Keeping up appearances.May 23, 2006

Derbhile Dromey

On my last skiing holiday, I really turned on the style. I braved the below zero temperatures wearing sparkly tops, colourful jumpers, siren-red trousers, and every girl’s favourite skinny jeans. The pièce de resistance was a green top which can only be described as spangly. It was made of a shimmery, glittery material.

Those who knew me from shabbier days were pleasantly gobsmacked by my new attire. For years I had shied away from pretty clothes; jeans and shapeless jumpers, often clashing, were my uniform. I had the mistaken belief that if I couldn’t see other people’s admiring looks, there was no point in glamming myself up.

Equally, I was influenced by a comment from a well- meaning relative, who was describing the meaning of the word ‘nondescript.’ To illustrate, he said my sister was definitely not nondescript because of her red hair, which is the colour of burnished copper. He said I was nondescript because of the erratic movement of my eyes, and various other quirks I’d adopted as coping mechanisms.

It struck me then that what I saw in the mirror was somewhat different from what other people saw. I saw a half decent looking specimen, no Claudia Schiffer, but reasonably well put together. But if I was to believe the well-meaning voices around me, what other people saw was a slightly gimpy creature, all wide-eyed and wobbly.

That was definitely the view of my classmates when I was sent to an Irish-language boarding school for a year. I didn’t redeem my cause either, with my clashing, floppy clothes. They’d ask me sweetly if I thought I looked prettier than the current fashion plate, with her matching, stylish clothes and coiffed hair. Foolishly, I always said I did, which led to much sniggering behind closed doors.

Their words wormed their way into my brain, eroding the image that I had of myself. For years, my shabby uniform remained intact. I saw little point in dressing up if I was likely to remain a freak in other people’s eyes. I also lacked the incentive of being able to appreciate admiring looks thrown my way. Needless to say, I saw little hope of attracting the boys I came across. To them, I was a grub among the butterflies, as other girls seamlessly moved from one boy to another.

I got quite a land then, when I finally began to mix regularly with other visually impaired people. They clearly took pride in their appearance, had shiny hair, and wore colourful, classy clothes. Some of them couldn’t even see the colours they wore, but that didn’t stop them from putting on the style. It meant that my get out clause for neglecting my appearance had vanished.

I found myself indulging in curiously satisfying conversations about the hazards of putting on mascara, and the secretly satisfying thrill choosing clothes by touch. I may be able to see the colour of clothes, but the silky feel of material is just as likely to win me over.

As for makeup, I was able to swap disaster stories with gusto; times when my eyes fluttered at the crucial moment when I applied mascara, leaving a fetching black blob. One girl had got around it by tinting her eyelashes, but for me that’s a bridge too far.

My new friends simply didn’t care about the possible effect of being visually impaired on their appearance, and they weren’t waiting for admiring glances to be thrown at them. They looked good and they knew it. They had boyfriends, both blind and sighted, who were taken in by their seductive outfits, among other things.

Now I find myself enjoying the ritual of getting ready to go out, thinking of clothes to wear. When I’m at home, my sisters eagerly take part in my ablutions, straightening my hair and curling my eyelashes with instruments which seemed more suitable for a torture chamber. By now I have become a dab hand at applying makeup. I also have a slightly cooler wardrobe, so I can bask in the verbal admiration of others.

I may never have a consuming interest in my appearance, but at least at this stage it’s not because of my supposedly “freaky eyes.” It’s simply a quirk of my personality that I’m more interested in what comes out of my mouth than what I put on my body. Still, I think I look pretty decent these days, my mental image of myself has undergone some transformation. I’m enjoying the fact that I am a work in progress.