was not good for me, like the Rick and Morty episode where Rick sidetracks Unity from her purpose to have a good time. 

I also just run away from conflict whenever possible, which I did in that relationship. Most issues we had were only addressed when they boiled over.

It was a game to keep Lex. I had to be somebody I wasn’t (or someone I was not yet).

Friendships:

James: It was a wise decision to let go of this relationship. James was self destructive, and worse, destructive to those he was around.

Jon: I don’t blame Jon for removing me from his band. I was not a man of solutions, just problems based on my unpolished philosophies of what music should be. We innately did not see eye to eye of what art should be and it let me effect how I saw him as a person. He also was not communicative towards the end, which I can’t blame him for. Many of his faults were ones I dealt with too, which is probably why we were so close in the beginning before we blew up in spectacular fashion. My youthful whimsical idealism and his old hardened traditionalism would never see eye to eye.

Colin: Colin was caring and a lot of fun to be around. We fundamentally were very different people, however. Emotionality and Self-Made Self Acceptance were important to him, whereas I believed more in a more reserved self growth that came from disciplinary action to day to day life. We would have conversations that would really open my eyes to places that were blind to me, which I appreciated with his view of. He just was not a very disciplined person to be around, and I felt that create a rift towards him. I was also just way too close to him all the time, and felt myself needing space even when he was intruding. 

He also made several questionable decisions against me; which I both understand. I forgive him, but I cannot trust him the way I could before.

Teague: This one is complicated. I think he had a lot of expectations of me that I did not live up to. He wanted me to be forgiving to issues I did not understand. I also did things that questioned my character to him, which I think I understand. I probably looked pathetic in many of my decisions, which is probably why I hid so much information from him. There were things he did that were questionable, but maybe they weren’t the same in degree. Does dating a 18 year old just as questionable as being abusive to your dog, doing a lot of drugs, or attacking the ones closest to you? There was a degree of growth though that he was experiencing, and maybe he clumped me into the parts of himself that he needed to let go in order to grow. I can get that. Still, I can’t help but feel there is an essence of blind destruction that came from him letting me go from his life.

I think I get too close to people. Maybe I just get too close to the wrong people. I think most of my best friends have had fundamentally different approaches to life. They’ve also taken to vices that are in some ways self destructive, such as drinking or drugs. Because I don’t have the inclination to go there, thats why I push away. Theres probably a much more caring way, but its much easier to leave something than to fight for it.

One last question that I (personally) feel needs to considered as well:

3. What does my current/past company say about me as a person? What does my attraction to the history of people with mental illness say about me?

4. What if I am, in fact, a leech of “the light of others”?

Listen, feel what they’re feeling, don’t offer solutions.

Lack of exerted boundaries

Deject people using cold fish tactics

Maturity issues.

Certain issues should be valued in certain degrees.

[stuffandus]

JCB Ch 4: Coffee/Class

“Different classes consume differently. Partly, this has to do with the fact that we often consume items not just for utilitarian ends, but also to send a message to others about who we are, where we think we belong, and how we think we are different from others.“

I identify with this quote in an array of proportions, but instead of going on a tangent about my past, how I grew up, my mother, social peers, and career, let's just get down to the basics of the now: Based off of my income, I am considered impoverished. Based on where I live, I am higher middle class, and based on my taste in fashion, I am wealthy. I have designer things for whatever I think is most important, ie bags, shoes, coats, jeans, even keychains. But my income is so low that I can just barely afford my bills, and then some, so with all my savings after penny pinching, I make an extravagant purchase of luxury goods, most of the time a nice purse like my latest craze for Yael Saint Laurent, but sometimes a nice Burberry jacket or Chanel hair clip made of crystals. I will not bore you with my past of poverty and social criticisms, but today with my mental incapabilities due to depression, trauma, and anxiety, it has been a difficult task to finish my educational dreams and give myself the true lifestyle I want. So with what I have, I engulf myself in slaving away to get by, just so I can afford my latest conquest of designer goods. However, I like a minimalist lifestyle nonetheless, which brings me happiness and clarity, and most of all peace, so the lavish taste is merely sprinkles to my cake life of simplicity.

“One of our students, Melissa, whom we introduced at the beginning of this chapter, told us that in her social circles, “people want to be seen sipping a cup with that infamous logo because it makes them feel a heightened, more superior form of identity . . . like they are ‘better’ for choosing Starbucks over McDonald’s.“

Ever bag that I posses is a designer bag. However I still have a few collections from my Coach phase. Now a days I would be ashamed to be seen worn with a Coach bag unless it is to go  run errands such as to the grocery store or class, or a quick run to the pharmacy. But my other bags such as Gucci or Prada, I wear when I am go to social places, such as restaurants, vacations, events, or work visits off the clock.

While I make sure my absolute necessities are met, my remaining income has a purpose quite opposite of those kinds of needs. Statements. Statement pieces or items. “I don’t belong here” or “I belong here” or “I am better” are all feelings (not sayings) that I get when I wear or display my pieces of clothing. And it is not a distaste for the communities who do not have them, nor is it an aspiration to be rich and glamorous, but I think it roots down to growing up in poverty and when the slightest chance came of me running into wealthier people, a feeling of shame came over me. I could sense their sense, I could feel their energy, in their aurora as a whole they felt they were better, and I was a waste on their precious time, I was someone that should not cross paths with theirs and their existence, was far more important than mine. That shame continued on with far more questions of my world and the different classes. I saw myself with value and worth, but only if I could meet that level of class that those wealthy had obtained. It wasn’t as much about my job, as it was about what I looked like, what I represented on impression and style. I do not see myself as better, or as unequal to anyone who has less money or more money, but I myself feel whole, confident, and worthy. And all these self identifying factors are fulfilling and gives a sense of being complete, by filling the whole of shame with luxurious material items, or statement pieces. 

Juliet Schor’s research makes clear that contemporary shoppers continue to “upscale” their consumption, attempting to use their purchases to emulate the lives of social elites. This phenomenon is referred to as upscale emulation (Schor 1998; 1999).

I consume for happiness. I consume to fill a void of emptiness brought by shame. I am seeking validity. I consume for identity and self worth. My job remains in anonymity when it comes to the topic in passing. Or if the topic is inevitable, it is spoken with passion, integrity, and heart, despite my income. My priorities to uphold higher class items is what brings me to the level of integral social status and acceptance. I work my butt off for scraps, but I do good work for people, for people who have no one, not even themselves to count on, and it speaks volumes of my character. But my ability to thrive and survive, and yet hold the same values of the wealthy and wise, makes a statement, one that accepts me into their world when I once was ostracized and avoided like a venomous, infected, rodent. My job speaks volumes, my life speaks humbly, but my possession speak wisdom and knowledge. My ignorance is not an issue of class, my mind is a product of being with the higher class by knowing and possessing what they adorn themselves most, luxury.

“Cultural capital is a concept of key importance for understanding consumption. It refers to the kinds of knowledge and skills that are highly valued within a particular culture, and thus provide social advantages.”

Harry once told me I have a harsh inner critic, and in this sense it is loud and vibrant in my consciousness. I love and respect all kinds of people for their hard work, for their heart, for their unities, for their accomplishments, poor or rich, but for myself, owning nice things says to all that I can not be rejected, I am not someone to look down on. I’ve always liked socializing with the outcasts as kids, I always went out and fed the poor in the parks of Oakland and San Francisco, and now I continue with this respect for life, but the respect for my own has a harder criticism. We’re all hardest most on ourselves, and we’re all our own worst critic, and in the same sense, we all aspire to send messages about ourselves, to reach that level of perfection, to be of a society or class. With that being said, I identify being neutral. And no one will be able to see me lower than what I am, as we all are, worthy.

“The term conspicuous consumption was coined by sociologist Thorstein Veblen (1857–1929) in the late 19th century to describe the ways social elites purchase and display high-status items to distinguish themselves as socially superior and to demonstrate their high status—the amount of respect, deference, or prestige a person commands. In Veblen’s words, “the consumption of . . . excellent goods is an evidence of wealth, it becomes honorific; and conversely, the failure to consume in due quantity and quality becomes a mark of inferiority and demerit” (1967: 75). Veblen’s writing also identified how high-status consumption items tended to “trickle down” to lower classes, creating a competitive cycle of consumption. More recently, economist Robert Frank (2011) has termed this phenomenon an “expenditure cascade”: when people at the top of the class hierarchy spend more on a given item (like a cup of coffee), it can lead to an expansion of expectations and expenditures by those lower down the socio-economic totem pole. This phenomenon helps shed light on why lower and middle income people (often inadvertently) may come to desire high-status items (e.g. designer shoes and purses, luxury cars, expensive baby strollers).“

These aspirations to obtain beautiful and luxurious pieces is also inspired by social media icons. They are my means to fill the void of shame. If it wasn’t for the Kardashians, influencers like Brittany Xavier, or instagram, I would probably still be suffering with the ignorance of poorish people. With celebrities making fashion statements and broadcasting them on social media, it makes it easy to look up and find the website on wear to purchase it. It’s no wonder Billie Eilish is thrown up on, metaphorically speaking, by designers like Louis Vuitton and Chanel for FREE, whilst she is a 17 year old millionaire.

“Juliet Schor’s research makes clear that contemporary shoppers continue to “upscale” their consumption, attempting to use their purchases to emulate the lives of social elites. This phenomenon is referred to as upscale emulation (Schor 1998; 1999).”

“Given the popularity of social media platforms like Instagram and Snapchat among wealthy celebrities—like recording artists Jay-Z and DJ Khaled, pictured here—audiences have increasingly easy and rapid access to elite consumption habits (as well as enhanced information about how to emulate them)”

[ivbenjaminart]

LEGACIES - Agent Lex Argentum 

Entry 4 - The Provocateur] <File encryption level: Black> <Security protocols enacted> I have decided to make this entry classified eyes only. I fear I may not be able to remain objective as I report on this man. I must succeed in my mission to bring these individuals to justice, therefore, for the sake of the integrity of the investigation, this profile will remain private. While House Fratrem is arguably the most powerful of the High Houses in the hierarchy, House Argentum is easily the largest. Extended family aside, the current generation consists of both the Lord Bellator and Lady Dulcia Argent and a total of nine children--one of which, Lacuna, sits at the Black Table of the Inquisition, and two, Fortuno and Tacenda, are Obscura and thus serve the Imperial Security Agency. Their control of the Imperium’s finances should grant them a troubling amount of sway in matters of the empire--however, this is (thankfully) counterbalanced by our majesty, the Primarch Ursor Nox, as well as the combined strength of the voices behind High Houses Tempus, Dominus, Mortis, and Aurum. Even High House Fratrem, for the sake of its dominating position in the Hierarchy, also has a stake in keeping the bankers at bay. After all, you cannot defend your coin without a military or fund your military without coin. This is all to say that House Argentum has a reputation and not a particularly favourable one. Given their enormous contribution to the Imperium, however, and the fact that their eldest daughter sits at the Black Table, it would be impossible to ever remove them of their rank. As a lowborn man from a family of middle rank officers in Ordo Militaris ...I cannot help but wonder at the mind that devised the Office of the Inquisition. Did they create it with this loophole in mind? Plant a son or daughter at the Table making a unanimous vote to remove your House from power impossible? This reputation, however, is more troubling than just being an attention seeking throng of braggarts and sycophants that line their wine goblets with gemstones. It begins with knowing that they had a third child born an Obscura--the subject of this profile--Lex Argentum. My initial investigation began with the Schola Obscura--the academy that all Obscura attend for their training prior to becoming Agents of the ISA. Similar to the Citadel where Inquisition hopefuls receive instruction. His earliest records at the Schola Obscura show enlistment at age ten, which was automatically a red flag. It is common knowledge that all Obscura are enlisted at age five. My authority granted me access to several sealed medical documents that shed a rather disturbing light on the cause. Lex was born with a crippling condition called Servants’ Syndrome. The condition itself is extremely rare, affecting less than one in five million and never before someone from a highborn family. It earned its name as those with it are born with underdeveloped legs typically from the knee down and as such, were they to try and stand, would always be kneeling. In some severe cases, those with Servants’ Syndrome will also have a weakened skeletal structure where even breathing can cause fractures. Even a cursory study of his medical records made it clear that Lex’s case was, indeed, severe. A fact I...did not know. Further investigation into his medical condition shows that all of his post-delivery care was performed in home and by a private physician whose name had been redacted from all records (I was able to confirm their identity, but it is of little importance in the grand scheme of things). In attempt to track his progression with Servants’ Syndrome I tried to cross reference public appearances of the Argentum family between 760 and 765 AE. All eight of his siblings (of which, he is the youngest) had countless records of public appearance at official events and even popular social gatherings but there were none to be found of Lex. I then checked written records around the time and curiously found no mention of him, either. It was as if he did not exist at all. Combined with information surrounding his late enlistment into the Schola Obscura...I was able to deduce a horrible truth. Lex had been a prisoner of his home. For ten years...save for the confidential medical records I was able to uncover...there is not one iota of proof that he had ever been born. What did they have to gain from this? Were they afraid that having a sickly child would reflect on the strength of their House? Were they ashamed he was afflicted with a lowborn illness? Was it all for the sake of their reputation? He never told me any this. I can’t imagine… I...will return to this report at a later time. <End data entry> <Begin amended log> <File encryption level: Black> <Security protocols enacted> The Schola Obscura’s database indicates that Lex Argentum was enlisted at the age of ten. Were it not for the situation at hand I would not have access this information, but emergency powers have been granted to my office and I was thus able to confirm that he was not enlisted by his family but by the High Legatus himself, Felix Aurum. This leads me to believe that the High Legatus must have learned of the boy’s existence somehow and his classification as an Obscura. I have my suspicions as to how--there was an outbound call made from an Arc Link terminal within House Argentum’s manor two solans before his enlistment. Either Lex or his caretaker saw the wrong being done unto him and decided the unquestionable authority of an Agent was needed to save him. To think I would ever be thankful the left hand of the Primarch were above the law... Medical records indicate that he underwent the only known procedure to, not cure, but counteract Servants’ Syndrome--a procedure with an impossibly low success rate. His legs were both replaced with cybernetic prosthesis and his entire skeletal structure was rebuilt with synthetic bones. Miraculously he survived--though I am not a medical professional I can only assume it is the enhanced healing of the Obscura that allowed him to live through the ordeal. After his recovery, his initial tests at the Schola Obscura yielded surprising results in regards to the potency of his abilities. It leads me to believe that he must have attempted to hone his psionic gifts while hidden away in his home. It appears that, shortly after this, he was introduced to House Fratrem’s Obscura son, Lance, with whom he formed a fast friendship with. The two were apparent trouble for their superiors at the Academy--which was only compounded after the arrival of Carcer three years later. His time spent at the Schola Obscura was worthy of note only in the efficiency in which he performed (note: see, also, files on the boys’ involvement in Project Deadzone. Why was my office never informed of this?). Upon graduation he remained with Lance and Carcer and was joined by Silva, his former Magister. He began serving as their pilot and link-breaker (in layman's, an individual with technical expertise who utilizes exploits within electronic systems to break into them) and did so up until Division IV’s betrayal. He remains with them now. I respected Silva. Her service to the Throne was admirable, despite being an Agent. I never cared for Carcer or Lance. But Lex...I must be honest with myself when I say that his betrayal is not unlike feeling a tear in my soul. Should such things exist. It is my only regret that he does not know what his actions have done...and that, now that he has become an enemy of the empire I swore to protect, he never will. I will bring him and the others to justice, regardless of how deeply it pains my heart. It is my duty as an Inquisitor. --Inquisitor Apollo Trevellus

[parniarazi]

Experiencing the magic of some of the most ancient art and architecture of humanity was an unreal journey over the last few weeks. Through 6 cities and 3 countries in the span of 2 weeks, I learned so much from such a little amount of time. That’s my favorite thing about travel - you gain a sense of wisdom and culture that nothing else can give you in such a short time period. From my visit to my birthplace of Iran last summer, to my mini-tour of Europe this summer, I’m so grateful to have the privilege of traveling at this age. The sense of cultural understanding I’ve gained from these experiences is invaluable. I hope this post can give some tips to anyone interested in international travel and simply highlight some things I learned from my trip.

The first thing I had to deal with before even leaving for the airport was packing. Like many people, I have a tendency to overpack so I really challenged myself to pack light for this trip. For my trip to Iran last year, I really only needed about half the stuff I brought in my checked bag. For this trip, I took a carry-on suitcase and mini backpack. This was also necessary because I was traveling between cities and countries in Europe. Keeping it light is important, as well as making sure you keep liquids to a minimum and placing heavier items toward to bottom. I became a pro at washing some of my underwear and clothes in the shower with soap so I could re-wear it. Smart packing is totally essential for a long international trip, so I’d even suggest making sure you have good quality luggage before you leave to make transporting it easier and worry-free.

Another thing people can underestimate or overlook is transportation. We mainly used public transportation, because taxis can be overpriced and hard to track down. Public transportation can save lots of money (you can use towards food and shopping instead!) and even be kind of fun once you get the hang of it. Do some research beforehand and don’t be afraid to ask questions! Luckily, I was warned about pickpocketers and we made sure to keep our important items secure and out of back pockets or easy to reach places. Keeping your stuff safe and even locked is definitely a good idea in the crowded areas.

Before you leave get tickets online to any places you’re visiting that require them. Seriously, you won’t be able to thank yourself enough when you get to skip a giant line of tourists waiting to buy tickets or get in. However, you should also be ready for lines and lots of walking, so take your comfiest shoes or even buy insoles! We walked between 5-10 miles on an average day in the city wandering and sightseeing. Not to mention the stairs - if you have any sort of disability make sure you find out if places are accessible beforehand. We saw the Louvre, Vatican Musem, Sistine Chapel, Vatican Church, and several other of the worlds most famous museums and it is so worth being on your feet for a long time! The biggest thing that took me by surprise was the crowds (especially because I have anxiety) in places you wouldn’t expect it. Everything is tiny in Europe, and although people had told me this I really didn’t know how tiny until I experienced it myself. Coming from big ol’ Texas, it was definitely a culture shock and surprise.

This is a given for travel - but be open and relax! Things will go wrong or be different than you expect and that’s all part of the journey. I tried to remind myself of this often but there were plenty of times I felt exhausted, drained, and frustrated. Be sure to plan for wiggle room and rest days in your schedule, especially if it’s a longer trip with more travel like mine! You want to utilize your time but also keep in mind you won’t enjoy it if you’re still jet lagged or tired and hungry. I had some horrible migraines and trouble sleeping during my trip and it made a few of the days really difficult for me so I wish I had known this before I went!

The culture shock was real! I already mentioned how tiny everything is in Europe, but it was also amazing to me the way the people and culture varied, not only from the U.S., but also from each other. In France, people were overall kind, beautiful, and diverse in looks. Their lax drinking laws were amazing when we bought a bottle of wine in the park in front of the Effiel tower! In Italy, the culture is laid back and not necessarily harsh, but a bit intense. Less people spoke English here than in any other country we visited, so pick up some basics before you go on Duolingo! Overall though, the stereotype of Europeans being snobby was mostly true in my experience - so don’t take things personally! In Germany, you definitely see color far and few between, and people are harsher/not friendly. Like most places though, the younger generation is better and picking up on these universal things faster with connection through internet/social media. This observation while I was abroad really made me think about how incredible it is to really be one of the first generations to grow up with the internet. We are the most connected and globally aware generation ever because of this, and it allows us to have so much more in common despite how different where we live is.

I definitely experienced some culture shock (and severely missed air conditioning and ice in drinks) but I also realized that people truly do have more in common than we do differences. I also realized how huge of a privilege it is to be able to express individuality and have your hierarchy of needs met to a point where you’re concerned about self-realization and the such. I was expected Europe to be a lot more advanced, but seeing the way a lot of people still live there made me realize no where in the world is like America. We have insane privileges and abundant lives here that other people could hardly fathom - and not even the cliche of poor people in ‘third world’ countries - but even the middle classes of European countries can’t live the way Americans do. Not meaning this in any sort of nationalist way, but simply a reminder of our privilege and abundance in comparison to even the greatest other countries in the world. However, aside from that privilege check, this experience also taught me I need to minimize my consumption of stuff I don’t really need and end some unsustainable practices (like plastic consumption). Traveling makes you realize how much you really need vs. what you just buy to fill up space.

Another deeper thought I had while on this trip was really in conjunction with my trip to Iran last summer. Iran had places just as brilliant, historic, and tourist-worthy, yet it’s only places like the Effiel Tower and Venice that you see in movies or in a positive light. The Middle East and Africa have some of the most beautiful and ancient art, incredible nature, and are parts of the world worth exploring. It’s deeply saddening that it’s European colonialism that ruined these parts of the world and made them impoverished, corrupt, and dangerous, as they so appear to be by our Western media (because this is all they show us). If Iran was free from its government, it could be a major travel destination because it was honestly just as rich in culture and art than these famous places like Paris or Rome. If Egypt wasn’t colonized and all their things weren’t stolen or taken, it would be worthy of the world’s largest museums. This serves as a reminder that our world is still in the aftermath of colonialism and our mindsets about the world are still so deeply rooted in colonialism and Eurocentricity.

Overall, it was breathtaking to see places like the Berlin Wall, the Coloseum, Trevi Fountain, and Venice all in one trip. I ate some of the most unique and delicious food I’ve ever had, saw some of the oldest and most famous art and architecture, and got real with myself about things like environmental sustainability and Eurocentrism. I get what people mean when they say the world is their teacher, but I think the most incredible level of knowledge is achieved when that combines with education. If I could go back, I would have definitely studied abroad during my undergrad, but nonetheless the way my education elevated and contributed to my trip was something hard to describe. It’s really cool to step into an entirely new place but have some mental background that makes at least a few things familiar.

What will the world teach me next?

[venuskind]

Male Feelings of Inferiority and Patriarchy

There is a pattern in my life of men feeling inferior or less than me. My responses to it varying between trying to ignore it, degrees of discomfort, trying to make them realize its untruth, feeling frustrated, a shame fueled repulsion or numbness towards them.... which sometimes ended up disrupting or even ending relationships I otherwise valued highly.

I had witnessed with increasing awareness the emotional charge held in my body around men denigrating themselves or acting out of integrity due to feelings of inferiority and lack of worth. 

So when this pattern crossed my awareness in a meditative introspection today I asked to see its roots. Opening myself to feeling, sensing and knowing whatever might arise with gentle curiosity and acceptance. 

The first images, emotions and knowing that emerged were of my father as he was in my toddler years. I felt his weakness, discomfort at feeling inadequate, not measuring up and feeling less than my mother. I felt the urge to control it by posturing as secure and invoking biblical hierarchy to gain authority whenever he found himself questioned by my mother. I saw my mother and her strength as well as her intense and unforgiving expectations of integrity of herself and others and the lack of gentleness and understanding.

After observing and delving deeper into those memories and sensations I asked both for forgiveness for using their emotive, sensate and spoken experience to hurt myself and forgave them for bringing their unresolved issues to my innocent being.

When I felt into my body I sensed a lessening of sensations of contraction and heat but also sensed chords painfully tugging at my solar plexus and sacral chakra. Touching them I asked to be lead to their origin and suddenly patriarchal concepts and beliefs started surfacing in my mind. Letting me realize, once again, how deeply ingrained and alive this toxic programming is even after decades of self work.

I waited till I got a sense of having received all related beliefs with their corresponding emotions and images.. then I invoked memories of men whom I had uncomfortably experienced in such a state recently, sitting with the memories and feelings while asking myself why it hadn't allowed for my natural empathy and compassion to flow towards them, asking to be led to the origin of this. And my emotional reactions of disgust, repulsion and rejection lead me to my shadow aspects of weakness and cowardice, my numbness and coldness to a blockage of my natural empathy by subconscious beliefs and rationalizations of their unworthiness and the underlying fear of touching into the shame and pain I felt and encapsulated from moments of weakness and cowardice of my own. 

It was easy to release the patriarchal beliefs but quite painful to embrace my lack of compassion, to own the pain and harm this has caused the men I had engaged with. It took a while to get to the point where I was able to forgive myself and integrate weakness and cowardice as parts of my self expression. Disarming my defense to owning, accepting and laughing about myself being in any of these states and letting go of the contractions, tensions and judgements by bringing self-compassion and love to it all and my affected chakras.

I am grateful to have a multitude of tools of inquiry, knowing and intuitive integration of unconscious and painful dualities within me. I bow in gratitude to the healer in me, my countless teachers and ancestral helpers along my path.

A profound sadness enfolds me as I reflect on the intricate web of contradictory beliefs, judgements and blockages the patriarchal cultures have seeded and grown in us. My heart hurts for the messages of unworthiness men have to live with internally and which are consciously and subconsciously being reflected back to them by all of us (not just male code and men). 

To witness how deeply we have been and are being manipulated and affected in our psycho-social being and relating by distorting programs meant to divide and oppress us in a multitude of ways and our co-creative part in it is hard. To have to own the responsibility in upholding, reaffirming and fueling patriarchy even though my conscious beliefs and principles are not aligned with it in the least saddens me and equally fuels my intention to keep doing my work.

And I wonder how I will meet feelings of inferiority in a man next time I encounter them.

What lies in my power to help heal this distorted perception in the other? 

Have I done sufficient work to no longer hold that distortion in me? 

Can I make it my conscious practice to bring the reality and frequency of worthiness and wholeness to the men I engage from a truthful perception and reflection of their being? 

How do I engage or gently disengage when someone is not willing, ready or capable to do the work and embrace their worthiness? 

How can being a silent witness be of service or is silence enabling?

This is just a small part of the processes of integration and unification of dualities those walking a similar path are being called to keep up and reverberating into the field. Cleansing ourselves and the collective with love and consciousness from the distortions of the controller matrix is an ongoing process. Every little moment of insight and healing is rippling out into the collective consciousness and changing the frequency of reality and calling in new timelines of healthier relating and being. 

May humanity keep rising above the evil interwoven into our psyches.

Photography by Marcus Branch

Source: https://venuskind.de/2019/03/inferiority-and-patriarchy/

[lordbelatiel]

The Dragons of Nova (Elise Kova)

5 stars

This is a review for the second book in the ‘Alchemists of Loom’ Trilogy and, as such, spoilers for book one will abound. If you want to learn more about the series, you can find my review for the first book, ‘The Alchemists of Loom’, here.

When I read ‘The Alchemists of Loom’ last year, it was actually the first of Elise’s books that I had ever read. Oh, how times have changed…

I can remember falling in love with the world of Loom, so dark and exciting and original, with its complicated Guild system and video game worthy mechanics. There’s always the worry when you find a book which is so fresh and different, that the second book will not be able to live up to the standards of the first. Thankfully, that is far from the case in ‘The Dragons of Nova’. If anything, Elise has stepped up her game with book two. It is a dream of a sequel.

So, without further ado, let’s get ourselves reacquainted with the world of Loom.

Ari is a chimaera, a Fenthri who has been spliced with multiple dragons parts to gain their magical properties. The events of book one saw our heroine leave Dortam, where she was the infamous thief ‘The White Wraith’, in the company of her apprentice, Florence, and a man who should, by all accounts, be her enemy, the Dragon Cvareh. The only thing keeping them together? The promise of a boon if she gets the errant Dragon to the distant Alchemists Guild.

But the journey was far from simple. Ari finds herself chased by the vicious Riders of the Dragon King, and, perhaps more harrowingly, by her own past. For in a world where chimaeras rot from the inside out under the taint of dragon magic, Ari is not. She is a perfect chimaera, every dragons greatest fear, and she must stop at nothing to avoid that information from spreading. Life is complicated further by her burgeoning emotions for Cvareh, a man she should feel nothing but hate for, and her distaste that her feelings are far from that.

‘The Dragons of Nova’ opens with Ari joining Cvareh on a journey to the Dragon land of Nova, floating islands hanging in the sky above the desolation of Loom. There they are to meet with his sister Petra, in the understanding that it is in both of their interests for the Dragon King to fall. There is, over all, the question of the Philosopher’s Box, the key component in the creation of a perfect Chimaera. How much does Ari know about their construction? And how much of that knowledge about the box, and herself, is she willing to share with her Dragon allies?

Down on Loom, Florence continues her work with the Alchemists Guild, very aware that, once again, she is an outsider in the Guilds and they will always put their lives before her own. Sent on a journey via train to the Harvester’s Guild, Florence becomes intimately acquainted with all facets of monstrosity; the monsters of Loom, and the monsters in humanity. Things are changing on Loom, and our top-hatted Raven-turned-Revolver has a first row seat for the action.

It is very hard to not just keyboard smash when writing this review. SO much happens in this book and my reaction is very much simply the emoji, 😱 . Oh, you are truly lulled into a false sense of security by the end of book one. No-one is safe, no-one is secure in ‘TDON’. Our characters are truly trying to navigate violent rapids in a bathtub!

Ari, our protagonist, is mistrust and pride incarnate. Unwilling to accept help, partly because she has been so burned by her part, but also because she’s just the sort of person who would rather walk on hot coals than fall upon the generosity of another. Stubborn, capricious, difficult to love and let herself be loved, I, nevertheless, adore her. Driven by logic, yet coming to appreciate the ‘beauty as its own reward’ culture of Nova, we see so much growth in Ari during the book, both magically and personally. She’s also canonically attracted to more than one gender! Praise be for bisexual or pansexual protagonists in fantasy novels! They’re about as rare as white tigers, and it fills my little bi heart with joy to see myself represented in my favourite genre.

Ari is not the only character to undergo significant development throughout the novel. Florence, who had potentially been my least favourite of the main characters in book one, truly came into her own in ‘TDON’. ‘Tiny girl with a big gun’ is, in my opinion, one of the best tropes to come out of video games, and it’s a joy to see Florence actually be allowed to flourish without Ari being their to ‘save’ her before she gets a chance to save herself. Watching Florence come to a better understanding of herself and her place in the world was honestly one of the most exciting parts of the book. There were a couple of decisions that Florence made during the story that left me so shocked and impressed that I actually laughed out loud.

We see a lot more of Nova in this book, spending more than half of the page time above the cloud line. It’s a real treat to get to see more of the floating islands, with their environment and culture that is so different to that of Loom. Where Loom is built for function, the architecture of Nova is engineered for beauty and form. Cvareh seems a lot more comfortable and confident amongst the culture of his people, and we definitely see a different side to him, that of his sister’s second in command. Privy to his sister’s machinations and quest to return their family to power, there is a very political side to this story, exploring the social hierarchy of Nova and the implications of each and every act within their culture. Politics, I hear you groan, but do not fear, this isn’t a dry story of meetings, but politics that happens in the fighting pit and the gossip houses. The world building is far too interesting to ever let the politics get onerous.

Without spoiling anything, I will say that the events of the story and the ending truly do set the series up for an enormous conclusion. There’s bloody violence, betrayal, assassination and ‘Game of Thrones’-esque political maneuverings. It truly is beautifully and exquisitely satisfying (and painful).

The famous line from Robbie Burns’ ‘To a Mouse’ comes to mind at this moment:

‘the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft a-gley’.

We truly have been set up for suffering. It’s going to be a painful old wait for book three!

Many thanks to Keymaster Press for a copy in return for an honest review.

Review originally posted at Moon Magister Reviews. 

[bt2018bt2018]

Retail Insights February 14, 2018 http://ift.tt/2BXmSvI

Click on an image below to zoom in & open photo gallery >>

Choosing your towel info guide

Choosing your quilt info guide

Choosing your Knife Info Guide

Choosing your cookware info guide

Choosing your bed info guide

Chinese Medicine

Charity that Retail Store Does

Buy a TV with more Stars

Butterfly next to Window Pane

Bulk Billed Bailey Nelson Eye Test

Bras

Bras next to Model wearing product

Bowling Balls and Pins

Big Brands at a glance on Departmental Store's Pillar

Alteration Poster inside Departmental Store

Balloon brings positivity to store and draws customers in

Big Brand Names in Departmental Store at a glance

Dress Top Cleavage held by Metal Connector

Skirt Design with curvy ends

Saw a lady wearing white T-Shirt with marker-drawn outline of boobs and nipples

Rose on heart position of men shirt

Love a Lady with a Wide Open Back Top

Imagine Retail Store Nameboard renamed "Latest curated designs" below brand name to max profits

Any Balloons for your at the cost of any amount of donation

Love having cushion seats outside toilets in Emporium Melbourne mall

Closed Retail Store redirect customers to online web shopping store

Kathmandu

PO Box 984, South Melbourne

Victoria, Australia 3205

Attention: Chief Executive Officer

Closed Retail Store redirects customers to online web shopping store

Dear C.E.O

I wish you well. I refer to the attached photo. I am disappointed that your shop is closed. Why not implement a conspicuous sign on your storefront to direct customers to your online web store? E.g. "Sorry we missed you. Why not shop online at www.kathmandu.com?"

I humbly recommend delegating this as a new project to your assistant which will only take 3 minutes of your time. The successful outcome of this project under your leadership will significantly build up your performance appraisal at no cost to yourself that will also maximise your salary increments, bonus and promotion at no work from yourself.

Copies of this letter have been snail mailed and emailed to the relevant people in your company as my internet & computer are hacked and communication blockage from disgruntled management & employees due to their fear, authoritative hierarchy, herd mentality, and a myriad of other interesting reasons as a result of the herd being resistant to change due to invested benefits in the current system even if the change is for the greater good of the company, community and eventually yourself.

Egoistic, Capitalism and Narcissistic Mentality wrapped in sweet honey politically correct words that fail to add value to others.

My email address & social media accounts are banned by your Customer Service staff and your Social Media team – If constructive criticisms are not welcome, you are paying too much for those extra headcounts that do nothing nor add value to your business. Would it not make business sense to reduce those headcounts and turn those salaries into your own Salary Increase?

Please note that I am contactable only by email. I do apologise for this politically incorrect and badly structured letter. Please understand that I spend time, real money (I don’t earn much and I live with my in-laws) and effort to gather this observation, prepare this letter at my expense for your benefits. I do not seek any monetary rewards or credit for this feedback. I am also prepared to be bullied at work, home and by strangers; sued for bankruptcy; losing my job (haters send this feedback to my boss); endangering the lives of my loved ones and distant relatives (haters send this feedback to my loved ones) = my broken relationships; to be pushed to the front of an oncoming train down the tracks to my violent death at Melbourne Central Train Station by people affected by my feedback.

I have prepared myself with this mindset before writing this letter so that you could achieve benefits from this feedback at no cost to yourself.

Thank you for your time in reading this letter, and please kindly delegate your assistant to inform me on the progress of your action. I appreciate your time to act on this feedback for the benefits of your family, community, company and yourself.

P.S. “We buy things we don't need with money we don't have to impress people we don't like”. “Man surprised me most about humanity. Because he sacrifices his health to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he, is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”

Implement your ideas by considering decision makers' ego and make them think that they came up with the profitable idea (Men have a natural opposition to all ideas that are not of their own); allow them to take 100% of profits and credit. How? "The Squeeze" – Email AND Snail Mail Photo Feedback to Customer Service; Social Media; Chief Executive Officer; their competitors; Governments; Regulatory Authorities; Mates and Head Offices of other countries.

Regards,

Ben

JIANFA (BEN) TSAI

Design Thinker, Concerned Human, Non-Australian Citizen & Your Humble Servant

Kathmandu Customer Experience and Poncho Feedback

Supriya was unable to locate my Summit Club Membership no. By my part of my first name. She was unable to locate my summit membership no. By my email address either. I have to provide the membership no. By searching through my emails which is frustrating. On a separate note, I wish that the diagram of your poncho in the blue packet will show that it is long sleeve. On the other hand, have you considered creating COAT like the poncho to cover from waist to knee for the minimum height of ladies, e.g. 1.5m to offer more coverage? I love that I can use the string to tighten the hood of the poncho. I love how the obstruction of the brochure stand was moved away from the ad outside the store. I love how the EFTPOS receipt was printed in a single strip (efficient) together with the tax invoice. Please keep up the good work and keep well-designed products coming. Thank you.

Mannequin

Mannequin with different lipsticks

Mannequin wearing dress

Mannequin cross his hands

Mall Overhead Signs

Lighting

Jake Cress Chair

Interest-Free Repayments

Horse next to Mannequin

Gold Lamp with Stone Foot

Golden Tree next to Mannequins

Gear Wheels on Overhead Ceiling

Escalator Sign gives arrow direction to nearest elevators

Clearance items in a bucket on wheels

Car on a Swing

Candy Soldier

Beach-worthy

Be Quick Clearance Sign

Wish there is a website address on this info board to help customers obtain detailed info

Dear Sir

I refer to the Photo Attached. 

I wish there is a website address on this info board to help customers obtain detailed info. Please consider adding a website link to more info on the board. 

Thank you for your time.

Regards, 

Wish next version of toy - "See & Play Auto Mirror" is a bobbing head toy cum mirror that moves with the car.

White Dress with Long Thighs

iPhone Purchase Experience at APPLE Store - Chadstone Mall

Dear Sir,

I bought my iPhone 7 from Chadstone mall, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia recently from Shaun. He used GST rebate from the airport as a selling point. However, I am an Australian resident, and I will be bringing my phone back to the country after my holiday which is illegal, or I will have to refund the GST rebate. This miscommunication may result in significant loss of sales and your salary increase due to deceived or frustrated customers. Please ensure that your staff check the customer residency status before communicating selling point. This is no fault of Shaun as he may have assumed that I am a tourist from my accent and race. Even though I did provide my Australia home address during phone registration. Please ensure your staff are properly trained. Otherwise, Shaun is great

Retail store paper bag with the website address.

White contact lenses for gothic look

Dual babies pram with babies facing each other

Newspaper seller max sales by wearing arm cast.

Why don't all retail stores and other companies have an image of their unique selling product or service in their email signature

Get a new battery for your SWATCH watch for Free

Giant Watch Poster

Gold Watch

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Retail February 14, 2018 at 06:05PM

[wanderlostinthought-blog]

Steubie SD July 28-30, 2017

so I guess I’ve decided to journal on this blog because I find that I can type a lot faster and neater than I can write ahahhaha this “conference” is called Steubenville and it spans over a period of five different weekends in different cities from across the US where thousands of kids attend for three days on different Catholic universities, starting in Ohio and reaching places from Florida all the way to California. Steubenville San Diego was held at USD. well the talks and conferences would be held at USD but we would actually sleep at the dorms at UCSD which was weird but I mean they’re both beautiful campuses so it’s okay.

the first day, I will tell you however, I was a little skeptical because I had such high expectations for this retreat. many of my friends and family had gone over the past few years and would constantly talk about how great it was and that it would literally be a life-changing experience. I was pumped; also because I knew a lot of my friends from school were going.

Friday Night:

so we get there and go to “dinner” at around 4 (little did i know that this would be the last thing we were eating for the night). we got there late so the food that was left was vegetarian lasagna??? I dunno, it wasn’t bad I guess. then we went to praise and worship for about three or four hours and finishing with adoration for the last hour or two. I know, it sounds extremely boring saying out loud, but the time really does fly. the music was amazing and seeing over 4,600 kids singing with such immense passion was quite amazing. it was a literal concert. and then, I think at about 10 or so, I take a step back and have this sort of “reality check” and ask myself if I would really find God here and grow in a closer relationship with him and then even questioned if he even existed at all. I mean, of course I believed in Him, but I felt like it was only because I was probably just some “textbook Catholic” and knew all the rules and just never questioned anything. also bringing to mind my own situation and wondered if my way of life would really be accepted especially considering how unaccepting the Church is towards homosexuality, but I feel as if God and the Church’s hierarchy are two different sets of rules and beliefs. I quickly shot down the idea of God not existing, however, because I have had experiences in my life where I truly felt God’s presence, but the little part of me saying that all of this isn’t real did stick with me for a little bit… we got to our dorms at around midnight and I visit my friends in their rooms and we talk until about 2am and then I call it a night.

Saturday:

breakfast was at 6 but we were told to get up at 5 so I wake up with literally 15 minutes to get ready but thank GOD I took a shower and got my clothes ready the night before because I knew I was likely to wake up late. I looked actually dead; dark circles. pale complexion. just the works. so I swipe on a bit of concealer to make myself look alive and some mascara to look more awake and head out the door. breakfast was nice. the line was horrible but at least the food was good; probably because I hadn’t eaten anything in over 12 hours at this point so literally anything sounded good to me. after breakfast, we head over to where the conferences would take place and we got there late because some of the boys hadn’t eaten SO THE YOUTH COUNSELOR TOOK THEM TO DENNY’S. I was rather frustrated by that because the girls had done everything on time and we were still late because the boys didn’t have their shit together (mind you, this wasn’t the only time they were late. our youth counselor hadn’t the slightest concept of time). So yes, we were late but not too late. it was about twenty minutes or so but we still missed some of the talk but whatever. the speaker was a priest who had some family issues and was struggling to find God while in the seminary and told us a story about when he had a particularly bad day that just stood out among the other bad days. he said that just everything that could possibly go wrong that day went wrong and that he told one of his teachers what had happened and the teacher advised him to write to Mother Teresa. he was skeptical because he felt that his problems were unimportant when compared to the busy life that Mother had and that she’d be too busy to respond to him. nonetheless, he wrote it and surprise surprise, she answered him saying that she’d keep him in her prayers and whatnot. I forgot most of what the point of that talk was, but that’s what I remember. then, they split us up into boys and girls and took the boys somewhere else. the talk started out with a bunch of music to get us all pumped up so we sang our hearts out for about 10 minutes or so. the speaker was a nun who played volleyball at the collegiate level and was a fashion designer for nuns’ habits in Europe. she was apparently quite famous but I hadn’t heard of her but okay I guess. however, in addition to having quite the resume, she was also sexually abused as a child, raped as a teen, a once struggling alcoholic, and was once addicted to pornography. she spoke of her life’s struggle to find God and how she felt that she could never be forgiven from her sins. over the next hour or so, she continued to talk about finding God even though you feel you aren’t worthy and about how there is no sin that God 1) doesn’t know about and 2) can’t forgive because he is all-loving and all-merciful and whatnot. you know, nothing I hadn’t heard before. *at this point, I thought the talks were nice and inspiring and all, but still wasn’t totally convinced* and then it was lunchtime so we got our rather bland sandwiches and salty chips. the cookie was nice though. a little hard, but still pretty decent (I’m being brutally honest here and I know I sound like a punk for beating up on this poor retreat, but it’s how I felt). i did, however, get to spend the two hours they gave us for lunch talking to one of my best friends named Rachel which was super great because I hadn’t seen her the whole summer. the boys came back and we went into another talk, this time about the dangers of the internet and pornography and then about sex and how beautiful it is and all that good stuff. he tells us a story about a time in his life when he struggled with it. he gave his talk in a way that was humorous, yet serious at the same time. he had a sort of dry sense of humor and his stories were SO FUNNYYYY!!!! But at the same time, he spoke to us as if he was our father and at one point even asked to be our spiritual father and gave us “fatherly advice” and all that good stuff. by now, I’m thinking that maybe this isn’t so bad because the talks were actually very nice and very settling to hear so I was content. then we had our third and final talk for the day and it was about the use of social media in our lives. the speaker spoke to us about spreading positivity online and to use social platforms as a way to improve our lives and not let them influence us in a negative manner. again, good talk. what I realized later, however, is that they didn’t actually cover the subject about sexuality which is what I would have really wanted to hear, but oh well. it’s about 4 at this time so we go to dinner, this time having “Mexican food”. *emphasis on quotations because though they may have called it Mexican, it was a terribly sad excuse*. now was the part of the retreat that I’d been dreading since I had gotten there: adoration. like REAL adoration. it started at 6:30 and ended around 11:45. hearing numerous accounts from people that had gone in years prior said that this adoration is intense and that people cry, scream, have seizures, and even faint which was quite uneasing. I’ll be honest, I was really scared going into this because I was worried that maybe I wouldn’t feel anything. that, again, this was all just in my head and that everyone here is just crazy. they started with some praise and worship to lighten the mood and get us into it because this is the part of the retreat that would literally change the lives of almost everyone in the building. during praise and worship, they asked people to stand if they were going to answer God’s call to them and if they felt His presence there with them. I didn’t stand. I felt nothing and I wasn’t about to lie and say I felt something that I really didn’t like other people had probably been doing. then came 8:04pm. it was at that exact time that the first tear ran down my face. only one. I don’t know why, but it just happened. and I’m not big on crying either so this was shocking. I just stared at the monstrance and where I was seated was directly in front of it, but was super far away because the setup of the building is sort of oval-shaped so it was on one side and I was on the other. then, a few minutes later, the priest took the monstrance and, for some odd reason, I thought he was putting it away and started crying saying “NO, DON’T TAKE HIM YET! I’M NOT READY!” (I sound crazy, I know). but what the priest was going to do was take the monstrance and walk through every single aisle in the building so that we’d all get the chance to see it up close. the band was still singing praise and worship music and I was literally on the verge of screaming those songs at the top of my lungs with tears just pouring out of my face and I hadn’t the slightest idea why I was crying so much. then, at around 9:30-ish the priest had finally made his way up to where I was sitting and I was in the last row so I was at the very top and, therefore, closest to where he would walk in between aisles. the priest went down the aisle to my right first so I reached as far as I possibly could, but I was in the middle of the row so I couldn’t really see up close. I guess the priest saw me literally bawling my eyes out however and when we was passing in between the rows, he stopped right in front of me and held it up so I STOOD ON MY CHAIR, TEARS RUNNING DOWN MY FACE, LITERALLY SINGING AS LOUD AS I COULD and reached for it. it was overwhelming, but beautiful. I can’t even explain how I was feeling. I had the biggest smile on my face and was still crying, wondering what the heck just happened to me. it was God. or at least, that’s what I believed it to be. in all of my past experiences with God, I’d never in my life felt more connected to Him. once the adoration portion was over, I literally sprinted to confession because the priests were going to stop hearing them at midnight and it was already 11:40 or so. there was only one priest there though, but I guess more priests were hearing them at the church, which was on the other side of the school, so I ran there and I have to say that it is literally the most breathtaking church I had ever been in. literally everything about this place was beautiful down to the very last detail. I was just in complete awe. so yeah, I gave my confession and said everything. literally everything. I told the priest that I was into both boys and girls and told him that I’m just looking for guidance on that issue and his response, dear Lord thank GOD for this priest. he told me that it was perfectly okay to like girls and I starting crying my eyes out again and he said that it was okay but that the sin part would be to have sex with another woman which I found understandable. a bit saddening, but still understandable as I would have to have a conversation with myself about that at a later time. so I left confession feeling very light and at peace with myself because I had finally been honest with God and with myself having all my sins forgiven. since the parking lot was on the other side of the campus, we needed to walk all the way back but were so tired. though, by some miracle, this one lady who worked there was driving a cart and drove us back to the parking lot but took the long way because one of the lots was blocked off so I got to see the whole campus which is absolutely beautiful to say the very least. especially at night and all of the buildings are lit up and just gorgeous. absolutely gorgeous. then, we stopped at Denny’s again because everyone was starving except we got back to the dorms at around 2:30. I went to sleep at around 3 or 4 because I was just thinking about everything that had happened today. I think it’s safe to say that day 2 was a huge success.

Sunday Morning:

we woke up at almost 8 which was super late considering we were supposed to be at breakfast and leaving at around 7:30. we ended up leaving UCSD at around 9 because, once again, we were waiting on the boys. I was averaging on about 3 hours of sleep a night for two days so I was very cranky and even more frustrated because we were over an hour and a half late to the last talk and missed it altogether. then we had mass which was given by the bishop. after mass, the same priest from adoration the night before asked for all of the young ladies who took this retreat as a call from God and were considering religious life to come up. I’d never spent too much time thinking about what my life would be like as a religious sister, but I also never rejected the idea. I sat down up until one of the last few seconds and then went up. who knows, maybe I am called to religious life, but time will tell and, again, it would be yet another one person conversation that awaited me. they gave little pamphlets that I have yet to open a week later. I don’t know why I haven’t looked at it yet. maybe I’m scared. after the girls, they called the boys. and after that was our last praise and worship session which was more of another huge concert if anything and was super fun. 

all in all, it was a great experience and I’m definitely going back next year! :)

[rapmillionaire]

Why I no longer give money to the poor

Money can solve world problems. Any hundreds of millions of amounts of dollars can solve numerous world issues whence aptly infrastructured. In a Facebook post a few weeks ago, on the news-feed was listed that the footballer Pogba signed a $150M contract with Manchester United. Then I saw comments on how an African country that same month had sought financial assistance for their 14+ million populace, asking for a similar amount Pogba signed for in his lone contract. That had me thinking: how much would it take to solve the turmoil found in the ghettos of America, in the slums of Africa and South America, in the occupied territory of the Gaza Strip? And yet, how void would such funding become after x-amount of years due to insufficient infrastructure serving as the basis unto which the socio-economy’s prosperity is founded upon. .

And what about those who accumulate wealth, spend their riches, and live extravagantly? In my opinion, money like water will always resurface itself in the cycle of energetic abundance. Whatever water seeps from the kitchen faucet is led down through the pipes, traversing itself through more pipes, reaching ponds I imagine, whereupon it takes on the state of being refurbished, absorbed, and is poured-down again by the clouds which is then soaked by established water infrastructure systems, thus then presented in quality to flow out through the kitchen faucet again. "Water wasted" is only money wasted. And yet money is neither finite, for the cycle of cash-flow based upon supply and demand makes money available to any and all who know the law of attracting it to themselves within the economic framework of supply and demand; a tangible benefit of Capitalism (and yet ironically such same infrastructure to maintain status quo). However, such is the surface-level upon which the wealthy afford themselves to spend money on absurd luxuries whilst poor men and women sleep in the streets; the difference between the poor man and the millionaire is the will-power (or lack-thereof) to create a cash-flow into one's pocket. At a deeper level, this difference represents itself based upon circumstance, environment, and social cues; yet such isn’t much of a worthy explanation when free libraries and the internet abound in today’s American society; there is no reason why any man/woman should not be able to try to create an income for themselves in our present day and age. To say they tried but gave up is also inexcusable. And yet mental sickness too is a topic of discussion in and of itself, one in which I will not touch for this post. 

Globalization as a concept is a great idea. But as an implementation you create a lot of question marks. Are we on the right or the wrong track. The right track is globalization where everyone benefits. A bad is one win and one lose (the rich countries take over poor countries is a bad globalization). At the moment, globalization is mostly bad - it is a threat of controlling the economy. It is a monopolization. The answer is why don't we have rules - for when big countries go to poor countries - how shall they behave, how do they not exploit the people, how do you create abundance for the poor country. You do not exhaust the resources. There should be rules to the use of resources. The resources are for everybody to use efficiently. You have to create globalization "police". In our current globalization there is anarchy. There must be a system. We have to share this planet together. Well meaning people are everywhere. Well meaning people have to speak out to make the world greater for the future. -Muhammad Yunus

I like what the Grameen Foundation has created, whereupon beggars are made into sellers. As Mr. Yunus has stated before, being poor means being in poor health. It's synonymous. Charity is wonderful, but it has limited reach - you can't solve all of the world's problems through charity. And for myself personally, I wish to use an accumulation of cash to setup a platform for the homeless to feel inspired. Education is where reigniting the self belies, as aptly put by the floor plaque at the steps of Alderman Library:

Books, including free access to library shelves, and the internet are two great ways to evolve one’s being and change one's life. The internet and books is how I learned everything I know and formulated my character. The two things I owe all of my current successes and development of character to (under Him) are my parents who raised me, and my reading of books and absorption of knowledge made accessible by the internet, specifically Google and YouTube. Education is the foundation of all of a society's betterment. To say “knowledge is power” is true... But beyond that, organized knowledge of self, and not just useless information, is ever more powerful in constructing individuals and societies on the whole. With knowledge, infrastructure may be setup. And through ideal virtues such as honesty, trust, and integrity, such social institutions may be created, developed, sustained, and evolved to benefit future generations to come.

If the homeless person has lost hope & motivation, their first step is to read self-help books & begin formulating realistic goals for themselves. Strategically, they (he) must disassociate with the environment of folk whom do not benefit their (his) drive toward greater heights. They (he) must go to libraries & educate the self; and with the accumulation of whatever monetary change one has indeed accrued they (he) shall buy a shaver & soap and nail clippers and retrieve a hair-cut for the self. They (he) must develop the demeanor of self-worth, displaying humility and self-respect; to smile everyday to at least 10 strangers as he walks past them & nod his head in appreciation to their existence. He must change his demeanor from victimized to challenged, & associate God on his side through good deeds, for where God exists is in the breathe of his livelihood and up through toward the outskirts of the skies above. He must integrate than to separate from society. He must locate himself in a town where opportunity for menial jobmanship exists as a first step; and even better yet if they (he) can create a job. He must cultivate his desire to list day-to-day goals with a vision aimed beyond mediocrity of his fellow men. He must rejoice his childness into the glist of his eyes. He must make the public library his place of peace, his second abode, the monopoly of his time of existence. he must exercise weekly, both aerobically and by calisthenics. he shall understand the concept of service as to give with gratitude & graciously what he was born with to gift, and to seek to live such out as his purpose... Then, he shall pursue his course with excitement without expectation for return, for this will diminish his comparison of self to others as having faith in himself, & will rebirth spiritual loving for himself, letting go of grudges by looking outside himself and into the lens of others. he shall repent his astraying through worship in a place of worship of his choice, whether it be a mosque, church, synagogue, monastery, temple, etc. ... he shall meet, greet, and acquaint those who serve his best interest inside and outside such places of worship, for then will life ascend.

Opposite of Maslow’s Hierarchy, I believe the homeless man/woman’s conditions shall sprout evermore from the top-down view of his beingness; from the psychological to the tangible; from the spiritual to the material, invert of Maslow’s Hierarchy:

And yet what does Islam, a religion divinely revealed to humankind through the vessel of an angel and to the prophet Muhammad (saw) and followed by one-fifth of the world’s populace, have to say about the giving of money? Zakat is one of the fundamental pillars of Islam, citing to every financially able human-being to give just 2.5% of their accrued earnings to those in need, on an annual basis. And yet such formulation comes into account only upon a certain amount of accrued earnings accumulated based upon economic standards per-capita, known as “nisab”. In Sharia, nisab is the amount one’s net worth must exceed for a Muslim to be obligated to give zakat. The current rate for nisab at the moment of my writing this blog post: $3,772. In other words, anyone who has an accrued value of less than $3,772 in total assets (Jewelry such as gold, silver; Cash, in hand and/or in bank; Trade, in investments and/or value of stocks; and Loans, given and/or taken) is exempt from paying a liquid of 2.5% of their total in assets. This means that one who has a total asset amount of $3,773 must give a zakat amount of about $95 to the poor (i.e. low-income), and/or the needy (i.e. someone who is in difficulty), and/or zakat administrators (i.e. any trustworthy organization that helps you calculate your zakat and accepts the payment for it), and/or those whose hearts are to be reconciled (i.e. new Muslims and friends of the Muslim community), and/or those in bondage (i.e. slaves and captives), and/or the debt ridden, and/or in the cause of God (i.e. donations for the building of a mosque and/or muslim schools and/or muslim youth groups, and/or the wayfarer (i.e. those stranded or traveling with few resources such as refugees and/or stranded motorists, for example. 

While zakat is not the only form of charity in Islam, it is so important that it was made the Third Pillar. Through zakat, the prosperous can uplift the poor, help those who are troubled and comfort those who are in hardship. The law of zakat establishes the rights of the poor to support and help, and releases those who are held captive as slaves or as debtors. Zakat has the power to change the world. But it starts with you paying it. 

And yet I cannot but consider where a certain dollar amount extends itself in the hands of a person down-trodden. Or pan-handlers whom are able and fit to create a job than to stand on the side of a road for days on end seeking donations from the public. The ability to fix the root of an issue is of much more importance than to give sustainability amidst a broken philosophy and/or system and/or way of living. And yet those most in need are likely those too self-humbled to place themselves in front of society with their hand out for a hand-out in the form of dollar amounts. I have seen it before, and yet at times, it has become a hustle whereupon a pan-handler ends up being one behind the wheel of a nice vehicle, encouraging well to-doers to sheepishly give away their wealth. So it is in the world of capitalism. And yet, by my own character I would buy such man a meal whether his/her net worth is less than that of the nisab rate, or a billionaire. I won’t even give $1 to a random homeless person. But I will buy three of them a slice of pizza. More than tangible tender, I would give them tender in the form of an idea, a compliment, a piece of advice, a word of inspiration, a meaningful conversation - supplement to a paid-for-meal. In fact, I would give $1,000,000 to the poor. I just wouldn't put it in their hands. I would build a rooted infrastructure.

Would rather feed a bum than give a fund Why? - Ain’t tryna supply a doldrum with change To keep them unchanged for the better. . .  Would rather put that in the belly the old-fashioned way Conversate them like, "How was your day?”

Monday, May 23, 2017