Article_How Playing Dress-Up Healed My Inner Child

How Playing Dress-Up Healed My Inner Child

By Kasia Halawa

At the ripe age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted to look like, as I rummaged through the garbage bag of hand-me-downs received from one of the neighbours, whose kids had long outgrown. I pulled bright pinks and oranges, frills and tassels, tank tops and miniskirts that my own mother would have balked at the idea of spending money on. It was like Christmas morning, receiving the gift of other peoples’ clothes. One man’s trash was my childhood self’s ultimate treasure.

Before school, I confidently paired a floral pair of stretchy flair capris with a striped multicolor tank top, layered with a faux white tank underneath. I walked into the first grade with all the colors of the rainbow, beaming with pride at my superior taste and hard work. I would wear the outfit countless more times, over and over, to the chagrin of my older sister, who asked our mother, embarrassed in proximity to me, if I was wearing it to a public outing yet again. Florals for spring were never ground-breaking to me, but florals with stripes were revolutionary, and any difference of opinion was white noise.

Please see the aforementioned floral capris above (left)

Please see one of many striped childhood tanks above (right)

On Sundays, at our Roman Catholic church service, I showed up in bedazzled jeans and a “spaghetti strap” tank top, failing to grasp the concept of modesty or formal dress. I beamed as the gems on my jeans reflected the light and danced on the surfaces around me. My sister eyed the low-cut of my revealing tank top, looking quizzingly at our mother, who had seemed to give up on providing guidance in my outfit selections. So, my eclectic tastes developed and continued into the Sixth Grade, when my crush remarked on the number of chunky silver rings I had, one on almost every finger. And in Grade Seven, when I stole my sister’s over-the-knee suede wedge heel boots, marching into science class without a second thought. When some girls in my class scoffed at my choice of shoe with a few smirks, a sudden self-consciousness crept in, but I nonetheless continued to “clip-clop” around my tiny suburban school, little shoulders held high.

Then came the inevitable teenage years, stealing away my self-expression and replacing it with a longing for invisibility. With no uniforms in sight at the public high school of my choice, rather than experimenting with colors, shapes, and textures, I chose to melt into the dull concrete walls of the hallways. There came my era of black Lululemon leggings and oversized hoodies, and later Business Casual without a 9-to-5 (button-ups, slacks, loafers, boat shoes, etc.), wanting so badly to be a grown-up without really knowing what growing up meant. Now, in adulthood, I wish I had relished in the privilege of opening the door to my childhood wardrobe and picking the most comfortable and fun pieces, with no designated place to go.

Often, I would look in the mirror disappointed at the final product. It was never how I pictured it in my head. I had no idea what I liked or who I was outside of the online personas who told me what to be. Since high school I’ve been so many people, played dress-up from childhood into my adult years, replicating the outfits of my favorite celebrities, influencers, and with a credit card in my possession, buying their same outfits online.

The boredom with my clothing and appearance brought me to my local thrift store, that felt just like that giant garbage bag of clothes I had received as a kid. I rummaged and touched, tried on and discarded to my heart’s desire. There were old grandpa sweaters and mom jeans, maxi and miniskirts with lace appliqués, lingerie that could be flipped into a top for girls’ night. It was my heaven, and I went alone with no questioning or disapproving eye to be found. When I finally put my phone down, I found myself at the thrift store. A lot of my outfits were ill-fitting, mismatched, or a little strange at first, but I was my own influencer so there was no scale of coolness to which to measure myself. I was in competition with only my childhood self, dressed in floral capris and a striped rainbow tank top, who I now realize was cooler than I will ever be.

Finally, in my early to mid-twenties, I rebelled against my social media algorithm and the judgment of my fellow scared twenty-somethings and started once again dressing up for the love of clothes. I admired celebrities like Julia Fox, who wore not what would place her on the Best Dressed list, but what she wanted to see herself as. I looked towards my old childhood photo albums, allowing myself to remember my love for bright colors and patterns, for boyish silhouettes and funky shoes. Just like Julia, through a lot of trial and error, I became my own muse.