my experience getting into men's clothes as a t-boy (an anecdote)
the starting points are...simple, if you're small enough. sports bras and/or binders. unisex tees. vigorously taking measurements to make sure you fit in men's dress shirts because you just learned that button-downs button on opposing sides because society has to gender everything. desperately clearing out every trace of your starting wardrobe in a fit of dysphoria. realizing that vanity sizing in men's clothes is just as bad if not worse than it is in women's clothes as you hold that jacket in your hands and realize it fits you like your father's coat.
desperately trying on every possible fit of men's pants because estrogen sends a lot of your fat to your ass and your hips, and most of them cling to your hips the way women's do. finally finding what a relaxed fit feels like and discovering that it's the best you'll get.
"it'll do," you say, getting a belt because there's still a pesky inch-deep gap between your spine and the pant-waist. and then two. and a third. realizing belts are an accessory too, actually, and suddenly they're just as much fun to play with as mom's jewelry box was.
sitting down with a brannock device and paling as you discover your feet are so small most men's shoe brands don't make them in your size. or your width. you can't tell if it's a good thing or not that it's still easy to find a nice pair of loafers in the size bracket you grew up wearing, but oxfords aren't.
and then it gets weird. the fetters of assigned gender fall away, and as the part of you you're making manifest rises into its own, pressures to be "hyper-masculine" start fading. those fun frilly sleeves you were missing inch their way back into your wardrobe. a pair of heels slips back onto your shoe rack before you realize they're there. but it's okay this time, because now they're not wearing you anymore. you realize they'd been sitting in your maybe pile for months now. aren't you glad you kept them?
jewelry that's more ornamental than chains or leather strapped to your wrist worms its way back into your life. silly things. pearls and pins and brooches and flowers and lace. except now it feels like it's yours.
skirts come crawling back too, in some limited capacity, because suddenly you can have fun with them and not feel like they're controlling what you look like to everyone else. people in your life still call you masculine terms while you're wearing these "traditionally feminine" things and it feels weird and foreign.
and perfect. the man you feel yourself growing into smiles back at you in the mirror, and maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something great.
desperately trying on every possible fit of men's pants because estrogen sends a lot of your fat to your ass and your hips, and most of them cling to your hips the way women's do. finally finding what a relaxed fit feels like and discovering that it's the best you'll get.
"it'll do," you say, getting a belt because there's still a pesky inch-deep gap between your spine and the pant-waist. and then two. and a third. realizing belts are an accessory too, actually, and suddenly they're just as much fun to play with as mom's jewelry box was.
sitting down with a brannock device and paling as you discover your feet are so small most men's shoe brands don't make them in your size. or your width. you can't tell if it's a good thing or not that it's still easy to find a nice pair of loafers in the size bracket you grew up wearing, but oxfords aren't.
and then it gets weird. the fetters of assigned gender fall away, and as the part of you you're making manifest rises into its own, pressures to be "hyper-masculine" start fading. those fun frilly sleeves you were missing inch their way back into your wardrobe. a pair of heels slips back onto your shoe rack before you realize they're there. but it's okay this time, because now they're not wearing you anymore. you realize they'd been sitting in your maybe pile for months now. aren't you glad you kept them?
jewelry that's more ornamental than chains or leather strapped to your wrist worms its way back into your life. silly things. pearls and pins and brooches and flowers and lace. except now it feels like it's yours.
skirts come crawling back too, in some limited capacity, because suddenly you can have fun with them and not feel like they're controlling what you look like to everyone else. people in your life still call you masculine terms while you're wearing these "traditionally feminine" things and it feels weird and foreign.
and perfect. the man you feel yourself growing into smiles back at you in the mirror, and maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something great.
