The next day, I went to The Magic Bus (not an educational kids’ show) but a vintage store. I was welcomed by an aura of incense and The Who. The store was vacant. No one was there.

            “Welcome to the magic bus,” sighed the depressed female cashier, draped in a long shirt and skirt. “How may I help you?”

            “I’m trying out for Abbey Road, it’s a new Beatles tribute band, and I need an outfit like this,” I smiled as I showed her the picture.

            “Daring choice,” she grinned.

            “What, the outfit?”

            “No, the fact you’re trying out for a tribute band of an all-male band.”

            “Well, they let me in the semifinals, so I guess they aren’t sexist.”

            “Interesting… let’s start at the pants first.”

            She led me to the pants rack, pulling out a nice pair, next the shirt, tie, and jacket. The cashier found me a nice light blue coat to wear over the outfit. Lastly, the sunglasses, and the tan derby hat. It was amazing how she found the outfit so quickly, without trouble.

            I tried on the outfit, everything fitting magically. I walked out of the changing room and turned around as the cashier gave me a thumbs-up and a bright smile.

            “Go back here when you make the band, and give me a ticket to your first show,” she said as she rang up my outfit and put it in a bag.

            “Sure, but I’ll need your name.” My eyes shifted to a black mod dress.

            “Mia,” she smiled.

            My eyes shifted to a black, mod dress in the window.

            “How much are you charging for that dress?”

            “Fifteen dollars. No one comes here, so we marked down the price, trying to get people to come.”

            “I think I’ll get that too.”

            She went up to the window, swiped the dress off the mannequin.

“So,” she questioned, while ringing up the dress, “How are you going to pass off as George Harrison?”

“I’m having a friend giving me a little makeover, tomorrow…”

            I sat in the dressing room at the Second City awaiting the transformation, hoping it would succeed.

            A knock. I opened it. Tara stood right before me. She hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair was still drop-dead black, and still had her look of elegance and maturity. She carried several cases.

            “It’s so great to see you,” I hugged.

            “You haven’t changed a bit,” she laughed.

            “You didn’t either!”

            “Are you ready for the metamorphosis?” she asked, sounding dramatic, by using a phrase from our acting class in high school.

            “You worked wonders for me when I got turned down for Homecoming, I’m sure you could transform me again.”

            “Only it’s a different transformation,” she said, unloading her things.

            “I got your e-mail with the picture of the outfit. I liked it. Do you have the outfit with you?”

            “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, taking off her jacket, “First things first, the body.”

            “I figured I’d use duct tape.”

            “I have a much better solution.”

            Tara pulled out what looked like a cross between a bra and a girdle.

            "Now, take off your shirt, I’ll close my eyes."

            “This is coming from an art major.”

            “Hey! I minored in costume design and makeup,” she said with her hands over her eyes, as I slipped on the boob girdle thingy."

            “Now,” she said, pulling at the strings on the girdle, “Breathe in.”

              I took a deep breath. She tightened the strap, causing my breasts to disappear.

            “Holy shite!” I exclaimed.

            “Does it hurt?”

            “No.”

            “Okay, put on the outfit.”

            She closed her eyes once again, as I slipped into the pants, the shirt and tie, and jacket. I figured I wouldn’t wear the hat or coat for now.

            "You look great. Very original. Okay, I did research and found out that George Harrison was 5’8”. Now, you are only 5’3”, so I got you these.”

            Tara hauled out a pair of Chelsea boots with tall heels. I stepped into them and grew five inches.

            “Thanks so much. I always wanted a pair of Beatle boots.”

            “It’s an early birthday present. Now sit down.”

            I sat down in the swivel make-up chair, Tara turned it away from the mirror.

            “Now close your eyes.”

            “But I already can’t see myself.”

            “It’s for an element of surprise. A double element of surprise.”

            I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The first event was a smell of plaster, or rubber, or latex. It was a very heavy scent. I felt a cold brush against my nose, and the application of makeup. I didn’t know we’d be doing…whatever we were doing.

            I felt a pull of my hair, into a pony. Then I felt a warm feeling on my scalp, with some hair brushing on my shoulder, and against my forehead.

            “Open your mouth.”

            I tasted mint and plastic, and then I felt something like a retainer in my mouth, on the top and bottom. Whatever it was, it stayed there.

            Then, I felt a cool, thick liquid against my eyebrows, and then something like a fabric-y tape against them. I felt the same feeling against my temples and cheeks. I felt the gel against the area above my lips.

            “Is this really necessary?” I asked

            “Yeah, trust me, you’ll look fab. Now, press your lips up.”

            I felt a tape over it, and then I new feeling under my nose.

            “Now smile.”

            I felt her fingers over it.

            “Perfect. It’s a miracle. Believe me when I say this, you look very cute.”

            “Cute like fairy princess cute, or cute like Paul McCartney cute?”

            “Paul McCartney cute, only you’re George Harrison, so it’s George Harrison cute.”

            I felt the chair move.

            “Now open your eyes.”

            I took a deep breath, hoping it was successful. I opened my eyes.

            “Holy shite!”

            “Is it a good holy shite, or a bad holy shite?”

            “Good. It’s perfect. You got the face, the hair, everything.”

            How could Tara turn me into my favorite Beatle? It was perfect! I touched my newly acquired hair. So this is what it felt like. I raised a new eyebrow the way he did.

            “Gear,” I said in his voice.

            "Wow, you got the accent too.”

             We walked out of the Second City. I was still attempting to get used to my new height. Katrina, one of the comedians, caught us at the door.

              “So, this is the new look you were talking about.”

              “It’s for a tribute band. It’s not like I’m making any lifestyle changes,” I said as we slid out of the building.

              “Do you want to go get some coffee to get used to the ‘guise?” asked Tara, as I put on my sunglasses.

             “No, I’m kind of doing a friend a favor.”

             “Who?”

             “Julie. Her boyfriend broke up with her and she’s a wreck, so I’m trying to cheer her up, get her out of the house, and give the ‘guise a test run.”

            “Doesn’t your friend know who The Beatles are?”

            “Of course,” I said, getting out my cell phone, “she even helped me record the CD, but she has no idea I made it to the semifinals. Besides, I don’t really look like George Harrison.”

            “Wow,” said a passerby, “It’s George Harrison’s son!”

            “Dhani, I think,” said her friend.

            We snuck away, quickly.

            I really want to thank you: thanks.”

            “You’re welcome,” said Tara, giving me a hug.

            “How will I pay you back?”

            “By inviting me to one of your concerts if you make it,” Tara went into her car, “Break a leg!” She shouted out of her window as she kicked her car into drive.