Lipstick on Weekends

Lipstick on Weekends

Part 1: Just For One Day

The ceiling fan clicked every third rotation, as if protesting the silence in the small rented house just outside Coimbatore. It was a new house, barely lived-in. No houses nearby, so no neighbours. The tiles were clean, the furniture sparse. A narrow framed calendar of Tamil kadavul Murugan Vel still hung crooked on the wall, left untouched since moving day.

Seventeen-year-old Naveen sat hunched at the corner of the dining table, flipping his pen between his fingers, staring at his open schoolbag. His books for Class 12 biology group lay untouched. He was starting at a new school tomorrow, but that wasn't the main tension in the house.

From the kitchen, his mother Mythili was pacing in slippers, murmuring numbers under her breath. “Three instalments done. Thirty thousand per installments. Non-refundable. Aiyo.” Her face was tight with stress, her hair hastily clipped up.

His elder sister Nandhini, 19, was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through Instagram. “Amma,” she said without looking up, “I told you already. I don’t want to do MBBS.”

Mythili stopped in her tracks. “You say that now? Ippo sollriye? After I paid for that entire year’s weekend course?”

Nandhini shrugged. “I was never interested. You made me join. I’m going to apply for design school now.”

“Design school?” Mythili’s voice was rising. “We left Tiruppur, came to Coimbatore, paid Ninety thousand rupees for your MBBS coaching at Swarna Lakshmi Achievers Academy, and you are telling me you don’t want to go?”

“It’s not refundable anyway,” Nandhini said, bored.

“Exactly!” Mythili said, waving her hand at Naveen. “Then he should go instead!”

Naveen blinked. “Me?”

Nandhini looked up and smirked. “Right, let him go as me. He's already fairer than me, no beard, no moustache… just tie his hair and give him a salwar, he’ll pass.”

“Ha-ha,” Naveen said, cheeks flushing. “Very funny.”

But Mythili’s expression didn’t change. Her eyes had locked on to her son’s face now --- not joking, but calculating. She tilted her head. “Wait…”

Swarna Lakshmi Achievers Academy:

The coaching centre was only open on Saturdays and Sundays. Located near RS Puram, it had quickly built a reputation for guaranteed MBBS admissions. “100% Government College Results!” said their banners. Small class sizes, personalised study plans, even a girls-only batch on demand.

Mythili had chosen the girls’ weekend batch for safety and prestige. Classes were strict: 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., with breaks for lunch and tests. Uniform was casual salwar kameez, decent clothes allowed. ID card mandatory.

But the fee. ₹90,000 upfront. was non-refundable, no matter what.

“Why waste it?” Mythili whispered. “The registration says Nandhini M. No one will check anything.”

Naveen stared at her. “You’re not serious.”

“She’s serious,” Nandhini said, laughing.

“Appo? You start school on weekdays. This coaching is only Saturday-Sunday. We’re not wasting that money, okay?”

Naveen looked horrified. “Amma, I’m not a girl!”

“You don’t have to be a girl. You just have to look like one for two days a week. You think in Coimbatore centre, anyone will know? You’ll go by bus, come back. Quietly. ID la same name.”

“I don't even know how to wear all that -salwar, dupatta- ”

“I know someone who does,” Mythili said. Her eyes narrowed. “Let’s call Jaya akka.”

Aunt Jaya’s Studio Room:

A half-hour later, Jaya chithi arrived in her two-wheeler, pulling off her scarf dramatically.

“What now?” she asked as she removed her helmet, fanning herself with a talcum-scented towel.

Mythili explained the problem in hushed tones.

At first, Jaya laughed. “You want me to turn this boy into a girl? For a full coaching class?”

But then she looked at Naveen. Up and down. He shrank under her gaze.

“No facial hair. Fair, soft features. Thin wrists. Shoulders narrow. Voice also soft. Hmm... Not impossible.”

“Just weekends, akka,” Mythili said. “Only salwar. He doesn’t need to act like some heroine. Just enough to fool the staff.”

Jaya folded her arms. “I have the kit. If you both really want it, we can try it out. But no drama halfway. He must co-operate fully. Naveen, neeye decide pannanum.”

Naveen swallowed.

He wanted to say no. But one glance at his mother’s face tight-lipped, eyes begging and he said the weakest, most regretful word in the world.

“…Okay. Just once.”

The Trial Transformation:

Jaya’s makeshift beauty studio was in her bedroom - half of it full of boxes, makeup kits, and pinned mannequins. She snapped on a headband and pulled a plastic box from under the cot.

“Remove your shirt and pants,” she said casually.

“Wait what? Now?”

“Yes now. You agreed.”

Naveen hesitated. He stood still for a long moment. Then, slowly, shame crawling up his chest like heat, he pulled off his T-shirt. Then his track pants.

He stood there in his white underwear, goosebumps rising, heart hammering. Jaya tossed him a folded packet.

“Bra. Padded. We’ll use sponge inserts. Take off your brief and wear this instead.”

He opened the panty. It was soft, peach-coloured, and tight-looking. His hands trembled.

“Don’t take forever,” Jaya said.

He turned around, slipped them on, and immediately felt wrong. The panty hugged his hips, thighs, and butt uncomfortably snug. Nothing hung loose anymore. He shifted awkwardly.

Next: the bra. He fumbled with the straps. They twisted. The cups flopped.

“Lift your arms,” Jaya said, walking over. She snapped the band into place behind him, adjusted the straps, and slid two sponge inserts into each cup.

The weight was subtle but noticeable. His chest felt rounded, boxed in. Like a costume he couldn’t shrug off.

Then came a powder-blue salwar set - soft cotton, embroidered at the collar.

The churidar pants clung tightly at the calves and thighs. The kurta hung gently over the fake breasts, swinging with every breath.

He tried to sit, but the churidar resisted. His legs had to cross differently. He felt the panty tug against his skin.

Finally: the dupatta.

“You must always wear this. Never forget. One end over the chest. Other pinned at the shoulder,” Jaya instructed. She clipped it in place.

Then the finishing touches: a soft wig tied into a single braid. A black bindi. Lip gloss just a hint of shine. Kajal around the eyes. Small stick-on earrings.

Jaya added the last item quietly: a small pad inserted into the panty, giving the illusion of a rounded front. “For safety. In case someone notices below.”

Naveen didn’t respond. He just sat very still.

Mirror Moment:

Jaya turned the mirror toward him.

Naveen stared.

His reflection blinked back Nandhini’s eyes, Nandhini’s face, lips, nose, hair.

But it was him.

The bra strap pressed against his ribs. The churidar squeezed his calves. The dupatta kept slipping unless he sat up straight.

I look like a girl.

The shame hit him slowly. In layers.

“I… I can’t do this,” he whispered.

“Yes, you can,” Jaya said softly. “You already are.”

The Decision:

Later that night, Mythili made a phone call to Swarna Lakshmi Academy.

“Hello, yes, this is Nandhini M’s mother… Yes, she’ll be attending. We had a small health issue, but she’s fine now… Yes, Saturday and Sunday, she’ll come by bus. Thank you.”

She hung up and turned to Naveen - still in salwar, sitting silently on the cot, arms crossed over his chest.

“Classes start next week. School starts tomorrow, but only weekdays. So this will work. You’ll be Nandhini… only on weekends.”

She walked over and tucked his fake braid behind his ear.

“You look perfect, kanna.”

Naveen didn’t respond.

But deep inside, he knew.

There was no turning back now.

Not for ninety thousand rupees.

Not with lipstick on weekends.

Author’s Note – Part 1
Hey hey! 💕 Jerusha Anne Joy here! This little story is a sweet fantasy of how I sometimes imagine my life to be (don’t we all daydream a bit? (⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠) ). I poured my heart into it over two cozy nights, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. Do leave a comment if you have story ideas, suggestions, or just want to say hi! Your thoughts truly mean the world to me.

With love,
Jerusha 🦋✨