Around a year ago, as I was getting ready to relocate to a new apartment, I disposed of the sole dress I possessed. Prior to this, I hadn’t even noticed I had only one. I realized that I seldom reached for dresses and skirts anymore, whether in stores or hanging in my closet. I had already taken the initiative to throw away the unwanted mess of tights in my sock drawer. However, the transition to exclusively wearing trousers had been gradual. A few months back, I even astonished myself when my instinctive reply to someone’s inquiry about my attire was a composed and assured: “I’m not really a dress person.”
But it’s a realization I’ve come to accept. It’s simply the truth. That last dress – a straightforward black midi that symbolized the little black dress that 00s magazines claimed every woman should possess – had seen only a few occasions of wear. Thus, into the donation pile it went.
Although I was never among those children who threw fits when a parent insisted on a dress, I wasn’t innately “girly” either. I was assigned the role of Joseph in my first nativity play, held at a coed nursery. When I began school and had to sport a skirt as part of my uniform, my reception teacher would refer to me as “lady Lucy” during lessons to remind me to keep my legs together. In one photograph from a childhood costume party, I stand proudly behind the other little girls, all dressed as princesses, my arms outstretched, inexplicably dressed as a crow.
When I came out as gay during my late teens, it granted me freedom in my fashion decisions – I no longer felt compelled to fit the image of a typical straight woman – yet it also introduced its own set of pressures. Remarks like “just because you’re a lesbian it doesn’t mean you have to dress like a man” discouraged me from adopting a more androgynous appearance for some time. I was aware that I didn’t genuinely belong to either “butch” or “femme” classifications.
However, gradually, as I’ve experimented and discovered the garments that resonate with my authentic self, I’ve realized that not identifying as a “dress person” is what truly suits me. It may require a bit more effort to select the right attire, particularly for formal occasions. I painstakingly deliberated over my outfit for an ultra-fancy wedding last year, where the dress code called for floor-length gowns and tuxedos (I ultimately opted for a satin suit). Yet, I’ve found that, as long as you make an effort to appear polished, people don’t seem to care whether you’ve adhered to the dress code precisely.
I don’t wish to suggest that embracing a more visibly queer style is entirely free of challenges in today’s political landscape – I’ve encountered an uptick in homophobic harassment in recent years. And I sincerely hope that all the discussions about who should be permitted in which restrooms do not deter individuals from dressing in non-conforming ways – because when I don my stylish suit, I feel as if I can accomplish anything, and nobody should be dissuaded from experiencing that.
By giving up dresses for good, I’ve come to cherish my younger self, who boldly chose that crow costume. Not due to its appealing appearance (it truly wasn’t) but because that little girl was unconcerned about being unique or conforming to the way a girl is “meant” to look. I believe I’ve been on a journey back to her ever since.
