To Be Adored, To Be Respected, To Be One's Self
Really? Is cross fashioning such a mystery?
I’ve been thinking long and hard about all those people who love to cross-fashion and the shy millions who only dream of it. Why is there so much discussion on this subject as of late — as if there were anything worthwhile to debate? What exactly is wrong with the act of wearing clothing or adopting styles attributed to the opposite gender? Ummm… nothing.
Rather than passing judgment on someone whose fashion statements seem to cross boundries, try this: imagine what that person is trying to express and love the fact they are brave enough to show a bit of what is inside — their inner beauty, the things that delight them, what gives them a sense of pleasure and self-confidence, what is comforting to them. Embrace the image they see in their mind’s eye — that person they want to be. Appreciate the attire they have so creatively put together, which is uniquely practical for their life, clothing that likely had to be foraged vigorously to accommodate unique shapes and tastes.
It’s so easy: you can make someone’s day by simply letting them be who they are. And you can improve the day further by acknowledging you like what they’re wearing or the style they’re flaunting: “Those romantic sleeves on your dress really accentuate your graceful arms,” or, “You are rocking that high fade mohawk!” Big smile, nod your head. Show some fucking enthusiasm. And most importantly, do not care about that idiot behind you in line (you know — the one in a red baseball cap with the dreaded embroidery). You be the human shield for this nice person in front of you.
Attributed — now there’s a word that warrants some discussion. Who, exactly, attributed particular types of clothing to one sex or the other, without consulting every variation of person? It would seem many (most?) of us fall somewhere between the soft left and hard right of the feminine-masculine spectrum. How we prefer to dress should reflect the circumstances in which we find ourselves at any particular moment in time, be it the year we left a toxic relationship, or that lazy Sunday morning when there are two feet of snow outside. Feminine and masculine traits need to ebb and flow, as they are naturally inclined to do.
During the day, one might be called upon to play the no-nonsense boss, while at night, the nurturing spouse, with a furry chest or soft breast on which a loved one can rest their head. Or perhaps it’s mating season, and one needs to be that beautiful creature their lover runs home to after a long day of work.
Hey! Dress for the task at hand. Be the man, the woman, the mother, the father, the lover, the gentle friend, the spitfire, the muse, the fixer, or be some wonderful in-between. Love all of those parts of you.
NOT GOING BACK and neither should you…
Back in the day (dare I say the late 80s), when I was a performer and the leader of several music ensembles, I found it hugely embarrassing to have to hobble out on stage in heels and a slinky black dress with a thigh-high slit. During those years, much attention was paid to how female musicians presented themselves on stage — did we possess the right physical attributes to be credible, were we feminine enough? The problem with women’s professional attire back then: there was little variation in style, and few outfits were designed with practicality or comfort in mind. Women were expected to look sexy — this regardless of what they were doing. Fuck that.
Add to that the issue of what was allowed in the concert hall, a “black tie” venue. For men, it was simple: a black tuxedo (with tails, if an orchestra), white cotton twill shirt, a bow tie, and black patent leather shoes. Done. For women, there was a laundry list of requirements for the numerous and complicated variations we were expected to choose from: long black gowns, skirt-and-blouse ensembles, flowing pants with embellished jackets, and pant suits (if we were lucky). Then, all those rules on accessorizing, hair styles, etc. It was hard enough finding affordable outfits that checked off all the boxes, and that also had enough give for the huge breath needed on the opening of Afternoon of a Faun. You really had to enjoy shopping and not mind being short on money for groceries.
After a particularly nerve-wracking performance where my attention was sharply divided between nailing my part on a devilishly difficult piece by André Jolivet and worrying about flashing the audience as I shifted in my chair in my pencil skirt, I made a decision: this would be the last time I dressed like a lady for a musical performance. Fuck that.
All that following the rules did was put me, as a woman, at a huge disadvantage. It was stressful, uncomfortable, and it set me apart from the men with whom I was performing, which at the time was the majority of my fellow ensemble members. I wanted to be one with the group, not a sideshow. And I sure as hell didn’t want to hear compliments about my beautiful gown. Ugh. To me, those were a slight. No one ever came backstage to tell male performers how great they looked in their tuxes. They came to express awe about their playing or interpretation. My performances had become the fucking Miss America pageant and I was tired of thinking about pantyhose, and whether I was showing too much cleavage, or would turn an ankle in my heels.
So, here’s what I did: I went to Bloomingdale’s and bought myself two Joseph Abboud men’s tuxedos, and I had them expertly tailored to fit me. Yep, cleaned out my checking account. Then I experimented with a variety of tuxedo shirts and dressy black turtlenecks, and I tried buttoning up the jacket with no blouse. It all looked great. I rounded out the ensemble with some stylish, square-toed black ankle boots with low heels (also from the men’s department), and a short hairdo that wouldn’t require a blow-dry if I was pressed for time or preferred to do an extensive warmup instead of preening. And no makeup. Fuck that, too.
Guess what disappeared? My stage fright.
Going forward, whenever I was in a concert, I strutted confidently across stage as I went to take my seat. With assuredness, I took charge of my group or the flute section, honing the tuning, setting perfect tempos, nailing my parts, and thoroughly enjoying myself. I quit feeling conspicuous and off balance. I felt like myself.
And the conductor and executive director of the orchestra — what could they say? I followed the rules, those laid down for the men in the group. About those rules for women? Fuck those.
Wouldn’t it be fantastic to dress in whatever way made you feel like a million bucks? Just fucking do it.
Good thinking!
I am so much more confident in what I'm doing when I dress comfortsbly - head to toe. No patience for potential wardrobe malfunctions!