It’s only been sixteen minutes after the first period bell, and I swear, I think I have checked my hair for the millionth time. Looking into my convenient pocket-sized mirror, I am absolutely horrified that one ornery strand refuses to be secured neatly by the rubber band. I breathe a heavy sigh, for today has been the start of an unusually clumsy day: morning, a speck of orange juice had landed on my Nike shirt and my blinding white Reeboks marred by gooey mud. I glance at the mirror again and decide not to fight with my hair for the present moment. In fact, I’m starting to not care at all. Why does it even matter? Why do I enslave myself in this vicious cycle?
For years, I obsessed about my outside appearance, an unfortunate side effect of a common disease in the “image-is-everything” world. The symptoms were only exacerbated when I entered high school, the center to which the most vicious fashion critics seemed to gravitate. Trying to keep up with the latest fad was not only impossible but also fatal to my self-esteem. At any rate, my insecure adolescent self saw the outer shell as crucial to improving my status in the high school hierarchy, and thus I doggedly ran down the fashion runway despite falling on my face many times. Those moments were ones that I felt were impervious to change. All for the sake of acceptance, I sunk into the dark void of normality and was robbed of my own personality. Woe unto the unsuspecting victim who does not wear ubiquitous brand names. Unspeakable horrors plague those with un-hip accessories. Mention not the thought of non-matching apparel. Maybe it was due to the spot of dull orange on my white tee, or perhaps just the pure disgust at the constraints of “fashion,” that spurred me to concoct a fabulous plan to shake off the bonds of beauty forever.
Blue sock. Check. White sock. Check. Ratty sneakers. Check. Cheesy shirt, candy necklace, and hot pink sweatpants? Check, check, check. Ready. Commence Operation So-what-if-I-look-like-a-moron. I strode into the hallways, head held high, trumpeting my arrival through the sheer weight of my uncouth appearance. Suddenly, I heard a strange sound, the kind that makes your ears perk up and listen: silence. Some poor bystanders stood at the scene of my fashion crime slack-jawed and gawked with wide eyes. As the extreme effects of my faux-pas wore off, some of my less squeamish friends approached me with the same caution they would have used when approaching a rabid animal.
“What…have…yo-you done?” Chrissie stuttered, her shock paralyzing each strained syllable. I furtively stole a glance over her shoulder, saw that most of my posse were wearing worried faces, looked Chrissie in the eye and replied, “Simple. Today I dressed the way I liked.” Chrissie, satisfied with the terse answer, backed away, but the others were not so convinced. No doubt I could see their minds formulating some outlandish theory on what caused me to go mad. Au contraire, mon ami. On that day of fashion rebellion, I did not check my hair once. The pocket mirror that I stared at nearly every day stayed tucked away, neatly nestled among the pencils and pens. I felt exhilarated, freed by the oppressive regime of societal conformation. By rejecting the brand names and the pursuit of perfect appearance, I was no longer chained to the mountain. In that one solitary day, I hacked at my bonds and departed in search of individuality. Like the thirteen American colonies, like the art-nouveau of Jackson Pollock, like so many others before, I detached myself from the mundane and embraced the realm of the unique. In doing so, I no longer felt imprisoned by what others thought, no longer manipulated by outside forces who told me what to think, do, say, and of course, wear.
I have since returned to the acceptable “fashion” world—socks matching, hair neatly tied, colors conservative. However, the exciting feeling of stepping outside boundaries and exploring uncharted territory has led me to be unafraid to assert my own sense of individuality, instead of following the crowd. For the longest time I believed that conformity was the way to go, that blending into the mass of people prevented any criticism from radiating towards me. This self-consciousness caused me much anxiety and stress. Nevertheless, to my great surprise, I did not fare for the worse on my day of fashion rebellion. In fact, I lost nothing but my insecurity and gained all, including an invaluable confidence and trust in myself. The amalgam of colors that I proudly wore gladly declared my special persona, too long muted by the gray tones of compliance. That defining moment saw me standing at an apex. By daring to defy, I was no longer chained to the mountain but on top of its highest peak.
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