The leather bra squeezes me into place. It covers the necessities. My skin-tight black mini-skirt hits just above mid-thigh, not leaving much to the imagination. They leave an almost cunty—in the best possible way—imprint on my pasty white skin. Leaning onto the bathroom countertop, I analyze the deep red lipstick and sharp eyeliner my best friend painted on my face. She says they make me look sultry. If it wasn’t for the cap, I wonder if anyone would guess I’m a policewoman. I ordered two-dollar handcuffs from Shein, but they didn’t make it in time. To be honest, if I saw myself, I might guess dominatrix. But perhaps that’s the appeal to Halloween: the ability to disguise oneself in whatever character floats to the surface.
I remember Halloween’s innocence. In middle school, I wore Eeyore onesies and Crayola Crayon matching costumes. Halloween was getting the Reese’s, KitKats, and fun-size Butterfingers from my neighbors, and spreading my stock on the living room carpet to trade with my sister. I wore cropped tops without a second thought and snuck into my mom’s makeup drawer without consideration of which colors were permitted. I celebrate a different Halloween now. Now, Halloween isn’t about gathering candy and walking up and down the block in my winter boots with my mom. The Halloween I partake in now is about entertainment. It’s about taking advantage of being whatever you want to be, of wearing whatever you want to wear regardless of whether judgment is risked.
When my friends walk into the bathroom for the obligatory group mirror selfie, we are a line of short skirts and lacy tops. We are a group of bloody makeup, deep red lipsticks, and smoky eyeshadow. We have gone full out. No one can tell us anything about it. It’s Halloween. We get a free pass to be the strong and seductive females we oftentimes aspire to be, yet sometimes fear the repercussions of embracing in the daylight.
