One day when I was in high school, I wore a tutu on my head to class. I was following an impulse for drama. What I really wanted was widows’ weeds, especially those voluminous black nets that wealthy women in the 19th century would wear when a loved one died. I’d read Edward Gorey and fallen in love with the visual world of his books—a pastiche of the Victorian and Edwardian eras and the Jazz Age. In Gorey’s drawings, there was sometimes a woman sketched in long, elegant lines, surrounded by a fury of black veils, about to take part in some obscure, absurdist pantomime with an imaginary animal. I was enchanted.
But widows’ weeds are not easily purchased, and with the confident logic of adolescence, it seemed the black tulle tutu I had saved up to buy from Urban Outfitters would be just as good. I was convinced no one would be able to tell the difference. I remember the supreme satisfaction of carefully positioning it on my forehead so the rolls of fabric framed my face in a way that seemed infinitely intriguing. It felt so completely right that it was obvious. Surely everyone would look at this style and understand its magnificence.
My high school was a home for eccentrics; the joke was that the only rule on campus was you
