Aside from the obvious benefits of halving the visible size of my substantial skull and providing a highly effective veil behind which I can hide my overly expressive eyebrows, I’ll admit that my favourite thing about my hair transformation from earlier this year is, without a doubt, my newfound ability to look like a ratty teenage boy.
The closer I come to my 23rd birthday (which I will in fact be missing altogether, crossing the International Date Line from New York back to Sydney to speak at Vivid this weekend), the more eagerly I embrace being absolutely barefaced and beaten up around the edges. I’ve resolved with myself that I was not built to be a put-together lady.
Sure, adding an aggressive stiletto gives the illusion of hardcore, polished commitment, but my hair has more character unbrushed. I don’t own concealer or foundation. No matter how much water I drink, or how much Lucas’ Papaw Ointment I accidentally consume in my application efforts, my bottom lip is constantly peeling from biting in times of intense concentration. I’ve completely given up on painting my nails – I figure that it’s better for them to be bare and boring than chipped from days of messing around with clothes and equipment on set. I’ve thrashed my Acne Jensens so ruthlessly, that the likes of these embellished Gucci foot fanfares give me constant anxiety running up and down the stairs on the subway. Every ball gown has a pair of cropped flares underneath. Every pair of shredded
denim has a thousand siblings in the cupboard it came from.
So, as my time per month living out of a suitcase continues to rise, I’ve committed myself to building out my travelling day-off repertoire of slouchy separates and 90s comfort clothes with the necessary embroideries and embellishments to separate me from my kid brother, as well as jigsawing seamlessly into my usual sharp corners and lethal assassin palate.