When I turned 12, my body started to change. It may seem strange in retrospect, but I was quite happy when it happened. Some of the boys at school had been bragging for months about the fact they had to shave every morning and most of us were jealous. Then I was next, but the stubble was really coarse and hard, and it soon covered all my face, my arms, my legs, my private parts, until not a square inch of my skin was left naked. And in one month, I was Cactusman for everybody, with long and pointed spikes all over me. Nobody but doctors would dare to touch me for a long, long time (I eventually found a way to have a half-decent sex life, but this is another story). One may imagine what this meant to an already loveless teenager but the situation had many advantages that I soon figured out.

I was a freak, but not an ugly one. I was disfigured in the most Boschesque way, but the result was impressive. I didn't have to hide. The spikes had a beautiful green, tan, healthy colours. They shone under the sun. Quite a change, actually, from my former pale and pimpled skin. Some of my school buddies had faces that looked like overcooked pizzas because of acne. I didn't. I looked good on photographs. What else ? Nobody bothered me. You'd be a fool to mess with a teenager prone to impale people in anger. Everybody were awfully nice to me. Bullies looked the other way. I was Edward Scissorhands with social abilities, Frankenstein with friends. The best day of my life was