Today was the day of the important grown up thing I had to do. It involved dressing up in ‘professional’ attire. Ironing clothes. Ironing my hair.
It’s funny how when you are a kid, dressing up is all about dreams and whimsy, and the same can often be said for dressing up when grown up… but as an adult it sometimes takes on a sinister spin. It’s about duping yourself into behaving in a certain way, and tricking others into thinking you are something that maybe you quite aren’t. Like pretending to be grown up and polished and professional, when really you usually can’t be arsed to brush your hair or put on shoes besides sneakers or thongs.
Freshly ironed clothes and freshly straightened hair have a tendency to play on my irrational side. On the bus today, I wasn’t nervous about the task I had at hand, but was more paranoid about my hair going frizzy or wrinkles appearing in my shirt. I spent the bus ride trying to sit up straight, making sure my skirt wasn’t parked under my bum in a way that would wrinkle it, and making sure my hair wasn’t getting kinky. A coping mechanism perhaps, but another worrying indicator to add to my lists of ‘reasons why I think I will be completely mad in my old age’. Every time the bus doors would open and a humid breeze would waft through I would nearly have a panic attack thinking about the frizzy implications for my hair. Maybe I am completely mad already.
It was like I thought one wrinkle would undo the whole mission, or a kink in my hair would completely give away this farce and that the people I was going to see would then know I was wearing the only items of clothing I actually own that require use of an iron (due a shopping strategy I have inherited from my mother).
But it all went ok I think. Even though there was some frizz (it was raining today, it couldn’t be helped) and I couldn’t see my bum to check there were no wrinkles there. And all those drama lessons as a child meant that acting civilised was a breeze. I wonder if the con worked?