I properly dolled up for a whole week
Wearing heavy make-up and heels for a week makes you realise everyone’s a perv
Like most girls, I love playing dress up. But rather than pile on layers of foundation, bronzer and mascara every single day like some girls (we all know one), I prefer to have an extra ten minutes in bed than to wake up early and tart myself up. However, I decided to shake myself out of that habit for a week and try dressing up every day as if I was getting ready to hit the club, heavy make-up and all.
I woke up Monday morning full of determination. I did my makeup and curled my hair, ending up with a massive burn on my left arm from the curlers. Off I went to my boyfriend’s, squeezed into my dress like a Cumberland sausage, where we played Monopoly with his mates.
Despite my tight dress there was no more perving than usual from them, though one of them told me I looked like a stripper hired to perform at a birthday party. I told them the look was more 1980s cocktail waitress, actually.
For my driving lesson, I decided to utilise every girl’s favourite item of deception: the push-up bra. My boobs felt overly large and clownish, and even though my instructor is a woman I felt uncomfortable being so dolled up, and found myself apologising for the way I looked. She was totally cool with it, but she didn’t let me drive in heels.
My day got even more awkward when I came home to find my nan and granddad were round. My dad called me “Dr Spock” after seeing my eyebrows, my granddad couldn’t fathom why there were such thick lines of brown makeup across my cheeks (“it’s contour, granddad”), and my nan was too embarrassed to have a photo taken with me.
Doing the Walk of Shame is something which comes naturally to me. In fact I actually kind of like the humiliation of walking home in last night’s outfit and having strangers give you filthy looks on public transport.
The blow of having “Slag!” shouted at me as I innocently waited for a bus was lessened by the presence of my two dogs. People were too preoccupied by the cute furry animals to give me a second glance, which I totally appreciated.
For the first time since Sunday I was mostly ignored: no one was staring at my boobs, or ogling my bum and winking at me. Although dressing up nicely each day was proving to be fun, it wasn’t worth the blisters or the uncomfortable stares I got from creepy men.
Like the fun and popular young woman I am, I spent Thursday cleaning my room and en suite. Tidying in a dress and heels seemed like a laugh until it took me five minutes to get on my knees to clean the toilet.
Surprisingly, the dress made me feel slim, but the idea I was embodying a 1950s housewife didn’t really feel empowering. That night, I went to my boyfriends again and he loved what I was wearing. I think he’s happy he can finally prove to people he has an attractive girlfriend.
I had a chilled Friday, only venturing out of the house to go to Tesco. I received a few stares from dowdy shoppers but nothing out of the ordinary, until I bent down to get something from the bottom shelf and the extra chicken fillets I put in my bra fell out and onto the floor.
I thought this was hilarious until I realised a group of boys had seen the whole thing, and so thoroughly humiliated, I quickly left and went home. I spent the rest of the day looking up videos of women being catcalled on YouTube.
The thing I had been fearing most all week arrived: girl’s night. We went to the local Turtle Bay to get stuffed on Caribbean food and shit-faced on two-for-one cocktails. Thankfully, my friends are really supportive so I was pleased to see they were as dressed up as I was when I rocked up in one of my favourite dresses.
Although we got dodgy stares from Walthamstow’s finest locals all night, I felt a lot safer in a group of four than I would’ve done had I been dressed up and alone, and whenever we got cat-called we either laughed or ignored them.
I was nervous about appearing too made-up at work, but going with the advice you can never be too over-dressed or over-educated (even for Waitrose), I woke up Sunday morning and began the task of applying three-inch thick makeup.
With a full face of slap and my hair in a pristine ponytail, I looked right at home with the yummy mummies at Waitrose Belgravia. Customers treated me a lot nicer than usual, and my managers didn’t seem to mind I took a longer break than allowed.
Back home, Sunday dinner was fun. That is, if you enjoy being bullied by your entire family. I was told I looked like a “before” photo of Khloe Kardashian.
Overall, I enjoyed my week. I learned I’m actually moderately attractive, that body con isn’t my thing no matter how hard I want it to be, and that people will perv on you and judge you whenever and wherever possible.
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