Becoming Fifi - 14 - 16

March 16th

Dear Journal,

Two days ago, I was full of hope, clutching my new phone like it was a ticket back to normality. Today, that hope has been well and truly dashed against the jagged rocks of reality. I contacted the school, thinking I could explain my situation - well, at least a version of it - but it turns out the world doesn’t stop spinning just because I’ve lost everything. The job’s gone. They’ve hired someone else. And my plea for help finding my suitcase? Ignored.

To compound my misery, Annisa took me to the airport today, her hand clasped tightly around mine as we navigated the sea of gawking travellers. I was dressed head to toe in an outfit of her choosing - again. Her pleated leather skirt she claimed “looked super cute” slapped lightly against my nylon-clad thighs, while the silky fabric of her purple blouse - apparently “so me” - shifted awkwardly over the padding in my bra with every tiny, mincing step. That’s when it hit me: I needed to start choosing my own clothes. Fifi’s meant to be a fashion student, after all, and if I don’t take some control soon, I’m going to end up as Annisa’s personal dress-up doll - with no one to blame but myself.

The point of our visit was to try and locate my missing suitcase. I’d let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe - just maybe - it would be there. So, there I was, click-clacking across the polished floors of the departure lounge in those cursed Bianca pumps. Annisa’s oh-so-thoughtful gift - a pair of leg-torturing death traps I now feel obliged to wear to avoid seeming ungrateful.

Honestly, the racket they made alone was enough to draw attention - each step causing a sharp clap that echoed throughout the terminal building. But it’s not just the noise. These shoes have a mean streak. If you don’t plant that skinny stiletto just right, you’re in trouble. They wobble with the slightest misstep, and when you throw in a pair of slippery tights, your foot’s halfway out the back the second you try to walk like a normal person. Every step demands focus, dainty little strides, and frankly, an absurd amount of willpower. I never thought I’d say this, but... I miss my old black and white sandals.

After finding the right office, we waited our turn. And by waited - I mean I sat there for half an hour while Annisa enthusiastically walked me through the entire menu of some new restaurant she’s been dying to try. Every dish. Every dessert. Even drink pairings. I think I nodded at all the right times, though honestly, I was too busy dreading what was about to happen to take any of it in.

Finally, it was my turn - or rather, “Fifi’s.” I tiptoed over and did my best to explain the situation to a suited man who looked barely older than me, but the way his brow kept furrowing told me he was struggling to follow. And honestly, who could blame him? There I was, dressed like a preppy little diva, squeaking out a dodgy French accent, trying to locate a suitcase - that in his mind - belonged to an entirely different person.

You see, with Annisa within earshot, I couldn’t exactly drop the act or explain who I really was - not that it would’ve helped much. The whole ordeal was a mess from start to finish, and I walked out empty-handed and thoroughly fed up.

So, when we got back, I did the only thing that helps me calm down: I grabbed my pencils and started sketching. The drawing that emerged was of me hobbling through the airport, my sculpted brows furrowed in frustration as I glanced back at Annisa. My new companions - the Bianca pumps - roosted precariously on the ends of legs that looked far too feminine for comfort, wrapped in dark tights that led up to a flared tan skirt. Together, we were marching straight towards failure. My wig - once again pulled into a tight high ponytail, tugged at my scalp - exposing an alternate version of my face buried under layers of makeup. At least with the hair pulled back, it was marginally cooler.

I’ve worn ridiculous things before. But tottering around an international airport dressed like that? That was a new low. I’ve never felt less like a man in my entire life.

(See image 14)

I called the airport again once we got back to the apartment - with the same result. No update. No suitcase. Just the same vague, polite brush-off I’ve been getting all week.

Feeling defeated but not entirely ready to give up, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If my suitcase wasn’t coming back anytime soon, I’d have to find another way to survive. So I ventured into Annisa’s walk-in closet again - not to marvel at the amount of money it must’ve taken to fill it - but to hunt. I scanned the endless rows of dresses, blouses, and skirts, hoping to find something… anything… that didn’t scream fashion student Barbie.

After a lot of digging, I managed to find a few options - a couple of tops and some trousers that looked just androgynous enough to get away with. Definitely not my usual style, but they could work for when I finally leave this place. In the middle of an otherwise rubbish day, it felt like a small but much-needed win.

Now it’s late. I’ve just washed my face and scrubbed off the last of today’s makeup. Tomorrow, I’ll put it all back on, squeeze into my Biancas, and totter through another long, exhausting day as Fifi.

March 18th

Dear Journal,

Is it possible to sit elegantly on a barstool while wearing a ballgown and stilt-like heels? Before today, that's a question I’d never asked myself. However, now, I can’t stop thinking about it. And getting down! Don’t get me started on how awkward that is!

So, remember that restaurant Annisa was going on about at the airport? Turns out it wasn’t just idle chit-chat - she had booked us a table! So today, overdressed and flustered, I visited my very first Michelin-starred eatery. Was it worth the hype? Honestly… yeah. It was some of the best food I’ve ever eaten - creative, beautifully presented, and bursting with flavour. The portions were a little on the small side, but then again, everything I’ve eaten lately has been “healthy” and “Annisa-sized.”

All in all, I’m glad I got to try it. Though next time, I’d like to go in a smart shirt and trousers - not tottering around in six-inch heels and wrapped in a head-turning dress.

Apparently, an event like this called for “dark and sultry” makeup - Annisa’s words, not mine. She offered to help, but since I’ve been trying to assert a little independence, we settled on a compromise: I’d do it myself, following a tutorial she chose.

Surprisingly, it turned out pretty well. My skin looked smooth and even, I managed to contour in all the right places, and I even learned how to overline my lips - leaving them looking oddly plump afterwards. I lined my eyes with a pencil first, then added a sharp flick with a gel liner. And somehow, I even managed to apply false lashes. After several failed attempts, I finally got them to stay in a position that didn’t make me look like a clown. They’re fiddly little things, those lashes. The glue takes forever to go tacky, and the placement has to be just right - but somehow, I pulled it off.

Weirdly enough, the whole process felt kind of... calming. Almost therapeutic. My background in art definitely helps, though I’m still not sure how I feel about how naturally makeup seems to come to me. It's unsettling - but I suppose it's better than struggling with it.

So yeah, the restaurant.

We arrived a bit early and were shown to the bar while they got our table ready. That’s where the trouble began. The barstool - an everyday object in David’s world - suddenly felt like some kind of cruel test for Fifi. Getting onto it in a floor-length silky ivory gown and six-inch stilettos was... perhaps comical if you were watching. My first attempt was a bit of a flop, which got a giggle out of Annisa. Helpful as ever, she showed me how to gather up the skirt, plant one hand flat on the bar, place one Bianca heel carefully on the lowest rung, and then hoist myself up in one smooth motion.

Once I was up there, I didn’t feel any more dignified. In fact, I felt like I was on display - perched above everyone else like some sort of awkward centrepiece, while well-dressed diners stole glances between mouthfuls of overpriced food.

When the smirking bartender came over, we ordered cocktails - fruity and girly, of course - and I sat there sipping mine, pretending to follow Annisa's chatter. I felt ridiculous. Exposed. Everything added to the strangeness: the flutter of those oversized false lashes, the sticky pink lipstick mark on my glass, the sheer absurdity of it all.

Then Annisa’s phone rang, and she excused herself, leaving me alone.

That was the worst part.

My legs - wrapped in clingy, dark nylons - began to quiver. Not from the restaurant's air conditioning (though it was cold), but from sheer nerves. I tried to look casual, like I belonged, while silently praying no one would look at me or, worse, talk to me. It’s one thing to crossdress in public when you’re moving, heading somewhere, with a task to focus on. But sitting still, alone, with no distractions! That’s when the panic creeps in. You just have to exist. To be.

I sketched the image, so I'll never forget that strange and unique feeling of being perched on that stool, tense and awkward, while trying to hold it together.

(See image 15)

Just as we were finishing our cocktails, a waiter appeared and let us know our table was ready. We followed him across the room, and I swear it felt like every head turned to watch us. I could hear the soft swish of nylon as my legs brushed together, and feel the long skirt of my gown flicking dramatically around my ankles with every step. It was like walking through a dream - or a nightmare - depending on your perspective.

We took a seat at a corner table and ordered a bottle of wine. I’d only ever tried wine once before and didn’t like it much, but this one was surprisingly light and sweet. For a moment, I even started to relax. But of course, that didn’t last long.

Because then, Annisa dropped a bombshell!

With the biggest, most excited smile I'd seen from her yet, she told me she wanted me to work with her. Words like “help,” “experience,” and “opportunity” bounced around the conversation as she talked enthusiastically about her business. Meanwhile, my stomach dropped. All I could think was: There is no way I’m working in a bridal shop.

But she wasn’t done.

“You’ll teach me French while we work,” she added brightly, raising her glass and clinking it against mine like we’d just sealed a deal.

I just stared at her. Glossy lips slightly parted. Panicking inside.

What was I supposed to say? She’d been paying for everything since the day we met - my new phone, my food, even the heels currently cutting off the circulation to my toes. I was living in her home, wearing her things, and lying to her face every single day.

Saying no, unfortunately, wasn't an option - not without blowing up the entire charade. So instead, I smiled, lifted my glass, and squeaked out, “I’d love to.”

Her face lit up like Christmas morning.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I barely remember what we talked about. I just remember the chaotic thoughts swirling in my head.

And those thoughts haven’t changed. If anything, they’ve only grown louder as I lay here writing this entry. I need a plan. Something that has a chance of working. And it needs to be soon. Because the more I go along with this, the harder it’s going be to pull myself out.

March 20th

Dear Journal,

If I thought I knew what exhaustion felt like before… well, I didn’t. Not even close. Working a full day at Annisa’s bridal boutique in my Bianca pumps has redefined the word entirely. My feet are still pulsing - the pain dulled only slightly by the hot bubble bath Annisa ran for me when we got home.

Foot agony aside, the boutique itself is... something else. Imagine wedding planning colliding with a high-end bridal showroom. The front of the shop is lined with mannequins draped in dreamy, overpriced gowns. There’s a storeroom downstairs housing every type of veil, shoe, and sparkly accessory imaginable. The whole place smells faintly of roses and something expensive I can’t quite place. And every customer walks in with this glassy-eyed bridal glow like they’re floating on a cloud of romantic delusion.

I spent most of the day trotting along behind Annisa. She called it “learning the ropes.” I call it “a day of pure torture.” I genuinely lost count of how many times I was sent clattering up and down those steep stairs to fetch something from the storeroom. Each descent felt like a near-death experience - legs trembling, one hand clinging to the rail for dear life, already picturing my obituary: "Cause of death: Impractical high heels!

I was bombarded with fabric names I’d never even heard of - Organza, Charmeuse, Mikado - trying to remember what was what while smiling and nodding like a well-trained dog. Meanwhile, I was seething inside, utterly out of my depth. And the outfit I was forced into didn’t help.

This morning, I shuffled into the kitchen wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts - still girly, sure, but far more toned down than what I’ve been parading around in lately. Annisa gave me a look. The kind that says, “Absolutely not.” A moment later, she sweetly offered to help me pick something more “appropriate” for the store. I wanted to argue - to put my foot down and make a stand - but it was her business, and after being told I needed to look 'professional', I bit my tongue, decided to pick my battles, and let her play stylist.

I’m wearing that outfit in today’s sketch - a snapshot of a bizarre moment in bizarre day. It was late in the afternoon, and after being sent down to the storeroom for the fifth time in as many minutes, my feet were in agony, and my calves were cramping. Passing one of the boutique’s oversized photo prop chairs - practically a throne - I decided it was time for a break.

The climb up wasn’t exactly graceful. My floaty little pink skirt flipped up in the process, flashing my panties and half my backside. No one was around to see - but the sudden rush of cool air against my exposed cheeks was a very real reminder that I wasn’t in the break room of the fast food joint anymore, tucking into a greasy burger in that scratchy old uniform I used to hate. Funny how I’d give anything to be back in those threadbare trousers now.

I wrestled the skirt back into place, sank into the oversized chair, and let my head fall back, trying to block out the world - if only for a few minutes.

If someone had walked in right then, they’d have caught quite the ridiculous sight: a dainty little doll perched up high. Shiny, carefully styled hair. Flawlessly applied makeup. A crisp, cream-coloured blouse - freshly steamed and wrinkle-free. Girly-looking legs - finally deemed "presentable" by Annisa now that the bruises had faded - on full display in a pair of sheer nude tights that felt slippery and unnervingly smooth. I remember looking down at my high-heeled feet in that moment, thinking: Why me?

That moment of peace didn’t last long. Annisa was calling out for me within minutes, forcing me down from my perch and back onto my protesting feet.

(See Image 16)

The French lessons also began today - because why not pile in more chaos into my already chaotic existence? A few phrases here, a couple of words there, all squeezed in between dress fittings and store room expeditions. Oh, the irony! I came to Jakarta to teach, and wouldn’t you know it, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Just not in the subject I was expecting. I mean, French! Really? I can barely string a sentence together.

To be fair, Annisa’s enthusiasm is kind of heartwarming. She spent the entire day peppering me with questions - wanting to know how to say this and that. Wedding phrases. Everyday expressions. Random things she thought might be useful. It was sweet… but completely draining. I kept having to remind her to stick with the basics, that the stuff she was asking me was too advanced - especially for someone whose “teacher” is Googling most of the answers.

Now I’m back in my room, dreading another day tomorrow at the boutique - another painful slog spent shuffling about in a short skirt and towering heels. Even now, as I sit here massaging my sore legs, the Biancas are staring back at me from where I kicked them off by the door, mocking me with their stupid glossy red soles.

And yet, as utterly depleted as I feel, my work isn’t over. Because if I’m going to keep up this ridiculous farce, I need to learn the French I’ll be teaching Annisa tomorrow. Yep, that’s right - a British guy pretending to be a French girl, desperately trying to stay one day ahead of his student. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like the plot of a really bad sitcom.

Sleep? That’s for people who aren’t hanging on to their sanity by a thread. I’ll be lying here well into the night - pink phone in hand, shiny white manicure catching the glow of the bedside lamp - wondering how much longer I can keep this up before I'm discovered as an impostor.

So, with a mountain of French cramming ahead of me, I’m signing off.

Goodnight, Journal.