Becoming Fifi - 17 - 19

March 23rd

Dear Journal,

These past few days have been a blur of endless floral arrangements, and some painfully awkward conversations. Throw in my hastily improvised French lessons and a generous helping of forced femininity, and you've pretty much got my life right now. Honestly, between the nonstop activity at the bridal boutique and cramming French until the early hours, I’ve barely had a moment to breathe, let alone sit down and write.

Today was different though - and I need to get it all down while it’s still fresh. Instead of clomping back and forth to the boutique’s storeroom or wrestling mannequins into gowns, I was whisked away to an actual wedding! And it wasn’t a day of quietly blending into the background either - nope. Today was about stepping into the spotlight. Suddenly, I wasn't just Annisa's quiet assistant; I became her wingwoman, her trusted confidante, the glamorous French fashion student imported from Paris to add a touch of exotic flair to her client's event.

My task came in two daunting parts. The morning was spent preparing the wedding reception hall. The meticulous detail required for arranging flowers, draping linens, and positioning table centrepieces was exhausting enough, but it wasn't the real challenge. The true struggle was attempting all that manual labour while wearing a short, fitted dress and my Bianca heels. Bending, stretching, reaching - each movement became an exercise in balance, modesty, and sheer determination not to flash my underwear.

Once the room was set to Annisa’s perfectionist standards, I was ready for a break. And I guess, in a way, I got one - but not the relaxing kind. Instead of a well-earned sit-down and a foot massage, I was whisked away for a professional hair and makeup session. Nerves twisted my stomach as I sat down in the chair, feeling oddly vulnerable while a complete stranger went to work on me.

It felt entirely different from when Annisa did my makeup - far less personal, and more intimidating. And the result was shocking! I didn't think it was possible to look more feminine than I already did, yet somehow this woman achieved just that goal. The faux eyelashes were back, fuller and more natural looking than ever, fluttering distractingly each time I blinked. My skin looked flawless and porcelain-smooth, and my lips glistened in vibrant, glossy red.

But most striking of all was what she’d done to my wig. She’d teased and backcombed it to create volume before curling it elegantly, leaving it rising high on my head before cascading in soft waves over my left shoulder, held rigidly in place by half a can of hairspray. Adding to my discomfort were the large clip-on earrings she added, their weight pulling at my earlobes in a way I'd never experienced. Seeing myself like that in the mirror, I felt ridiculous - like the biggest sissy in the world.

However, there was no time to dwell as it was time to begin the main event - where I was immediately thrust into the role of elegant hostess. Carefully weaving through the crowded room with trays of fizzing champagne, every delicate, mincing step became a treacherous balancing act. Each movement required my full concentration to avoid spilling drinks or stumbling in my ridiculously tall heels. Having grown used to wearing tights, I felt painfully exposed with my legs now bare, the soft pleats of my dress brushing lightly against my hairless thighs with every step. My discomfort wasn't just physical either; beneath the dull agony in my feet was an unending mental strain, a constant anxiety about slipping out of character and revealing the man trapped behind the feminine exterior.

Today's sketch captures a rare quiet moment, standing off to the side while the speeches took place. My ever-slimming frame - given artificial curves by strategic padding - is wrapped in a thick, snug white minidress. A large bow-like sash tied firmly around my waist identifies me as "staff." And, of course, my feet are painfully angled, imprisoned inside those merciless heels.

(See image 17)

Today was tough. It pushed me to my absolute limit. At one point, when a particularly rude guest barked an order at me, I came terrifyingly close to snapping. For a split second, I almost screamed, "I'm not Fifi!" and stormed out of the reception in a dramatic hissy fit. Somehow, I held it together - but only barely. Once I’d finally calmed down, I made up my mind: this madness has to end. Tomorrow - Sunday, my one precious day off - is going to be my great escape. The day I take back control of my life.

The plan is simple: I’ll pack a bag with whatever clothes from the walk-in closet that look the least feminine, wait until the coast is clear, and slip out unnoticed by Annisa and Kartika. Once I'm past apartment security, I’ll find some quiet corner to shed my ‘Fifi’ disguise. I’ll shorten the wig with scissors, hide what remains under a baseball cap, and hope nobody notices until I figure out how to properly remove it. Then, I'll use my newly acquired makeup skills to pencil my eyebrows back into a more masculine shape. Once I look a little less ‘Fifi’ and a lot more ‘David’, I'll hop on a bus towards the British Embassy. Surely, they'll help a stranded Brit in need? With any luck, I’ll be boarding a flight back to London by this time tomorrow.

Home. Just the thought of it sends a rush of warmth through me. I can practically smell Mum’s cooking, hear Dad’s unsought advice, and feel Ani’s embrace. Oh, how I long to walk without mincing, to wear clothes that don't restrict my every move, and to simply be myself again. Plain old David Lubis.

March 24th

Dear Journal,

Well… today didn’t exactly go to plan. It started full of promise, but as I sit here now, I’m still Fifi - still stuck pretending to be someone I'm not.

I’d packed a small bag and stashed it by my bedroom door, waiting for the right moment to make a run for it. But that moment never came. Annisa, in some cruel twist of fate (or eerie telepathy), decided today was the day to deep-clean the apartment. Every time I peeked out, there she was - sweeping, mopping, dusting like a woman possessed. It was like she knew what I was thinking - like she was deliberately guarding the door, blocking my route to freedom with a feather duster and a pretty smile.

By early afternoon, I knew I’d missed my window. Annisa announced we had plans for the evening: dinner at some fancy restaurant followed by cocktails at a “hidden gem” of a bar somewhere in the city. From that moment on, the day was no longer mine. It turned into a blur of showering, shaving, picking out the perfect outfit, layering on makeup, and battling my wig into submission.

In the end, the only place I managed to escape was the roof - a spot that’s sort of become my personal retreat of late. I did, for a split second, consider getting in the lift and sticking to the original plan. But one glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror - all dolled up in a long flowing dress and sky-high heels - quickly convinced me otherwise. Probably not the best look for explaining my situation to the ambassador, or whoever deals with cases like mine.

So, the roof was my consolation prize. I like being up there, high above the city, surrounded by blocky towers and the distant hum of traffic. The chaos below feels far away. It’s a strange kind of tranquillity, but it helps.

I’ve just finished today’s sketch: me, barefoot, sitting on the wall with my knees pulled up, holding down the flowing fabric of a white gown - the same one, unbelievably, I’ll soon be waltzing through downtown Jakarta wearing. A breeze tugs at the strands of my wig, though it barely moves thanks to what must’ve been half a can of hairspray. Next to me lies a borrowed handbag that likely cost more than three months of salary at my old job, and those cursed Biancas - briefly off my feet - which have honestly become a bit of a worry lately. They’ve been aching so much, throbbing constantly, and my toes are incredibly tender. Still, as worrying as all that is, those absurdly tall, and incredibly impractical heels have somehow become an integral part of Fifi’s persona, so taking them off - even for a little while - felt like a small win in a day that otherwise completely got away from me.

(See image 18)

Today, while looking out at the ugly - yet somehow beautiful - skyline of the sprawling city, I found myself thinking about all the people out there, living their lives and dealing with their own problems. I wondered if any of them could top mine. Then I started thinking about the poverty, the homeless starving on the streets, and the elderly on their deathbeds. Suddenly, being taken out for a delicious meal by two beautiful women didn’t seem so bad - dress or no dress. It put things in perspective.

That moment of calm reflection was soon shattered when Annisa came bursting onto the rooftop, cheerfully announcing that we’d be heading out in thirty minutes.

I told her I’d be ready, but not before catching a flash of disapproval on her face. Maybe it was because I was perched rather precariously on a ledge with a hundred-foot drop behind me… but more likely, it was because of my bare feet. You see, I’ve developed a habit lately of slipping off my shoes any chance I get. My feet crave freedom just as badly as the rest of me. And who can blame them? I’ve spent my whole life up to this point wearing flat shoes. I haven’t built up the muscles - or the callouses - needed to hobble around in heels this high for hours on end. It’s just not natural for someone like me.

But natural or not, as I wrap up this entry, my moment of solitude is about to end. It's time to cram my poor, battered feet back into the Biancas, sling the handbag over my shoulder, and totter off into the heart of Jakarta - where I’ll once again need to put on my best impersonation of what I imagine a bubbly, fashion-obsessed French girl is supposed to be.

Not exactly the daring escape I had in mind - my dream of a flight back to London traded in for an evening of fake smiles, stiletto-induced agony, and the constant worry of doing or saying something inappropriate.

Still, I suppose there’s a silver lining: I can drown my misery in some expensive cocktails, and give my overworked leg muscles a brief respite from this bizarre reality.

There’s always next Sunday, I guess.

March 25th

Oh, Journal,

Why me?

Seriously, why is all this happening to me? I feel like smashing something, tearing this prison masquerading as a bedroom apart - though honestly, I doubt I could even stand long enough to do any real damage.

Annisa through supposed kindness has now managed to make escape completely impossible. Not on purpose - I hope to God not anyway - but intentional or not, she’s sealed my fate. I’m now stuck in this never-ending nightmare, destined to forever play the role of some prissy, fashion-obsessed French girl saddled with a name better suited to a pampered poodle than an adult man.

Let me back up. It all started last night after a surprisingly pleasant evening out in the city. Annisa - my unwitting tormentor - came into my room to help me get ready for bed. I was perched on the edge of my bed in my skimpy sleepwear - a frilly blue nightdress, hemline scandalously high and sleeves barely existent. She was braiding my hair - a routine that’s somehow become distressingly normal - when the topic of my shoes came up yet again - specifically, her irritation whenever I removed them in public.

I tried explaining - pleading, really - about the constant suffering my poor feet endure - crammed into shoes with barely any support and balanced precariously on those hateful, pencil-thin heels. To my surprise, Annisa seemed genuinely sympathetic. But her idea of a solution has turned a worrying situation into an absolute nightmare!

She suggested I try a "miracle gel" - a supposed lifesaver recommended by one of her friends, specially designed to relieve the aches and pains caused by high heels. Apparently, her friend used to suffer from the same high-heel-induced agony as me but became, as Annisa put it, "a changed woman," now happily spending entire days strutting around in stiletto heels. Annisa said she had even used it herself after long days on her feet - with positive results.

It sounded too good to be true, but desperate as I was, I thought, what do I have to lose? So, I agreed to give it a try. After finishing my braid, Annisa fetched the gel and eagerly helped slather it all over my aching feet before tightly wrapping them in bandages. She promised that by morning, all my pain would vanish.

She wasn’t lying - the dull ache I'd grown accustomed to disappeared during the night. But little did I know, something far worse was replacing it!

When I woke up this morning, I was surprised to find no pain for once. For a moment, I felt hopeful. But then I noticed something off: my feet were unnaturally stiff. Confused, I reached down and began unwrapping the bandages… and froze. - my feet were locked in position - arched en pointe like a prima ballerina.

I screamed - the kind of blood-curdling shriek you only hear when something is very, very wrong. Annisa and Kartika rushed in moments later, their concern turning to alarm as soon as they saw the unnatural angle of my feet. Annisa quickly knelt beside me and frantically tried massaging them back to normal, but it was no use - they were stuck, frozen into this impossible arch.

Everything after that was a daze - I must’ve been in shock. Annisa kept apologising, her voice shaking with genuine distress. The sisters tried to help me stand, probably thinking that might loosen my stiffened muscles, but the second I put weight on my toes, they buckled immediately, sending me crashing to the ground.

After getting me back onto the bed, Annisa and Kartika had a brief discussion before Annisa rushed off to the walk-in closet. When she returned holding something in her hands, my lip curled in disgust. Her solution to the problem was a pair of high heels - of course, it was - but this pair looked far scarier than the Biancas. These shoes were monstrous: shiny black Louboutins with needle-thin seven-inch heels, their glossy surfaces studded with tiny moulded spikes. They were a pair Annisa herself had bought but had never dared wear. Even for her - an expert heel-wearer - these colossal pumps had been a step too far. And now, horrifyingly, she was offering them to me.

She slipped them onto my rigid, trembling feet, and with the sisters supporting me, I once again attempted to stand. My ankles protested against the severe incline, and my knees wobbled uncontrollably, but miraculously, I could stand. They encouraged me to take a shuffling lap around the room, and I somehow managed it - devoid of physical pain, yet inside, emotionally, I was falling apart. Each tiny, cautious step filled me with a feeling of hopelessness and despair.

Today's sketch captures one of the lowest moments of my life: midway through what I'm now calling my "lap of shame." I had just narrowly avoided a humiliating tumble, stumbling so badly I'd needed to crouch and steady myself for a moment. With no sensation left in my feet, I learned at that moment - precise foot placement was now more critical than ever. So there I was, crouched in my girly nightdress, hair braided, and glancing helplessly up at Annisa and Kartika. They looked back down at me, their forced smiles barely hiding the concern behind their eyes. I felt like crying then - I still do.

(See image 19)

So, dear Journal, how do I escape my feminised fate now? How do I even make it out of the building, with a gait so slow and shaky I can barely make it across my bedroom without falling? Never mind survive the journey to the British Embassy and convince them I’m not completely mad.

Yet, beyond escape, there's an even darker thought gnawing at me. Have I permanently damaged myself? You always hear those stories about accidents leaving people paralysed, forcing them to adapt to wheelchairs or crutches. Have I just experienced a similar fate - only my crutches are a pair of sky-high stilettos?

The thought chills me to the core, making me wonder: what if this isn’t temporary? And if it isn’t, am I destined to remain Fifi forever?