Wearing Clothes that Intimidate

Here is a thing I know about myself: I do not like being approached by strangers. It’s not that I dislike people. I just prefer a comfortable amount of distance between myself and everyone else when I go out. A small invisible fence, if you will. I am, structurally, not built for small talk.

Umbrellas are underrated introvert technology. People usually avoid walking under the same umbrella with a stranger. If someone does try to share your umbrella, congratulations. You’ve encountered an extrovert of unusual power.

The other day, I went to the mall wearing something very casual. It was the kind of outfit I probably would have worn in high school, back when skinny jeans and fitted tops were a thing. There was nothing particularly wrong with it, but for some reason I felt strangely exposed.

People seemed to be looking at me. Now, there are two possible explanations for this. The first is that nobody was actually looking at me and I was experiencing a mild introvert-induced hallucination. The second is an evidence that I am, deep down, a little narcissistic, that I think I really do look like a certain P-pop artist, which three separate people have told me over the years. Three people is not enough evidence for a scientific conclusion, but it is enough evidence for me to occasionally stare into the mirror and think, “Do I?” The answer remains unclear.

Whatever the reason, I suddenly became hyper-aware of everyone around me. The guards looked suspicious of me like I just shoplifted or something. I was browsing through a store when a saleslady approached me. I told her I was just looking. An ordinary interaction. Yet afterward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching me as I walked around. Five minutes later I had somehow convinced myself that she was secretly monitoring my movements through an invisible earpiece and reporting them back to headquarters. It was awkward. Then my brain decided she was judging my outfit.

That’s when a realization crossed my mind about clothes. Clothes are more powerful than we think. They’re like signals. Some outfits make you look approachable, some make you look confident, some make you look like you have somewhere important to be and some make people think twice before interrupting you.

So I’ve been wondering what exactly does the “unapproachable” outfit looks like. An outfit that says, please do not perceive me unless absolutely necessary. Or maybe one that says, I’m a little strange, and honestly you probably don’t want to start a conversation with me. Or even better: I’m so intimidatingly indie and aloof that approaching me feels like a social risk.

Either way, I’ve started thinking of fashion less as self-expression and more as a form of personal boundaries. Fashion as a weapon. Or at the very least, fashion as a “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Since we are talking about fashion, I’d like to talk about planning an outfit before going out. When going out, putting together an outfit, adding a few pieces of jewelry with it and taking extra time to get ready makes going out feel more exciting. It turns simple things like running an errand, attending a family gathering, even going to school into something a little more intentional. You become excited to leave the house, not because of where you’re going, but because you enjoy being the person who’s going there after all that outfit planning.

Another thing that I love to do before I go out is assigning a perfume to a specific trip. When you wear one fragrance while traveling somewhere new, and anywhere else, you smell it again long after and immediately be transported back to that street, that conversation, that train ride to a version of yourself that only existed in that place and time. Perfume might be the closest thing we have to time travel.

Back to the main topic, an example of someone whose fashion style I find genuinely intimidating is Frida Kahlo.

I’ve listened to podcasts about her life before, and I recently watched a video essay about her again. Every time I learn more about her story, I’m struck by how tragic it was.

Her last diary entry was – “I hope the exit is joyful, and I hope never to return.” 

What I especially find disturbing from the video essay that I watched about her is what happened after her death. A woman spends her life suffering physically and emotionally, creates extraordinary art from that suffering, and then decades later her image becomes a commercial product, a totebag, a keychain, a marketing tool and something to sell as merchandise. Its seems disrespectful.

There’s something unsettling about watching capitalism turn a person’s pain into an aesthetic. Sometimes I wonder whether Frida would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, or hated it as much as I do. I think the same thing happens today, with people making content about public figures even while they’re still alive just to gain views. Someone’s crisis and breakdowns gets turned into content, as if they aren’t real people but products to exploit. I hate that. I think it’s one of the worst things we’ve normalized.