Behind Enemy Lines
Lads, this is what really goes on in Girl World
So today’s the day I go back to Bangkok. A big occasion, because this is the first day that Stevie starts work as Stevie. Luckily, I don’t actually have to begin until four in the afternoon thanks to the time difference. Right now, I’m sat in Pattaya, waiting for a car that hasn’t arrived yet, and I thought, what better way to fill the time than write a Substack. So here we go.
For a good while now I’ve been undercover. Deep cover. Embedded in Girl World. And now I can finally report back. What I have seen is shocking. What I have endured is baffling. And what I have discovered will blow your mind.
🧴 The Nightly Rituals
Lads, you think when your wife goes into the bathroom for fifteen minutes before bed, she’s being slow. No. She’s being lightning fast. Fifteen minutes is a sprint finish.
The reality? It takes about twenty-five minutes minimum. You are layering things onto your face one after the other like you’re building up coats of gloss paint on a battleship. AHA, BHA, Retin-A, hyaluronic acid, nicotinamide, night cream, and just when you think you’re done, you’ve still got to floss. And in my case, I get the bonus round of scar silicone gel dabbed all over just to try and flatten everything out.
You don’t go to bed fresh. You go to bed looking like a shiny, glazed doughnut.
💇♀️ Hair Logistics
Hair is not just “hair.” It is logistics. Entire campaigns are planned around it. Blow-drying, straightening, curling, masks, serums, oils, dry shampoo. You learn to schedule showers around “wash days” like NASA plans rocket launches. It takes me some ridiculous amount of time, like 90 minutes, to wash, condition, and dry my hair.
And lads, brace yourself: the cost is astronomical. This isn’t a cheeky bottle of Head & Shoulders you nick from Tesco that lasts six months. No, this is L’Oréal Pro shampoo, €27 a bottle. Then you need the silicon conditioner at another €20. And you absolutely rattle through this stuff mortally. Add in leave-ins, toners, and the Dyson Airwrap that cost more than a second-hand Fiesta, and suddenly it’s less “hair care” and more “Formula 1 pit crew.”
🎨 The Makeup Arsenal
Then comes makeup. Dear God. You don’t just have a mascara and a lippy rattling around in a handbag. You end up moving through the world like a professional artist on tour, dragging a suitcase full of brushes, palettes, sponges, powders, sprays, primers, and mysterious little pots that cost thirty quid and last three weeks.
It’s not makeup, it’s infrastructure. A full toolbox. Men have screwdrivers and spanners; women have 47 shades of beige, each completely different, each entirely essential.
👕 The One Upside: Tops
But, I’ll admit it, there is one upside. When you go on holiday, yes, half your suitcase is consumed by bottles, sprays, palettes, and chargers. But women’s tops are tiny. You can fold one up to the size of a matchbox.
So while lads squeeze in four bulky shirts and call it a day, you can pack thirty tops without blinking. Whole wardrobes. Breakfast tops, dinner tops, emergency tops. You’re basically compressing Zara into your Samsonite.
👙 The Bra Problem
But then, lads, just when you’re patting yourself on the back for the space saved with tops, along come the bras. Oh my God. You’d think a bra is a bra. Simple. No. Absolutely not.
You’ve got push-up bras, underwire bras, push-up underwire padded bras, padded bras, unpadded bras, T-shirt bras, and then an entire dark underworld of contraptions with straps missing that fall off your shoulders the second you move. It’s like Pokémon, there’s always another variety you haven’t discovered yet.
And here’s the kicker: three padded bras in a suitcase, and you might as well kiss goodbye to all the safety space you saved with your matchbox-sized tops. Those things take up half a case on their own. And the cost? Don’t get me started. Victoria’s Secret will cheerfully mug you for £60 a bra. Sixty! For one!
🕵️ The Great Tights Conspiracy
And then there’s tights. Explain this to me. It is 2025. We have AI writing essays, billionaires planning colonies on Mars, and yet no one has invented a pair of tights that don’t ladder. I refuse to believe this isn’t a conspiracy to fleece women. Somewhere, executives in the Global Nylon Industrial Complex are cackling.
And yet… the ugliest tights of all, the vile little sock-tight, are actually brilliant. Sexiness score of zero. But they’re socks, just thin. And once you’ve tried them, you’re never without them. I live in them.
👠 Shoe Logistics
Shoes are where Girl World goes full military strategy. As a bloke, you plonk on a pair of trainers or shoes and you’re done. Game over. But as a woman? Oh my God. Suddenly every day is a tactical briefing.
Where am I walking today? How far am I walking? 300 metres? A kilometre? More? That governs the heel height. There is no way on earth I could walk two kilometres in a three-inch heel. Absolutely not happening.
Even now, I’m in a two-inch boot and I’ve had to plan my entire day around it: car to hotel, bit of wandering round the lobby, maybe a short stroll outside later. Fine. Manageable. Any further, though? Straight back into the Converse.
🎖️ Final Report
So there you have it, lads. Behind enemy lines. The truth of Girl World. What looks like “she just got ready” is, in reality, a logistical operation involving chemistry sets, pit-stop engineering, tactical wardrobes, hosiery conspiracies, and military-grade shoe planning.
But here’s the thing, it’s not just the products and the logistics. It’s the behavioural shifts. Society treats you differently.
You walk into a restaurant and suddenly doors are being held open, chairs nudged out, people calling you madam.
The general vibe is softer. Less confrontational, less aggressive.
Men become oddly charming, yes they know I’m trans yet they try to make a vague effort they never made before.
Women talk to you differently. They tell you things you’d never have been told before, their wants, their desires, even surprisingly crude details that would have been locked away in Boy World.
Strangers, especially men, make more eye contact and smile. Sometimes it’s creepy, but often it’s just… different. Softer.
Women quietly warn you about dodgy blokes, unsafe situations, or even which toilets are best to use. It’s like being welcomed into a secret intelligence network.
Compliments suddenly flow, on your hair, your top, your nails. Genuine, spontaneous affirmations that just never happened before.
And yet, somehow, it’s brilliant. Exhausting, expensive, sometimes utterly baffling. But brilliant and makes me so happy!
Oh, I think my car has arrived. Time to go…
PS. I’m editing this now from the back of the car to Bangkok, and honestly, why is it that taxi drivers the world over insist on having a thousand cables dangling out of the cigarette lighter? Every device ever invented, all on charge, like some sort of cyber-octopus writhing across the dashboard.
If this were me, I’d have those cables buried, tied down, hidden, neat. It’s like having an office with a PC and just leaving all the wires snaking across the desk. If you’re going to sit in something all day, at least make it nice. Instead, I’m basically being chauffeured by a man who lives inside a branch of Maplin.
PPS. He’s just asked to take a photograph of me. I let him do it, then asked what it was for. He said, “for my mate.” God knows what that means.