Dresses, Skirts, and Tights, Oh My!
AKA the week I pretended to be the fashionista I so clearly am not.
“Excuse me, Miss, I’m trying to find something nice to wear for church this weekend. Can you help me pick something out?”
The fuck if I know. Lady, please, I’m in jeans, combat boots, and an oversized cardigan that makes me look like a frumpy mess. My hair is in a failed bun, and my eyeliner has turned me into a raccoon. Do I look qualified to help you? I am the last person in working in retail that you should ask. I can barely dress myself most days. I am a walking, talking, fashion disaster. Hell, can you help me instead?
“We have a nice selection of dresses over in this section. Why don’t you go take a look? We have plenty of great deals today as well. Please, let me know if you need any help.”
And by help, I mean I’ll direct you to any of my co-workers, all more fashionable than I am. As I pass by one of the many full-length mirrors on my way to the register and see my less than trendy attire, all I can think is that I should not be allowed to be on the sales floor of a name brand women’s fashion store where the typical customer are women of a certain age looking for business-wear. As someone who is not fashion-conscientious, I am severely out of my league here.
At this point in my life, the people I’ve surrounded myself with have accepted my clothing style, and by that I mean my non-existent sense of style. I have an aversion to style. Fancy clothes give me a shudder. Having to wear anything other than jeans, sweats, or a hoodie requires more effort than I’m willing to give. I still get the occasional compliments, “Oh, that’s a pretty sweater you’re wearing,” or a friend might say, “I like your boots.” Notice it’s never an actual compliment on my appearance as a whole. Just a partial bit.
So, as an experiment, I decided to reinvent my fashion so that it conformed to gender normative views. I did this by dressing more feminine for a week to experience the process of what it takes to look as society dictates a young woman should look. To me this means skirts, dresses, coordinated make-up, accessories, floral, and pink. Lots of pink. I also wanted to take note of the reactions of those who noticed the sudden change in my attire. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to change my appearance and be someone different. Especially now since I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck in a rut filled with t-shirts and jeans. Lately videos of people either getting complete fashion make overs or testing new looks for a week have become popular, Buzzfeed being the most notable, racking up several million views. So why not try it out myself? It would at least give my sisters something to talk about, other than the usual complaints of how frumpy I look in my hoodie and jeans.
Since I was diving into an unexplored territory, I felt my best option was to hire a “Fashion Guru” to help me on my journey. I selected my cousin, Kelsey, who I considered trendy and in touch with her feminine side. Whether she’s dressing for a casual night out or something formal, she knows how to look good between her color schemes or contouring her make-up. She also had a free Saturday to steer me in the right direction. As a college student with a limited budget, we both agreed Forever 21 was the best place to get cheap, cute clothing.
What kind of backwards bullshit is that?
I spent two exhausting hours having a variety of clothes piled high into my arms. We circled around that place so many times I was just in a continual state being lost and dizzy. After receiving the arms work out I did not ask for, we finally made it to the fitting rooms. From there outfit after outfit was tried on and either giving the okay or not until, finally, I had my clothing for the week.
At this point a Mt. Everest sized headache had begun to set in. I mentally kicked myself for even thinking of this idea in the first place. Unfortunately, clothing was only the first stop. Kelsey then proceeded to drag me to the accessory section, throwing more items my way. From there we stopped at other stores to pick out some suitable make-up for my little experiment. By the time we were done shopping I was not only physically, but also mentally exhausted. Too bad Kelsey was far from done with me.
“Now it’s time for my favorite part,” she said, “the eyebrows.”
I backed away slowly as Kelsey held a pair of tweezers towards me, a most dangerous weapon in her formidable hands. “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I said before being tackled onto her bed and straddled. Defeated, I submit to her torture. “Kelsey, my eyebrows are throbbing!”
“Shut up, beauty is pain.”
“Did you really have to use that cliché on me, of all things? I think that’s more painful than the plucking.”
Fast-forwarding through a 30-minute trial, Kelsey decides I need a crash course in all things makeup. My normal makeup routine is a bit of concealer to cover up any blemishes and some eyeliner under my eyes. This method did not work for Kelsey. Oh no, she had something completely different in mind. Brush after brush, technique after technique, I was lost straight from the beginning. For a majority of our lesson I just stared blankly at her, nodding whenever it seemed appropriate.
Going home with about ten different borrowed brushes, an eyeshadow palette, and blush palette, I knew I was screwed. Who needs all this shit? I mean, what was the point of having my eyebrows plucked and thinned just for me to make them seem “fuller” by adding makeup on top of them? What kind of backwards bullshit is that?
The day of my big unveil. Getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to get ready was not my ideal way to start my Thursday morning. After showering and deciding on my outfit, a black dress with floral and a lace overlay paired with stockings and flats, I took extra care in making my hair look just right. Then came the hard part, the makeup. I spent countless minutes going through tutorials on YouTube trying to figure out how to apply eyeshadow. My first attempts did not go well. I ended up with blots of browns all mixed together after trying for a natural look. Okay, no need to worry, I thought. I can practice more tonight and try again tomorrow. Let me just make that nice winged eyeliner on my eyelids like Kelsey showed me how.
That wasn’t happening either. I was running late for my first class of the day. Throwing all fucks out the door, I applied my usual style of eyeliner and left for class. Taking that first step outside, I realized, was a fatal mistake. Wearing a dress in February was not a smart idea. I was fucking cold.
Later, in preparation for my final class of the day, I enlisted the help of someone who knew what the hell they were doing when it came to makeup. This person was my 17-year-old sister, Patricia. Setting the supplies up on her bed, I spent an hour under her careful ministrations.
“Am I pretty yet?” I ask her as she applies my eyeshadow.
“No.” She finished, and took a step back, “Now you’re pretty.”
I leave the room to go look in the mirror and see…not much has changed. I don’t look fabulous. I just feel uncomfortable. My eyelids are heavy with the caked-on eyeshadow and I have an overwhelming need to rub my eyes now.
I walk out to the living room where my mom was sitting. “Hey Ma’,” I say, “do I look pretty?”
“You look very pretty,” she replies as she continues to sort through today’s mail, not looking up. Thanks Ma’. Appreciate it.
Leaving for class, I meet up with my friend Lexi. She takes one look at me and make an indescribable squeal. “Oooooooh, you look so cute!”
This is the day I’d been waiting for since beginning this ordeal. Finally, the day where I could wear pants –well, leggings, but close enough. Pairing it with lots of floral to keep the girly look, all I could feel was utter relief. Sure, dresses and skirts are nice and airy, but they also came with restrictions, mainly the way you had to sit. You had to sit all proper and lady like. Hot damn did I miss manspreading, sitting with your legs spread open like a dude.
So close to the finish line, yet so very far. This is the day where I get to go to work in my girly attire. No baggy sweaters. No ripped jeans. And definitely no combat boots. In a maroon dress paired with some ballet flats, I walk into the hell-zone, oops, I mean work. Approaching my manager, she says, “Well don’t you look nice today. Why are you all dressed up, got a hot date?” I get similar remarks from all of my coworkers throughout my shift.
With the week over, I have gained a whole new level of respect for anyone who dresses girly on a regular basis. It is not easy. I had to get up early every day, and plan ahead with what I wanted to wear each day. On top of that, I spent so much time watching makeup tutorials only to never master any of it. It was a lot of extra work put in. In the end, I was just so frustrated by it all. The results weren’t all that drastic. I mean I did get quite a few once-overs from guys, which was new for me. I also received many compliments from family and friends saying I looked nice, or cute, or anything along those lines. I also realized I look damn nice in floral. I realized that it’s fine to change up what I wear every once in a while, so long as I feel comfortable in what I’m wearing. That’s all that matters. In the end, no matter what the results ended up being, all I knew was that I was going to rocking some sweatpants for the next few days.