Dressing Up
Artwork by Frankie Kaye
The halfway house sat squarely in the middle of an otherwise inconspicuous street in suburban Marrickville. I thought I was at the right place, I hadn’t been here before, and Mai and I had only recently become friends-ish. As I followed the concrete path alongside the house, I rose up onto my toes and snuck a glance into the blindingly bright common area. Inside, two tired looking older men had their attention focused on the telly. One sat in a threadbare armchair and the other stood behind him, one hand resting on the bare kitchen table, propping up the weight of his body. A microwave beeped. I crept towards the front door and rang the buzzer.
“Be out in a sec.”
Mai fetched me from the front door and we walked single file through the dark serpentine corridor to his room.
“Come… in.” He slowly nudged the door open with his foot. It was met with some resistance. I looked down: Pizza box. We slid into the room and Mai pushed aside a stack of oily crumpled pizza boxes to make room on his bed for us to sit; there was nowhere else. Every surface was taken up by a takeaway food container, or an article of clothing, or an instrument. I asked him how long he’d been living here and what the other residents were like. He said he was lucky. He’d been on a long list of people seeking crisis housing, and he’d got a place. It was a long way from Armidale, and he only had one other friend in Sydney. A music friend, and really flakey.
“Do you want to walk over to my place?” I asked. “It’s not far. I’m moving and I have some things you might like.”
We started walking. I had been subletting my friend Josie’s front terrace room for a few months while she was away. Most of my belongings were boxed up and sat neatly in a corner, waiting for their final destination. Josie was very femme. She couldn’t even leave the house without having her good knickers on. Her room reflected this; it was a boudoir. There was an immaculate Art Deco dressing table with a large oval mirror and even a plush cushioned stool to sit on while you powder your nose, or whatever women do in their boudoir.
Arriving at my place, I immediately started unboxing. I pulled out a long skirt in a slightly crinkly, silky material that began as a creamy pale pink at the waist and faded into a lovely lavender. It had the weight of an expensive garment and was gathered by a drawstring waist that led to delicate little bells that gave a faint tinkle. The drape was luxurious and floated around your legs when you walked.
“Try this one on. I think it’ll fit you. You have better legs than me.”
Keeping his worn black hoody on and peeling off his jeans, Mai slipped one bare leg and then another into the hoop of the skirt. The sensation of the silkiness tickled his leg hair.
Boys wear denim creased with sweat and dirt. Starched, crisp shirts when they grow into men with responsibilities. But what of velvet and satin? Cashmere and angora? Gossamer threads, so delicate and dainty you could ascend skyward with a gentle puff of air? Should these sensuous pleasures be limited to only the “fairer sex”?
I watched as Mai transformed. She reclined onto the back of the stool, resting her weight on one arm and stretched out the opposing leg. Lavender cascaded between her and the floor as she settled into this novel yet not-totally-foreign femininity. Her shoulders had softened by now and unhunched themselves.
When she looked up, her eyes were clear, dewy, and wide. Her gaze exuded a quiet confidence.
“This is the most beautiful thing I own, thank you. I feel so pretty.”
We hugged.
Although I never saw Mai again, I would continue to revisit this small and fleeting memory of the transformative power of female friendship.