Becoming Fifi - 11 - 13

March 11th

Dear Journal,

My sanity feels like it’s hanging by a thread, and I’m seriously starting to question what’s real anymore. How is any of this even possible? How can a regular guy like me convincingly pass as a young French woman? I know I’m not exactly tall - thanks to my Asian genes - but surely there must be hundreds of other signs giving me away as an imposter.

Yet apparently not. Or if there are, Annisa's blissfully unaware of them.

I honestly feel like I'm caught up in some elaborate prank - just waiting for someone to jump out and yell "Gotcha!" But no one ever does. Instead, I just keep getting dragged deeper into this surreal mess, while my anxiety climbs higher with every passing minute.

Annisa, being the lovely, kind soul she is, genuinely wants to help who she thinks is a young woman down on her luck. However, I’m not a young woman, and her kindness only intensifies my guilt. Earlier today, after discovering I knew nothing about makeup, she spent several hours patiently showing me how to apply it - a skill I never imagined I’d need. She lectured me on the importance of blending, demonstrated the transformative effect of contouring, and meticulously showed me how to line my eyes and lips. Her face lit up with joy as she explained each step - clearly loving her role as a teacher - while I just sat there, feeling painfully awkward and uncomfortable.

When she finally finished, I looked at my reflection and had to fight back a grimace. I almost blurted something out in my normal voice, only just catching myself in time. Instead, I forced a smile and enthusiastically told her how much I loved my new look - while inwardly, I felt sick. My cheeks were dusted with a pink blush that made me look as embarrassed as I felt, my eyes were carefully outlined with black pencil that gave them a dramatic, cat-like shape, and my lips were coated in a vivid shade of red that drew attention like a neon sign. Framing this bizarre, prettied-up reflection was that ridiculous reddish-brown wig - carefully brushed and styled by Annisa. It felt thick and suffocating, and all I could think was: Is this a reflection I need to get used to? Is this the new me?

As if the makeup session wasn't unsettling enough, the clothes Annisa picked out for me only made things worse. She chose a soft wool jumper dress - bright white and ending midthigh. Comfortable enough, sure, but there's no mistaking just how feminine it looks on me.

To cover up the bruises and scratches on my legs, she handed me a pair of tights that looked like something out of an art exhibit - white in the front, black in the back, with a swirling circular design down the sides. The sensation of wearing them? Weird. Just… weird. The stretchy material clung to my legs in a way that made me constantly aware of them - like I was standing up to my waist in quicksand.

Annisa, all smiles, said the tights would match my shoes - my dreaded shoes. Those spiky-heeled platform sandals that turned every step into a living hell. She insisted I wear them to “complete the look,” clearly excited to see the full effect of our little makeover session.

I buckled them on with a sigh, and instantly, the world tilted. My toes were pushed together uncomfortably, my arches screamed, and my legs wobbled like they’d forgotten how to stand. Every muscle from the knee down clenched in protest. But worse than the physical torture, these shoes have become an embodiment of this crazy situation, a painful reminder of how deep I've gotten myself into this mess.

At one point, while Annisa was out of the room, I actually climbed onto the windowsill - glancing left and right, I searched for some kind of escape route. For a brief - completely unhinged moment, I seriously considered shimmying along the ledge to another apartment, or maybe even scaling the building to the roof. Easily one of the worst ideas I’ve had in a long line of ridiculous ideas.

I came back to my senses when Annisa called from the other room, asking if I wanted something to drink. I politely called back no, stepped down, and quietly acknowledged that I'd just dodged a bullet. Because let’s face it: all I would’ve achieved was a very public fall to my death - in heels, tights, and a sweater dress. Not exactly how I want to go out.

I couldn't help but draw the ludicrous scene.

(See image 11)

As I sit here writing this, perched stiffly on the edge of the bed with my nylon-clad legs pressed awkwardly together, another wave of dread tightens in my chest like a vice. Just when I thought today had wrung every last drop of energy from me, Annisa hits me with one more surprise: she wants to take me out tonight to meet her friends.

Apparently, social interaction is a "good thing." Good for who, exactly? I have no idea. Certainly not for me - the guy expected to spend an entire evening pretending to be a young French woman named Fifi, speaking in a squeaky high voice and faking a ‘French’ accent so bad it should come with a public apology to the nation of France. Surely not for her friends either, who will be deceived into thinking they’re meeting a woman on a cultural exchange - unaware that beneath the wig and lipstick is a terrified British man lying through his teeth.

My brain is now in full-blown panic mode, playing out every possible way this could go horribly, catastrophically wrong.

What if I slip up and do something unladylike?

What if they see through my disguise?

What if one of them actually speaks French?! I barely scraped a C in it back in school. And heaven help me if someone starts reminiscing about a trip to Paris.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through it. I don’t even know how to sit like a woman convincingly, let alone hold a conversation as one. All I want is to rip off these clothes, scrub off the makeup, and go back to being David. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I figure out how to get out of this whole mess without causing a scandal - or, worse, getting arrested.

So here I go. One more night as Fifi.

Wish me luck, Journal.

I'm going to need it.

March 12th

Dear Journal,

It’s been a disastrous twenty-four hours - one that has made digging myself out of this hole of femininity I find myself in even more difficult. But before I lose the plot, stop writing and cry myself to sleep, let me back up and tell you about last night.

It started in a blur of smiles, introductions, and far too much giggling. Annisa’s friends - a trio of bubbly, hyper-enthusiastic women - welcomed me into their little circle with open arms and bundles of energy. I was nervous, but I managed not to trip on my heels or say anything foolish, so... I guess that counts as a good start.

But as the evening wore on, I found myself dragged further and further outside my comfort zone, trapped in a small talk that I couldn’t follow, let alone contribute to. Skincare routines, the latest fashion trends, who's dating who, which boy band member has the cutest smile - it was like I’d wandered into a parallel universe. I smiled, nodded when it felt appropriate, threw in the odd vague comment, and tried desperately to keep my shaky French accent from falling apart.

Then came the questions. So many questions. Most were harmless enough - what was life like in Paris? Did I miss the food? What part of the city was I from? But then they got personal. Romantic history, what was my type of man, future dreams. Each question felt like a trapdoor. I spun out stories on the spot: invented ex-boyfriends, dreamy strolls along the Seine, lofty ambitions of becoming a success in the fashion industry. With every answer, I made Fifi a little more real - giving her a past, a personality, a life that didn’t previously exist.

Incredibly, the night ended without incident. The girls seemed to accept me as I presented myself - Fifi, the quirky, slightly odd French girl. And I honestly don’t know whether to feel relieved… or terrified.

But if last night was a storm of misery, today has been a full-blown hurricane of torment. Up until now, David had been hiding under a wig, a few layers of borrowed clothing, and a shaky French accent. But today? Today, drastic changes were made to my appearance - ones that will be difficult to undo.

It all started this afternoon - with me doing my makeup for the first time, under Annisa’s watchful eye. I’ll admit, I didn’t do half bad. Years of art school finally paid off, it turns out. Blending, shading, contouring - it’s all just painting with different tools. Only now, the canvas was my face, and the brushes were an assortment of colourful cosmetics. Strangely, I felt sort of... proud of the result.

That feeling didn’t last long!

Because then Annisa suggested we go out again. A treat, she said - for making such a good impression with her friends last night. I tried to protest - but there's no arguing with Annisa once she gets an idea in her head. And before I knew it, I was halfway across town, being ushered into her favourite beauty salon.

Cue the panic!

I was wearing a wig!

I froze. Alarm bells were ringing so loudly in my head that I could barely hear Annisa chatting to the receptionist. It felt like I was about to be publicly humiliated - outed as a man in a dress. I could already picture the pointing, the laughter from the staff, and the look of disgust on Annisa’s face. I turned to leave, muttering something about needing air, but Annisa caught me and asked what was wrong.

So, put on the spot, I concocted a new lie.

I blurted out a story about a recent haircut gone wrong, too short, too boyish. Explaining that I’d been wearing the wig to cover it up and avoid embarrassment. I even threw in a little self-deprecating humour for good measure. To my surprise, Annisa didn’t question it. She just smiled gently and said she already knew. Apparently, she’d noticed the wig was crooked when she checked in on me that first night while I was asleep and declined to mention it out of politeness.

She promised today would 'fix things,' and that I’d soon have 'more options.' At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. I do now.

They plucked the wig from my head and whisked it away to be washed and styled, leaving me sitting there with my boyish haircut and a face full of makeup. Dressed in a little black dress, tights, and those bloody heels, I was surrounded by chatty salon staff speaking a language I didn’t understand. I’ve never felt more on edge. Every glance felt like a spotlight. Every laugh felt like my secret had just been discovered.

Then came the real horror.

Something warm and sticky pressed down above my right eye. Then - RIP!!! A searing flash of pain tore across my forehead, and a startled yelp escaped my ruby-red lips. I looked in the mirror and felt my stomach drop - half of my right eyebrow was gone. Just… gone. Ripped clean off without so much as a warning. I barely had time to process the horror before the woman calmly reached for my other brow, ready to sculpt a delicate, matching sister.

I wanted to run. Scream. Curl into a ball and disappear. But instead, I sat there and took it. Because what else could I do?

Later, standing in front of the salon mirror, I blinked at the reflection, hoping it might somehow shift back into something familiar. But it didn’t. The high ponytail, the subtle yet flawless makeup, the neatly styled outfit - David was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood... Fifi.

The short white blazer I’d arrived in was back across my shoulders but did little to shield me from how exposed I felt. My fingers - now tipped with blindingly white polish - gripped my borrowed handbag like a lifeline, the soft leather material creaking under the tension in my hands.

I stood there for ages, turning side to side, trying to make sense of the stranger in the mirror. My feet pulsed with pain. My ankles pitched forward at such a severe angle it felt like they might give out at any moment. My legs, disturbingly smooth and girlish, were wrapped in snug black nylon that shimmered under the lights, disappearing beneath the flared hem of a pleated black dress that swished teasingly around my thighs, sending cool, unwelcome gusts of air up around my panties.

And then there was my face.

Not mine. Not really. Big, dark-lined eyes. Shiny red lips. Softened features that didn’t belong on a man. My eyebrows - once thick and full - were now two slender arches sitting way too high and somehow managing to change the entire structure of my face. I'd expected to look ridiculous. Instead, I looked... convincingly feminine. And that scared the life out of me.

But the worst part? The wig.

Is it even a wig at this point? Because it certainly doesn't feel like one. Cleaned, styled, and scented like a flower shop, it has been glued and pinned into my real hair. Once firmly attached, the stylist beamed as she created a neat, high ponytail, giving it a playful tug to show just how secure it was. Annisa chirped that tying it up would help keep me cool in the hot and humid climate of Jakarta.

This was her gift to me. Gift? It feels more like a prison sentence.

That image of me standing there slack-jawed, searching desperately for traces of my old self in the mirror is now burned into my memory. It doesn’t matter how much I hate it... I had to sketch it. Even if my hand shook the whole time while pencilling in the unfamiliar curves and contours of my now feminized body.

(See image 12)

Now, back in the apartment, writing this entry, I can’t help but wonder how much further can this go. How many more pieces of myself will I lose before I find a way out? And how long before there’s nothing left of David, and only Fifi remains?

Good night, Journal. Though I doubt I’ll get much sleep.

David (Or am I Fifi now)

March 14th

Dear Journal,

I didn’t write yesterday. I just couldn’t. After the salon, I felt completely drained - physically, emotionally, all of it. I kind of just shut down and spent the day feeling sorry for myself in my room.

Today, I’m feeling a bit more in control. Not good exactly, but better. I spent the morning trying to undo at least some of the damage. After a solid hour of trial and error with an eyebrow pencil, I managed to draw on a pair of brows that looked... passable. Not how they used to look, but thicker and more masculine - and right now, that’s enough. Enough to remind me that there’s still a version of David under this girly exterior.

The day itself was… mixed. Annisa took me shopping. Again! And while I was still crossdressed, with a full face of makeup and an itchy wig stuck to my head, I didn’t feel as panicked as I had on our previous outings. Instead of keeping my head down and staring at my feet the whole time, I made a conscious effort to look around. And to my surprise, people didn’t really stare. No odd looks. No eyeballs popping out. They looked at me the same way they looked at Annisa. That realisation settled my nerves and left me feeling strangely calm.

Having the wig tied up helped too. It still feels unnatural having a swishy ponytail bouncing around my shoulders, but at least with all that hair off my neck, I’m not sweating buckets. And as strange as it still feels to wear makeup, it gives me a mask to hide behind - making it easier to pretend that I’m someone else. Someone who fits walking next to Annisa. Someone like a French fashionista named Fifi.

I’m also finding that the more time I spend with Annisa, the more comforting her presence becomes. Once you get past the high energy, she’s actually really easy to talk to - ambitious, driven, and genuinely kind. Today, she opened up a little. She told me about her dream of expanding her wedding boutique business to Paris, and how much she appreciates having "me" here - saying how she wanted to learn everything she could about the French culture, the people, and the language.

And hearing that made me feel like a horrible person.

Because even though everything I’ve done has been about survival, the truth is I’m still lying to someone who doesn’t deserve it. She’s welcomed me into her home thinking I’m someone who can help her chase her dream. But what she’s ended up with is a phoney from London with no style, no French flair, and no idea what life in Paris is actually like.

While at the mall, Annisa surprised me with two gifts. One I was genuinely grateful for. The other… not so much.

The first came after we wandered into a boutique she called her “absolute favourite.” The place looked like a shrine to high heels - rows upon rows of towering, gleaming shoes, all seemingly designed to torture your feet in the name of fashion. Naturally, we had to try some on.

It felt ridiculous. Me, in a designer shoe store, slipping my nylon-clad feet into stilettos, wedges, and several other styles I didn’t even know existed - smiling, posing, pretending I belonged there.

After a few pairs (and more than a few near-ankle-rolls), Annisa clapped her hands and announced she’d found “the ones.”

She handed me a sleek shoebox with the name 'Bianca' embossed across the lid in shiny gold lettering. Inside were a pair of ivory stiletto pumps with glossy red soles and heels so high it gave me vertigo just looking at them.

I slipped them on, carefully bending down and trying not to flash anything I shouldn’t. The moment I rose gingerly to my feet, I felt the shift in balance - I thought my other heels were tall, but these were something else.

I took one hesitant, mincing step forward, smiled through the discomfort, and blurted out something I thought Fifi might say: “These are magnifique - a real work of art.” In my mind that sounded better than my real thoughts - that the absurdly expensive, impractical shoes were actually ankle-breaking death traps disguised as elegant footwear.

Turns out I was a little too enthusiastic, because as I took a cautious lap around the store - heels clicking, knees trembling - I spotted Annisa giving the saleswoman a subtle nod. I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s apparently rich girl code for “ring them up.”

We left the store with two pairs of Biancas - Annisa strutting like a runway model in her sleek black ones, while I stumbled along in my ivory pair, still trying to adjust to the total lack of foot support. So, with my black and white sandals boxed up and sent back to the car with the rest of our shopping - courtesy of Annisa’s ever-efficient chauffeur - she took me by the hand and led me, tottering in my new heels, toward her next surprise.

A new phone!

My heart actually skipped a beat when she placed it in my hands - my connection to the outside world restored. I couldn’t stop smiling, even when she joked that the bright pink case matched my handbag. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead with either, but Pink or not, having a phone again felt like a small piece of my old life being handed back to me.

The second we got back, I hobbled straight to my room, kicked off those ridiculous new heels, and finally - finally - called Mum and Ani.

Hearing their voices again nearly broke me. That familiar warmth, those little pauses and turns of phrase I know by heart… it made me miss home all the more. I spun them a story full of travel chaos, misplaced luggage, and a lost phone, keeping things just believable enough to avoid too many questions. Meanwhile, there I was, sitting cross-legged in a flared tan miniskirt, massaging my sore, nylon-clad feet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

They were worried, of course. I could hear it in their tone. But I did my best to sound calm and cheerful, and by the end of the call, I think I’d done enough to convince them that everything was back on track - that I had found somewhere to live and was about to start my new job. Not all lies, but also not exactly the truth.

In today’s sketch, I’ve drawn myself standing in the middle of a busy shopping centre in downtown Jakarta, clutching my new phone like it’s some kind of sacred object. I’m smiling - probably my first real smile in over a week. I left out the crowds on purpose. Because at that moment, it genuinely felt like no one else existed.

(See image 13)

Tonight, as I write this, I'm exhausted - but for the first time in a while, I feel hopeful. The road ahead is still uncertain, but now that I have a phone again, it finally feels like I’ve got a way to start putting my life back together.

Good night,

David