The Devil Wears Pretty Much Everything
Navigating fashion as a trans woman.
TW: body dysmorphia, transphobia
My personal style has always been a comfort to me, a means of expression I have control over when other parts of my life escape me. After coming out as trans, I felt emancipated by the beauty and diversity of women’s fashion which allows for a lot of nuance that is often absent in men’s fashion (at least, on a mainstream level). I was instantly enamoured by the feel of fabrics like satin and viscose, the way these fabrics could fit and flare to create a certain silhouette or how a single accessory could transform an entire look. I developed a newfound admiration of my friends and their individual styles, how for some they were an extension of themselves and their gorgeous personalities. Having buried myself in blank tees and black jeans for many years prior, it felt like the doors were blown off their hinges. Another aspect of my being I’d suppressed for so long was uncoiling like a fist relaxing. I didn’t know where to begin.
Like some trans women fresh out of the closet, my initial foray into discovering how I wanted to present leaned into the hyperfeminine. Masculinity was a damp cloak I was eager to be rid of, so I gravitated towards the loudest clothes that screamed off the hanger. I had no rationale for what I acquired; in what lavish situation were I going to wear something as bougie as this? I’d just about squeezed into a Miscreants dress that did my shoulders absolutely no favours (though I’m blessed with a good pair of legs, so I’ve been told). Yet it didn’t matter - for that fleeting moment, however ridiculous I looked, it was as if I’d broken off the shackles. The girl in the mirror was broke with expensive taste, and I loved her audacity. I’ll never quite dispel her, no matter how sensible I’ve become in the years since.
Dopamine dressing gave way to a fleeting sequence of aesthetics that I was trying on for size; corporate chic (I work in a job that does not necessitate this whatsoever), cottagecore (which made me feel like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz), gothic (the high necks and all-black everything made me swelter) and back around. My Vinted account was working overtime, buying and selling on rotation. I experimented with colour, after seeing my friend Amy wear a myriad of shades so confidently, so well. I settled on severe pops of pink and gentle lilacs, and soon my monochrome clothing rail became dappled with hints and splotches of these colours. It was at this point that it felt like I began to hone in on that sweet spot between fashion I loved and fashion that complimented me. The act of putting together an outfit was in itself meditative, like a form of therapy.
There was no shortage of moments, both brief and prolonged, that tested my resolve. My masculine frame was a rebellious fit for many of these clothes that wavered in size and cut. Dresses always looked better on the model. Bodycon was my worst enemy. Elegance and comfort should not be mutually exclusive! These challenges aren’t unique to the trans experience at all - it’s a universal struggle that all my female friends endure when shopping for clothing. But there were times when I couldn’t help but feel I was a square peg trying to force itself into a round hole, and that I should resign myself to oversized, boyish fits that disguised the worst of me. This felt like yet another compromise when all I’ve ever done up to now is compromise with my gender identity, minimising myself for the sake of others. Being a trans woman, it’s hard to speak openly and passionately about fashion when such damaging stereotypes circulate and reduce us to “fetishistic crossdressers”. I dispel such notions, usually parroted by individuals repackaging their misogyny as feminism.
In spite of the intrusive thoughts, I’ve subscribed to wearing what makes me feel best - be it how it looks or how it feels to wear. It’s cyclical - my outfit can imbue me with confidence as much as I can wear it with pride. My presentation is a form of self care. Two years on since I began this journey in earnest, my wardrobe has begun to settle - though I still fight against the urge to give into the latest trends (leopard print has never and will never look good on me). I could decide someday to upend and reinvent once again, though I’m content with the space I’ve carved for myself. I look in the mirror and see a woman wearing a white fine knit tee that flatters her arms, tucked into a black satin skirt that traces her legs beautifully. Her little shoulder bag matches her ballet flats, and her jewellery elevates the look. She throws on an oversized blazer and spritzes her favourite perfume. Her big sunnies make her look a touch too glam, but for once she embraces that. The lipstick she touches up is the perfect shade to complete. And while it’s the same girl who rolled drearily out of bed a couple of hours prior, she has never looked, nor felt, better.