Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 24

April 10th,

Dear Journal,

The cobwebs of days are becoming thicker, binding me tighter in this claustrophobic mesh. The days roll seamlessly into one another, each indistinguishable from the next. The humdrum of the boutique, the feeling of the dresses as they rustle and glide, and the ceaseless echo of high heels clicking have become an omnipresent background score to my life.

However, amidst this drudgery, a memory still stands stark, even if it's only a few days old: the brief respite at the hair salon. Journal, I never thought I'd yearn so profoundly for something as mundane as feeling the scalp of my head. And yet, when the wig was lifted, revealing my own hair underneath, it felt like the first gulp of fresh air after being underwater for far too long. The cool shampoo, the gentle scalp massage, and the trickling water rinsing off the suds; I wish I could bottle that feeling. It was, in many ways, a literal and metaphorical cleansing.

Yet, as the clock ticked, the moments melted away. The spell was broken when they told me it was time for the wig to be glued back in place. The familiar weight settling on my head felt much heavier than before, knowing now the brief liberation I had experienced.

The very next day, the boutique became the centre of a whirlwind. Annisa’s cousin is getting married, and as is customary in her family, nothing short of perfection will suffice. The entire store has been in a tizzy. Annisa, usually so composed, has been fluttering around, double-checking each detail, ensuring that every bead, every lace, every stitch on her cousin’s gown is beyond reproach. I've found myself running around, being both the mannequin for her to drape fabrics on, and the assistant helping her manage the storm.

I observed Annisa with a new perspective during these frenzies. There was an undeniable charm in her passion, the fire in her eyes, the way her fingers delicately felt the texture of the silks and satins. As much as I loathe this current chapter of my life, seeing her in her element, where the world of fashion wasn't just about appearance but about stories, art, and love, made me appreciate her dedication.

Yet, despite her bustling about, she's made attempts, however misguided, to make me feel included. She's tried to engage me in conversations, not just about work but about life, dreams, and memories. It's a bittersweet feeling; on one hand, she's become my sole source of human interaction, and I appreciate the companionship. On the other hand, every attempt at camaraderie serves as a poignant reminder of the vast chasm between us, a secret that can't be shared.

The image I've drawn today is surreal. It’s a snapshot from yesterday when Fatri, Annisa’s cousin and the bride-to-be, entered the boutique. I observed her, as I've observed many before, moving with an elegant ease, her smile lighting up the room. And then, to my surprise, she approached me, gushing about how she had heard so much about the 'French girl' who was assisting Annisa. Her request for a picture together seemed innocuous, and yet it tethered me to a moment that felt so out-of-body.

I've captured us in the drawing, me and Fatri, standing side by side amidst the boutique’s opulence. I, with an arm wrapped around her, trying to strike a pose that would seem most natural to a girl like Fifi. What struck me most about the captured image was the contrast of our attires. My dress was form-fitting, a snug black number adorned with countless sequins that shimmered with even the faintest hint of light. It felt like the stars had been sewn onto me, drawing attention from every angle. Meanwhile, my cloth sandals pushed me to an elevation that made me teeter, even after all my time practising.

Fatri, on the other hand, seemed to be the embodiment of grace. She was clad in a long-sleeved blouse paired with a tasteful skirt. Her outfit seemed so chaste, so grounded, especially next to the razzle-dazzle of my attire. Through the lens of my sketch, I can see the vast difference: here is a bride-to-be, the centre of attention, yet her attire is demure compared to the illusion I have become.

(See image 24)

And the strangest realization, Journal, was not just in the drawing or the actual moment, but in the shifting perspective of my mind. In the past, a beautiful woman like Fatri would have had me sneaking glances, appreciating the beauty of her form, the curve of her lips, the spark in her eyes. Yet, with each interaction, my gaze, instead of lingering on her visage, found itself critically assessing the choices of her attire. I found my mind, unbidden, comparing our outfits. Both of us were perched atop soaring heels, yet I found myself instinctively measuring mine against hers. And the subtle contrast of the length of her skirt to the hemline of my dress was not lost on me either.

It's strange, unsettling even, how I've transitioned from viewing women as potential romantic interests to now comparing sartorial choices. Where once I might have wondered about the taste of her lips, now I find myself pondering which lipstick she was wearing. This shift, this new manner of seeing the world, has made me realize that Fifi isn't just an external facade. She is permeating deeper, influencing not just how the world sees me, but how I see the world.

This evolution, or perhaps invasion, as I might call it, of Fifi into territories of my psyche I never thought she'd venture, is alarming. I wonder, as I lay down to sleep, if this is yet another part of my mind that she's claiming for her own? Where does David end and Fifi begin? And more importantly, will I be able to find my way back when this ordeal ends?

Until we meet again,

David.