Becoming Fifi - 24

April 10th

Dear Journal,

Four more days have passed with Fifi Genevieve LeRue steering the ship. The humdrum of the boutique has continued, and the constant click of high heels has become the ever-present soundtrack to my life. My feet are still stiff and uncooperative, but I’ve done my best to smile through the drudgery. So far, it seems to be working - Annisa has stopped hovering over me like she did in the days following the foot incident.

Each day this week has followed the same exhausting rhythm: tottering around the boutique until my legs feel like they’re ready to give out, then practising French phrases until my brain threatens to short-circuit. By the time my head hits the pillow each night, I’m out like a light - sleeping like a baby until the cycle begins all over again the next morning.

There was one brief respite: on Tuesday, we visited the hair salon. It was a bittersweet experience, beginning with the removal of my wig.

Oh, Journal, I never thought I’d long for something as simple as the feeling of my scalp being touched. And yet, when the wig was lifted and the stylist’s fingers raked through my real hair, it was a kind of bliss I have rarely experienced. The wash that followed was equally heavenly - the cool shampoo, the gentle scalp massage, the warm water rinsing away the suds. I wish I could bottle that feeling. It was, in both a literal and metaphorical sense, cleansing.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. The moment of bliss ended when the wig was glued back into place - after all, that was the point of the visit. As the familiar weight settled onto my scalp and the glue dried, that same creeping sense of entrapment returned, sealing me once more beneath long, girlish waves of auburn hair.

And then it was straight back to the boutique - straight back into the business that’s been consuming the place all week. Annisa’s cousin is getting married, and with Annisa planning the big event, the boutique has been non-stop all week. There’s fabric everywhere, sample dresses arriving daily, and a constant stream of phone calls about appointments and colour palettes. It’s not chaos exactly, but it’s definitely been intense.

Even Annisa, usually cool and composed at work, has shown flashes of panic. It’s a side of her I hadn’t seen before. But despite the stress, her passion is unmistakable - the fire in her eyes, the way she throws herself into every detail. And as much as I loathe this chapter of my life, watching her in her element - where fashion isn’t just about appearances but about stories, creativity, and love - made me see her in a different light. I have to admit… I kind of admire her for it.

The image I’ve drawn today is a snapshot from yesterday, when Fatri - Annisa’s cousin and the bride-to-be visited the boutique. I watched her, the way I’ve watched so many other brides, moving with elegant ease, her smile lighting up the room. Then, to my surprise, she approached me, gushing about how she’d heard so much about the “French girl” helping her cousin. She wanted a picture together, and how could I say no?

My drawing is how I imagine that photo would look: me and Fatri, standing side by side, trying to strike a pose that might come naturally to a girl like Fifi. What struck me most was how alike we looked. We were both wearing short skirts- hers a rich navy, mine a sparkly black - and smart blouses. Hers was red and white and buttoned up neatly; mine, silky and purple, cut lower at the chest. We had similar long, glossy auburn hair, both of our faces carefully painted with makeup, and both our statures lifted by towering platform heels.

(See image 24)

How bizarre it felt, standing there with so many similarities - considering she’s a beautiful young woman, a real bride-to-be… and I’m just a fake. A fraud. A boy, padded, painted, and pretending to be someone he’s not.

And stranger still, unsettling, even, is how I’ve shifted from seeing women as romantic interests to silently comparing outfits and makeup. Where once I might have wondered what her lips might taste like, I remember in that moment wondering which lipstick shade she was wearing. That shift… that’s Fifi. She’s not just altering how the world sees me - she’s starting to change how I see the world.

And that’s a terrifying thought.