When you look at me, what I’m wearing is the first thing you see. My clothes are my way of saying hello. My chosen language to say, this is me. My red lipstick is a fashion statement and that statement is NOT “You can fuck me”. Sometimes, it’s “Look at me!” Other days, it’s “Dracula be hungry”. Today my lips say, “I bleed words”.
Every day I choose from a wardrobe, full of accessories and garments, moods and temperaments. Each day, I fashion a new me. I’m a walk-in cupboard full of people to be, my mind a lingerie drawer full of personalities. Every living moment is a shopping expedition. Every person a fashion find. A pretty scarf, a new discovery. Any fun idea that crosses my mind.
Identity is a game of smoke and mirrors and hot breaths and scratches on paper. I was once Madonna in her Gentlemen prefer blondes avatar. I know I’m not blonde but neither was Madonna. Not Norma Jean Baker either. But Marilyn Monroe was and so was the Material Girl.
But why limit me to my hair colour, my job, my nationality, my gender? I am whatever I imagine at that moment. A warrior, an empath, a friend, a healer, a student, a lover, a teacher, a stranger.
Insecurity speaks in many voices, worry in many octaves. Dressing up is a reminder that every label can be peeled off, even ink washes off and the faces & bodies we present are but performance.
If you were in drag, what would you be like? Would you be camp? Would you be pretty or sultry? Would you add a touch of desi? Would you invent a new planet and claim fealty? Would you redefine love? And where does the drag stop and where begins your identity?
I never really liked labels anyway. So you can put your Versace, Gay/Straight, Gucci away. Because if I were in drag, what would I be? Bigger, Shinier, Sexier. Just even more me.