Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 17

March 23rd,

Dear Journal,

These past few days have been a flurry of tulle, satin, flowers, and awkward conversations; a whirlwind of French phrases; a dizzying waltz in towering pumps. I've been so caught up in the world of bridal gowns and weddings that I've barely had a chance to take a breath, let alone pen down my thoughts.

Today, though, was a different kind of challenge. Instead of busying myself in the boutique's storeroom or dressing mannequins, I found myself at an on-site wedding location. And it wasn't just about blending in the background either; oh no, it was all about sparkling in the limelight. I was not just an assistant to Annisa today; I was her wingwoman, her confidante, the pseudo-French import from Paris who would add an air of exoticism to her clientele's special day.

My duties today were twofold and agonizing in their own right. The first part of the day was dedicated to setting up the wedding reception room. The meticulous attention to detail required in arranging the flowers, draping the linens, positioning the table centrepieces - it was all physically taxing. But the true challenge was the way my short, fitted dress hindered my movement. Bending, reaching, stretching - every action was an exercise in concentration as tried to keep my panties from showing.

Once the room was set to perfection, I found myself thrust into the evening reception. This time, my task was to navigate the crowd, gracefully carrying trays of bubbling champagne while keeping a genial smile plastered on my face. Every click of my Bianca heels on the marble floor sent a pang of pain up my calf. Each step was a delicate balance, a test of endurance as I minced my way through the room. With the lacey hem of my dress barely covering my panty-clad rear, and the crowd's curious glances seemingly undressing me, I was consumed by a profound sense of vulnerability. The discomfort was both physical, from the unending torment of my aching feet, and psychological, the constant awareness of my deceit pressing down on me like a weight.

The illustration of today depicts me taking a rare moment of reprieve in the hotel bathroom. I stand there, staring at my reflection in the mirror, the overhead light casting a soft, iridescent glow on my painted face. My hair – or rather, my wig – has been curled and teased into submission, falling in glossy waves over my shoulders. The makeup is striking yet clean; my eyes are rimmed with dark liner, glued-on eyelashes extended with mascara, and lips painted a bold red.

My attire is a far cry from my preferred worn-out jeans and comfortable shirts. Instead, I'm encased in a high-necked, white minidress, the silk and lace material hugging my form in an unfamiliar embrace. A large bow-like sash is tied around my waist, a glaring proclamation of my 'staff' status. And then there are the Biancas – my faithful but torturous companions – hugging my exhausted feet, turning every step into a battle of willpower.

What set today's outfit apart, however, was the addition of jewellery. A large white flower is attached to a wristband on my left hand – an alien weight. And then there are the clip-on earrings – droplets of pearls dangling from my lobes, their heaviness making me wince every now and then. It's all so bizarre, Journal, standing there looking like the perfect little wedding planner and nothing like a twenty-one-year-old man!

(See image 17)

Today was something of a breaking point, Journal. Looking at my feminised reflection was like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of how far I've drifted from myself. Tomorrow, I've decided, is the day I reclaim my identity. Sunday, my only day off, is going to be the day of my great escape.

The plan is simple – I'll pack a bag with unisex clothes from the walk-in closet. Then when the coast is clear, I'll slip out of the apartment without Annisa or Kartika noticing. Once I'm clear of the apartment's security, I'll find a quiet corner somewhere and shed my 'Fifi' shell. The wig, which I'll have already de-glued from my head, comes off. My clothing will change from some body-hugging feminine outfit to something far less conspicuous. And with the makeup tricks I’ve learned, I'll pencil in my brows to make them look thicker, more masculine.

Once I look less like Fifi and more like myself, I'll hop onto a bus to the British Embassy. I have faith in the British Consulate, Journal, that they'll help one of their own in need. If all goes well, by this time tomorrow, I might be on a flight back home.

Home... The word resonates within me, filling me with a warmth that I've missed these past weeks. I can almost smell my mum's cooking, hear my dad's deep laughter, and feel Ani's comforting presence. Oh, how I long to be a boy again, to walk without mincing, to wear clothes that don't restrict, to simply be David Lubis.

Wish me luck, Journal. It feels like I'm about to embark on the most important mission of my life.

Signing off for the night,

David.