Thursday, May 26, 2005

My physical appearance uses people's mental schema to my advantage. It's not a fashion statement, per se; it's a defensive barricade, a cushion, a filter. An obstacle course designed to allow only select few to pass.

Most people - the ones I wouldn't want to know me, anyhow - get caught up on my blue hair or the metal rings I've slid through various parts of my face. Others note my taste for black clothing and assume that I am unapproachable. To them, I may as well be invisible. And so I should be, if that is how they measure another human being. I want nothing to do with them.

You would think that only conservative people find my appearance repellant. Oddly enough, it keeps out those who spend their lives persuing deviance as well. They see a gothy/punky alternachick and assume I share their agenda. A mistake. Even if they decide to talk to me, they still can't see me. To them, I'm no person, but an assemblage of freakish parts.

Body art, blue hair, and black dresses also help me hide when I need to. If I want to disappear, all I have to do is don my wig, slip into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and undo the rings from my ears and nose. Voila. Larkin no longer exists. Anyone who knows me solely for those aspects wouldn't recognize me in a million years.

It works in reverse as well. My coworkers at Modai had only ever seen me in uniform, wigged and de-ringed, until yesterday when I came to visit them. It was my day off. I wore a black zip top, blue schoolgirl shirt, black mary janes, and stockings. My hair shone bottle blue in the late afternoon sun. My body jewelry glinted. I was like an exotic bird. Like a giant indigo carp with seven fish-hooks in its lip. Only Matthiew knew my name.

shiny objects