My Strange Experience with Polite Society

It was Barby Q in the self-service checkout with the polka dot crop top

A good friend hosted a Murder Mystery party for her birthday last weekend – a ’50s-style BBQ role-playing game called Murder on the Grill, in which everybody is a suspect. I was given the role of Barby Q, a “dazzling blonde divorcée who’s got it all: an IQ of 140 and heartaches by the number.” Yes, I had to play a woman. The costume suggestion was a tight sweater and pedal pushers (I had to google what those are) with sandals on bare feet. Fortunately, for both myself and the other guests, the yellow polka dot bikini was optional. So, I channelled my inner Tim Curry and mustered up the best Barby Q I could, Southern drawl and all.

My getup consisted of a blonde (neon yellow) wig, slotted yellow shades, a black and white polka dot crop top, black satin shorts, thongs (the footwear) and magenta lipstick. I was even clean-shaven for the first time in months. Suffice to say, it’s the most effort that I’ve put into a costume, which was still relatively minimal, because I didn’t want to disappoint my friend who had already postponed it. We all had a lot of fun and the murderer turned out to be a character who wasn’t even on the cards; the identical twin sister of another player drove the barbecue fork into the heart of our host.

But the real surprise came from my solo adventure to buy what I needed for the costume, which proved to me just how polite society can be.

First, I went to a local discount store to look for a wig and some whacky sunglasses. I slowly wandered through the aisles, taking my time as I perused the cheap accessories until I reached the party section. At least 15 minutes later, I heard a page over the PA that went something along the lines of “Can I get a security check to aisle 2.” There were only a handful of customers in the store and the others were elderly women chatting amongst themselves in plain view. A man passed the aisle twice shortly afterwards, doing his best to look discreet as he glanced my way. Strangely enough, this wasn’t the first time that a discount store had accused me of stealing, or tried to deter me when it was never my intention.

Once I had made my decision on a wig and a pair of sunglasses, I approached the counter and the cashier greeted me nonchalantly without commenting on the purchase. She stated the amount owing and I tapped my card on the EFTPOS terminal, but to my chagrin, it wouldn’t read at all. Two of the old ladies queued up quietly behind me as I tried again with another card that still failed to rouse a response from the machine. The cashier cancelled the transaction and restarted it, which finally worked with the first card on the third attempt. I politely declined a receipt then grabbed my wig and sunglasses and headed for the car with their eyes boring holes into the back of my head.

Little did I know that my curious outing was only just beginning.

No Country for Old Men (2007) - Credit: Paramount Pictures

Next, I went to Westfield to buy my friend a gift and look for something feminine with polka dots on it. After spending at least half an hour poring over classic literature and poetry, I somehow managed to walk out of QBD with only things for her. With the gift sorted, it was time to get the most integral part of the costume: the polka dot bikini shirt. I was surrounded by a number of clothing stores, but an hour had gone by and I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.

As I walked through the centre, I peeked into every store on my way past and quickly scanned the racks for polka dots. Nothing. I could always settle for a loud Hawaiian shirt from Lowes, I thought stupidly. Then I decided to swing by Cotton On at the other end because I knew that they could be relatively affordable. I was seriously considering a licensed music tee when I saw it: a black viscose crop top with white polka dots, calling me like the Green Goblin mask from across the room. I snatched it up, checked the price tag and was delighted to see that it was only $25.

When I placed the shirt on the counter, my heart beginning to race – Oh god, what if she can’t contain her laughter? I thought – the cashier didn’t even falter. She greeted me with a pleasant smile, scanned it through and asked if I wanted a 70 cent bag. I politely declined again, paid for it (the card worked the first time) and strode out of there like a man leaving work on a Friday afternoon. In hindsight, I probably should have tried the op shops first, but I wanted to make an effort without breaking the bank and $25 was well within my budget for the occasion.

I was almost ready for the BBBQ; I just needed one final touch.

Lastly, I had to buy lipstick. I figured that none of my friends would want to lend me theirs, so I headed to ol’ reliable K-Mart across the way. Carrying my books and polka dot crop top for all the world to see with a skip in my step, I made a beeline for the cosmetic section. I had never bought lipstick before, nor women’s clothes, so I was going in blind and, let me tell you, the options were overwhelming. How was I to know the difference between lipstick, balm, gloss and plumper? A painfully long moment later, I chose a colour – “sweetie” according to the packaging – and queued up at the counter.

In spite of my newfound confidence, I opted for the self-service checkout to avoid any potential double-takes. Of course, the bagging area didn’t recognise the item and the screen advised me that I required assistance. As I waited for an employee to become available and clear the error, the customers behind me began to notice – and you know what? I didn’t even care what they thought. I was a young man with a beard in a Rage Against the Machine shirt buying bright pink lipstick and proud of it. A woman eventually sorted the issue and thanked me profusely for my patience, not batting an eyelid at the purchase.

The whole costume cost me less than $50 without the complimentary panic attack that would have been guaranteed five years ago. I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps some crude remarks or dubious expressions that threatened my masculinity, but the grace and kindness each employee showed me during our interactions made it such a comfortable experience. They might have assumed that I was preparing for a party or buying for somebody else, but it never came up. Hell, it’s possible that they just waited until I left the store before turning to a coworker and saying, “Did you see that?” Either way, I was very grateful that they spared me the unwanted attention.

I sincerely hope that this is the norm for trans and queer customers everywhere, at least in this part of the world, but I fear that it may not be. Nobody should feel humiliated for doing something as simple as purchasing a product designed for the opposite sex. We should all be more like the employees at K-Mart and Cotton On, even if it just means delivering excellent service. It probably helped that I was served by women, but that’s a preconception of its own. Nothing is exclusive to one or the other, some are just more available or socially acceptable. Of course, that didn’t stop my friends from getting a good laugh out of it.

As a reward for making it this far, here’s a photo of me as Barby Q.

I’m sorry or you’re welcome - whichever suits you best.