Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 15

March 18th

Dear Journal,

Each day that passes feels like a new layer of me is being gradually scraped away, replaced with something foreign, uncomfortable, but scarily well-fitted. Yesterday, Annisa whisked me away to a beauty spa, her face alight with excitement. The idea of a facial didn’t appeal to me, but trapped in this charade, I had no choice but to go along. I can’t deny the strange serenity I felt as the beautician gently massaged my face, applying an assortment of creams and masks. I now follow a twice-daily skincare routine, applying lotions and serums I never knew existed, under the watchful gaze of Annisa.

My mirror reflection has started to become an entity I'm not sure I fully recognize anymore. I can see my figure thinning, a result of the minuscule portions of the vegan diet Annisa insists we stick to. I fear, in a few more weeks, even my body will become a stranger to me.

Tonight, we returned from a lively local bar, a festive hub bubbling with boisterous laughter, echoing clinks of glass meeting glass, and chatter that filled the air like a musical score. The setting was beautifully illuminated with strategically placed lighting, casting a warm, golden glow that seemed to give life to every face and corner. A spectacle to behold, but amidst this vibrant scene, I found myself the biggest imposter.

Dressed in one of Annisa's meticulously selected ensembles, an elegant, long ivory-coloured dress that boasted a high collar and a voluminous skirt, I was an odd spectacle. The skirt twirled and fluttered around my legs with each cautious step I took, serving as a constant reminder of my pretence.

In this garb, I felt as though I was inhabiting someone else's body, an uncomfortable masquerade that was becoming my life. I drank wine for the first time. The flavour was strange, a complex palette of flavours that danced on my tongue and left a slightly bitter aftertaste. However, what felt stranger was the faint lipstick mark I left on the rim of the glass after each sip, a gaudy imprint that was proof of my transformation. I found myself staring at it, the bold red stain an echo of the twisted reality I was now living.

The individual uneasily perched on the bar stool this evening bore little resemblance to the David who had departed London weeks earlier. The makeup application was my own handiwork, the result of perusing countless online guides, and the outcome was alarmingly convincing, a skill I had never envisioned mastering. With bold eyeshadow, mascara, and the foreign addition of false eyelashes, my eyes took on a larger, distinctly feminine appearance. My lips, brushed with a daring shade of pinkish-red, further compounded this transformation. It felt as though I was donning a mask, one that was becoming progressively more challenging to take off.

On my legs, I wore a pair of black tights, a concession to the chilly atmosphere of the bars and restaurants where the air conditioning always seems to be blasting. The tights felt strange, a layer of artificial skin that hugged my legs, the texture still unfamiliar.

On my feet, my new companions as I've started to call them, the dreaded 'Biancas'. Their towering height and painful constriction had me mincing and wincing all night. How many more of these evenings can I endure, I find myself questioning?

As I sit here now, recalling the evening, I can't help but sketch the scene. There I was, perched on a barstool, awaiting Annisa's return from the restroom, feeling the prickle of dozens of eyes on me. There's a sense of loneliness, even in a crowded room, especially when one is pretending to be someone they're not. I sketch the bar, the people, and me... a figure alien even to my own eyes.

(See image 15)

As the evening wore on, the bar filled up with merry patrons, laughter bouncing off the walls, conversations intertwining with the low hum of the music. We moved to a corner table where we sipped wine, feeling the scrutiny of every eye in the room. I'd never been so aware of myself; of the nylon material swishing against my encased legs as they folded underneath me, of the discomfort in my feet forced into an unnatural angle by the Biancas, and the sensation of my heavy eyelashes with each blink.

And then, as if the evening hadn't been surreal enough, Annisa dropped another bombshell. She told me, with a gleam in her eye and a radiance I couldn't help but admire, that she'd like me to join her in her work. Work at her bridal store, she meant. Her voice buzzed around my head, words like 'help', 'experience', and 'opportunity' punctuating her sentences. As she elaborated, the room spun around me, every note of the music seeming to punctuate my increasing panic.

But that wasn't all. "You'll teach me French while we work," she declared, toasting our glasses together. I stared at her, my mouth agape. Teach French? But before I could stammer a response, Annisa had already moved on, animatedly discussing potential customers and design ideas, oblivious to the silent crisis unfolding within me.

The feeling of dread washed over me like a wave, rising and crashing against my newfound reality. How had I ended up in this predicament? How could I teach a language I didn't know? What help could I possibly be at a bridal store? The questions whirled around my head like a vortex of confusion and anxiety.

The rest of the evening is a blur. I returned to Annisa's apartment in a daze, her cheerful chatter a stark contrast to my silent introspection. Laying in the dimly lit room now, staring at the unfamiliar figure reflected in the mirror, I feel a heavy weight pressing down on me.

And yet, for the time being, I feel compelled to go along with Annisa's plans. It's not as if I have an alternative. I've never felt more trapped, more lost. I need to devise a plan of escape, a way to reclaim my identity, my life. But for now, I'm stuck in this charade, a pawn in someone else's game.

But for now, all I can ask is, what am I going to do?

Goodnight,

David