It’s well known that I’m somewhat of a boyish dresser. I genuinely like the way men’s clothes fit on me and they have a way better variety than some of the polyester/lycra/small furry animal with slightly pointed front teeth clothes that a lot of today’s pretty young things get around in. However, yesterday was the launch of the zine thingo that I’m involved in and I wanted to look semi-skirtish so I decided to glam it up a bit in a dress.
Needless to say the effects of this experiment were all positive. One of the first things my dad said to me when he saw me was ‘You’re wearing a dress?!’ and this little proud look glinted in his eyes, that sort of said ‘I’m responsible for breeding this large haired little person and fair enough she may be totally overwhelmed right now by the amount of red fizzy and cookies she’s been eating all day, but I bet she’ll go home tonight and be glad she wore a dress after she’s stopped twitching from the alarmingly large amount of refined sugar parading around in her bloodstream’. And I was. And I want to do it again. Soon. I feel the impression I made on the various people I met, including a rather good-looking and cheerily-dispositioned with a propensity for the most timeless humour of all, toilet humour, lawyer type young man, as well as four boys in a holden ute who tooted their horn at me when I was hanging around in the city afterwards (solid confirmation of my thoughts that the dress made me pretty) oh I lost myself.
And I also noticed something alse. If you live by yourself and have spent the previous night baking three types of cookies in a one person kitchen with a trans-sexual oven called Edna, when you return home having left your dining plates at the library and facing a rather unstable fortress of dirty dishes blocking the natural light from your kitchen window, chopping boards or the back of a whiteboard can be convincing subsitutes for dinner plates. You can also eat cornflakes out of a casserole dish and I’m just really pleased that I have a tendency to steal cutlery from work and have built up a rather impressive collection of black market forks and spoons, so that at least I didn’t have to eat my cereal with a fork like some sort of deranged lunatic who’s trying to bring down the conventions of society by switching his cutlery every so often and you’ll see him on the corner of a street, spooning coffee into his mouth with a fork and eating ice cream with a whisk.
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hmm are you talking about one of my friends??
Of course!!! The dress is more powerful than even you or 1 could have predicted Estelle.