This is about as fashionable as I get – the assault rifle makes me look cool, not the other way around. I don’t really have much to say in the way of clothing or accessories. Other high school girls my age would fawn over the latest styles and trends, such as the current practice of using a different color of nail polish on one’s ring fingers, whereas I would usually only take the time to make sure that I looked presentable. Sometimes when I looked out of sorts in the morning before school my mother would produce one of the many horn combs she owned and scrape-massage my scalp to “stimulate” the grey matter beneath it; that’s the extent to which I’ve ever gone through any sort of daily preparation routine.
When I first started in this line of work, I met reasonable people who were clothed in fashions than ranged from rather plain to dressy. Traveling to meet my “employers” for the first time introduced me to some pretty snazzy uniforms. I’m comfortable with uniforms. It’s the “yippie kay-yay motherfucker” clothing styles worn by the mobs of other agents I’ve met down in Agartha that leave me shattered when it comes to having any sort of confidence in my self-image, let alone fashion sense.
My humble attire has absolutely nothing on the trenchcoats, bared midriffs, calf-hugging leather pants that end midway down the shins, and downright intimidating Tron-style body suits complete with glowing neon contours I’ve seen others sporting. On the other end of the spectrum I’ve seen some operatives deal with the firehose torrent of mental trauma we’re subjected to on a regular basis by covering their faces with the type of giant bunny heads you might find in an animatronic restaurant arcade for children. Fight nightmare fuel with nightmare fuel, I suppose.
I tried clothes shopping in London and found some black pants and dress shoes I thought I might like. I really don’t have a problem with anything I’m wearing besides these loafers that make me look a bit too much like a badminton-playing, lemonade-sipping retiree on the lawn chair of a cruise ship deck. Once I started running around in my new purchases, however, I quickly found that the comfort one sacrifices for style was not something I was willing to part with. Uptight, tight-lipped, tight jeans: which one of these does not belong? (I guess I’d rather be called the first than wear the third. Personal preference.)
I prefer the relatively plain attire of people like the coffee shop barista in downtown postcard-picturesque London whose bespoke mediocrity is mandated by the terms of their employment. It’s the opposite of the type of place I’d want to live in: preferably in a cottage on a nice hillside with a glorious view of the sunset in a place with a nice-sounding name like Vermont (with apologies to Mainers whose shores I’d rather not traverse as a long-term resident for reasons I’m not able to divulge to the general populace). I’d wear my purple-black bumblebee zippered, hooded sweatshirt, semi-casual black office pants, plain Jane loafers, run-of-the-mill glasses, and a simple part in my hair and slip off to London via Agartha to buy myself a proper joe from a white-shirted java server who’s not trying to outdress anyone.
Which reminds me, I should stop by and visit Ami in her shop on Solomon’s Island again some time. It’s been a while since we banished the voodoo under the mountain and I wouldn’t mind a break from these endless desert excursions by spending more time with regular people like me who are more concerned with being alive than with trying to win awards for Best Dressed in the Afterlife.