Me, In Real Life

It starts in the bathroom, as with so many other things. A clearing of sorts. Towels pulled from racks and placed out of frame. Clothing hung from hangers. A last second choice that amuses. Another outfit pulled from a rack and brought in the room.

The next steps are careful, almost reverent. A folded up hadatai is removed from its box. A mask as well. Movements are swift but smooth. Regular clothes are stripped away, almost down to bare skin. A singular piece of shapewear, a binder or sometimes a sports bra, is pulled over the chest to smooth out curves. But sometimes there is nothing between the real skin and the second skin. The ritual starts at the head. The hood section is pulled over and arranged to cover everything except the eyes. Nose and mouth disappear under fabric. Then comes the awareness of breath. Its warmth. Its rhythm. It will be a constant companion, a reminder of the real self.

Then the arms slip in, all the way to the fingertips. Once the arms are covered, the transformation really begins. It is all the eyes see now. Fabric skin. Fabric arms. Fabric hands. This hadatai has a crotch zipper, not a back zipper. So the feet must be enclosed now. It is, at times, a struggle. Sitting on the cold floor of a bathroom, contorting to fit. One foot. The other. Then fabric fingers clumsily pinch at the zipper pull. One hand stretches the hadatai while the other drags the zipper along its path. One side up to the crotch. The other side, with its own pull. The tiny, dangling pulls meet at the middle. Body fully enclosed now.

Now the dress-up begins. Pants, shirt, clumsily knotting a tie around the neck, all alone, all with dulled sense of touch through spandex-covered fingers. Done.

Finally. Finally. The mask. The bangs are removed. They’re magnetic. They hide the hinge of the mask. Unclasping the sides. With this style of mask, it feels less like putting it on, and more like shutting one’s head inside. Blindness, but not darkness. Adjust the fit until line of sight is met, through the eyebrow slits of the mask. It is barely enough to see. No peripheral vision. Like blinders, vision is forced to see just what is directly in front. The bangs go back on the mask.

Breathing.

The camera is finicky with fabric fingers. But video makes it easier to get decent shots later. There’s also a mirror, and peeking at it reveals an anime character, that moves as you do. It’s always surprising, no matter how often this happens. The first look in the mirror will always surprise and amuse and thrill. And the temptation is there, to challenge how long to exist as this. It’s a wish. It’s a promise. It’s a bond.

It’s a bond.

Eventually, always too soon, the ritual begins again, in reverse. Mask is taken off, and then scrutinized. A custom piece of wearable art. It demands upkeep. Flyaway strands of the wig require reshaping. That will happen later. Again, the promise. Clothing is removes and arranged back on their hangers and in their place on the rack. The hadatai is removed, carefully, ever so carefully. Fingertips are checked for dinginess or damage. It’s probably time for a wash.

All is cleared up, as if it were never there in the first place.

But yes, there’s video. There’s proof of existence, even if no one else is around when it happens.

I was there.