In Appropriate Attire

There is a particular kind of complaint that arrives dressed as professionalism but smells distinctly of insecurity.

This one concerned my wardrobe.

It began, as these things often do, with whispers that were not nearly as quiet as intended.

“Too dark.”
“Intimidating.”
“Funereal.”
“Not appropriate for a school environment.”

I adjusted my cuff and continued grading.

Precision is unaffected by commentary.

By the third day, it had escalated into something formal.

A report.

Submitted, I’m told, “out of concern.”

Of course it was.

Concern is the most socially acceptable form of intrusion.

I was called into administration that afternoon.

I did not rush.

Composure, like presentation, benefits from intention.

Black blazer.
Black dress shirt.
Black leather skirt.
High-heeled boots.

Dark red lipstick. Black eyeliner. Black eyeshadow. Thick mascara. Dark blush.

Spiderweb earrings—subtle, but deliberate.

My glasses, as always.

If one is to be discussed, one might as well be… thorough.

The principal gestured for me to sit.

There was a file on the desk.

Always a good sign.

“Diana,” he began carefully, “we’ve received a complaint regarding your… appearance.”

“I assumed as much,” I replied.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s been described as ‘overly severe’ and potentially ‘unsettling to students.’”

“Has any student expressed this directly?”

“No, but—”

“Then we are dealing with interpretation.”

A pause.

“Yes,” he admitted.

The complaint was read aloud.

It was… detailed.

Impressively so.

My lipstick was “too reminiscent of morbidity.”
My eye makeup “excessively dramatic.”
My clothing “suggestive of mourning attire.”

I listened.

Attentively.

When he finished, I tilted my head slightly.

“How observant,” I said.

He blinked.

“Would you like to respond?” he asked.

“Of course.”

I folded my hands neatly.

“My attire complies fully with the institution’s dress code,” I began. “It is professional, consistent, and non-disruptive to the learning environment.”

I paused just long enough.

“As for the comparison to mourning attire—”

A faint lift of my brow.

“—we may simply be early.”

He stared at me.

I did not elaborate.

There was, however, a second part to this.

There always is.

“Would you be willing to… adjust your presentation?” he asked carefully.

“For whom?” I replied.

Another pause.

“The concern is that it may be… intimidating.”

“To whom?” I asked again.

He hesitated.

That was answer enough.

The following day, the staff room was… anticipatory.

People have a remarkable ability to sense when something is about to resolve itself.

Miss Carter—the origin of the complaint—sat two seats away.

Bright colors.

Layered accessories.

Patterns that competed rather than coordinated.

An aesthetic that could best be described as… insistent.

Projection, I’ve found, is rarely subtle.

She approached me mid-morning.

Bold.

“I just think,” she began, “that as educators, we should present ourselves in a way that’s welcoming.”

I looked at her.

Fully.

“I am,” I said.

She faltered.

“Well—it’s just that your style is a bit… extreme.”

“And yours is not?” I asked.

Silence.

Brief.

Fragile.

I did not raise my voice.

I did not need to.

“Dress code,” I said calmly, “is not a measure of personal taste. It is a framework of standards.”

I gestured lightly.

“I meet them.”

Then, after a deliberate pause:

“Do you?”

Her expression shifted.

Not anger.

Not yet.

Recognition.

The review happened that afternoon.

Not of me.

Of everyone.

Policy, after all, is most effective when applied consistently.

Miss Carter’s wardrobe was… examined.

Excessive accessories deemed distracting

Color combinations noted as “visually disruptive”

Footwear cited for lack of professionalism

Each point, technically valid.

Each one drawn directly from the same logic used against me.

By the end of the week, she was quieter.

By the end of the next, she was gone.

Transferred, I was told.

A better “fit.”

I’m sure.

No one mentioned my appearance again.

Not directly.

They didn’t need to.

Understanding had been achieved.

I returned to my corner.

Iced tea. Cold. Precise.

I caught my reflection briefly in the darkened screen of my laptop.

Severe.

Composed.

Unapologetic.

Appropriate.

Someone passed behind me and whispered, just barely:

“She looks like she’s going to a funeral.”

I took a sip of my tea.

“…Patience,” I murmured under my breath.

After all—

Some events simply require time.