On being anonymous

If you had to picture me, and I can see no reason for you ever having the need, I wonder what mental image you would conjure up to go with my words.

Of late, my appearance has been subtly changing, I noticed it yesterday when I looked in my wardrobe. Some things I wore three or four years ago I wouldn’t wear now (okay they wouldn’t fit even if I wanted to).

Back in “the day” I wore ill-matched clothes brought from charity shops, I turned unfashionableness into an art and avoided even sitting in the traditional rebellion camps of goth and punk. As a very young boy I wore a bow tie and felt that braces were the way to go. As time went on make up was added to my arsnell and then briefly I flirted with the whole goth thing, although as my search through my old records revealed – I liked little of the music – I was to all intents and purposes, a lipstick goth. I did try the punk thing very briefly but the Mohican wasn’t a good look for me, and in honesty I found it all a little tiring. I didn’t feel angry at the world – I felt bored with it – and so the goth crowd seemed a far better home all be it one I didn’t belong to.

Next came my ultra camp phase, I wore full make up, and dungarees, androgyny was the order of the day, and I blushed with pride when people told me I looked like Boy George. I didn’t stop there though, I kept going wondering if, at heart, I was more girl than boy. With time, I abandoned my make up and grew a goatie beard to replace it. I wore velvet and stripy trousers, big fluffy coats and went for the ridiculous, if it made me smile it was to be worn. With a step into the world of burlesque I felt rather ungainly in my attire and matched my waist coats with crisp shirts. Now I have the appearance of a gentlemen, all be it one who has fallen on bad times. I love fine clothes – clothes that actually feel good on, and stiching that doesn’t fall apart. When I look back on my clothing phases the only one I would return to willingly was my teenage age years of androgyny, when I was thin enough and had the cheek bones to carry it off make up. As it is, I will take a seat in my leather arm chair, open up a copy of The Chap magazine and hope that someone brings me a stiff drink.

Yours in a suit,

The Broken Man