Becoming Fifi - 29

April 21st
Dear Journal,

I’m actually writing this in the morning for once—nursing a brutal hangover and grateful that Annisa’s given me a day off to recover. Yesterday was a blur of clattering heels, laughter, and that constant feeling of being an imposter. It was Fatri’s bachelorette party, and with it came a chain of events that left me completely out of my depth. It’s one thing to get through a normal day as Fifi, but quite another to spend it surrounded by a dozen drunken women celebrating being women. The air was thick with perfume and excitement, spiked with champagne and risqué conversations I felt awkward even overhearing, let alone joining in.

The theme was glitz and glam, and true to form, the day started with a trip to the salon. The whole thing felt like being ambushed by an overzealous team of beauticians—well-meaning, yes, but utterly relentless. My toenails turned white (not too different from before), but my fingernails… that was another story. I watched in disbelief as they were filed, buffed, and extended until they became long, gleaming French ombré claws that now tap uselessly against everything I touch. Well, maybe “useless” is a bit unfair, but after a full day of trying to adjust, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve jabbed or scratched myself.

Then came the waxing—an experience I can only describe as state-sanctioned torture. Easily the most painful thing I’ve ever endured, and by the end of it, any hint of masculinity that had started to return was stripped away once more. My skin now feels unnervingly smooth—softer and glossier than after shaving, almost slippery to the touch.

Next came an onslaught of creams, masks, and serums promising a “radiant, youthful glow.” I couldn’t tell you what half of them were, but I came out smelling like a skincare aisle.

My hair—or rather, the wig that has become an extension of my persona—was next. The stylist showed no mercy, tugging, twisting, and teasing the synthetic strands into an elaborate updo. It’s a testament to the glue holding it in place that it survived the ordeal without budging.

Finally came the pièce de résistance: makeup. The artists moved like they were performing surgery—brushes flicking, powders flying, and eyes narrowing in concentration. By the time they were done, I barely recognised myself. The foundation was flawless, my eyes dark and sharp, and my lips, overlined and painted a bold, unapologetic red. I’ll admit it—it was stunning. Unsettlingly so.

The evening at the bar, privately rented for Fatri's bachelorette party, unfolded like a scene from a movie—one I never imagined I'd be part of. The air was thick with perfume and alcohol, punctuated by the shrill laughter of the girls. They revelled in the raucous atmosphere, playing games that made me blush and drinking amounts of alcohol that made the room spin.

Then, without warning, the evening took a turn that made my insides churn. The arrival of a stripper—a man whose muscles rippled under a sheen of baby oil—marked my cue to escape. The spectacle was too much, too raw, too real. I tottered away on my sparkly stiletto sandals, each step made trickier by my tipsy state.

There, in the solitude of the bathroom stall, I wrestled with my dress while trying to relieve my bladder. The long fabric at the back, combined with my new nails, made holding the skirt out of the way a frustrating task. My sandals slipped on the polished floor, and my panties, sitting around my ankles, bound my legs in place. It was a peculiar and time-consuming experience—peeing in a long sparkly gown—but not one I was in any hurry to end. I hid in the bathroom for as long as I could without raising suspicion.

Eventually, though, I knew I had to return. Before leaving, I paused, catching sight of myself in a large mirror covering one wall. The reflection stopped me cold—an image so striking it seemed to belong to someone else. I’ve tried to capture it in this sketch.

In the mirror, there I stood, draped in a floor-length, sparkling gown that hugged my slender figure with almost sculptural precision. The high-low design revealed my smooth, toned legs—a testament to the endless days spent in heels. My ears were adorned with long, dangling earrings that knocked against my neck with every movement, while my new extended nails glistened in the light. It was an out-of-body moment, seeing that version of myself. The slim, feminine figure staring back at me was a jarring contrast to the David I remember.

(See image 29)

As the night wore on, I kept up the act—smiling, laughing, joining in just enough to blend in. But beneath it all, the anxiety never left. It wasn’t just the noise and chaos of the bachelorette; it was the thought of what’s coming next—the wedding, and the version of myself that will be tottering through it, trapped behind a glossy smile and a pair of towering heels.