It would be two years after coming out as queer before I first tried drag. Over the years, I’d fallen in love with the craft from the audience—it was awe-inspiring to think that someone could completely transform who they were with the right shadows, padding, a skirt (and a wink). There was something so fluid, so queer, about becoming gendered through performance.
As an 18-year-old lesbian—before the idea had ever entered my mind—I found myself routinely drawn to Melbourne (Naarm) Pride, and other drag events. And it was at these events that I felt a kinship to the queens, their excellence, and the humour, colour, and drama that is Aussie drag.
Of course, growing up as a drama kid, making myself up and performing in drag was not outside the realm of possibility (@mum, you’d agree). So, when I met the great Art Simone and learnt makeup techniques and how to do drag on a budget, it felt like the perfect opportunity—and in my purple-walled childhood bedroom, I grabbed an old, blue Katy Perry shake ‘n’ go wig (think Teenage Dream era) and got to work.
Mere hours later, I was the subject of my own mini photoshoot, trying to find the right angle that would capture my repainted eyebrows, sharp nose contour, and dragaliscious glitter lips. The feeling was intoxicating, looking at myself in the mirror, this sparkling, larger-than-life queen. Subconsciously, my body language changed, encompassing how big I felt now, both in spirit and in body.
It took that single experiment for a new passion to blossom. Drag, for me, was an exploration that allowed me to wear deeply unfashionable heels and loud dresses and show the cleavage I’d painted on around my breasts that didn’t touch. In drag, my femininity was limitless; I didn’t have a single aesthetic, name, or character that I was working towards, just pure expression and play. Sometimes, I’d be a neon pink bombshell, or a curly, brown-haired, alt girl. Other times, I’d experiment with my own, short-cropped hair (the colour of which changed frequently).
During this time, I adored dressing up as a drag queen. I relished in the transformation a brush of contour could bring, and I loved packing my eyelids with shadow all the way to my brows. It was a way for me to create gender and play with the fabulousness of femininity without feeling suffocated—because I could always take it off.
Then one day, I caught myself staring in the mirror, thinking this is what femininity is for me. all. the. time. a performance. something I put on. Not yet quite understanding what that thought meant, I tucked it away for a later date.
At this same period in my life, I was completing a major in gender studies at university. One semester, we had an essay asking us to interrogate how ideas about masculinity had changed since Women’s Liberation. We were encouraged to get creative so—alongside referencing peer-reviewed articles about Judith Butler—I took to transforming myself into a drag king and included those photos in the essay. I wore a pink, purple and blue floral blazer, painted dark shadows around my eyes, and stuck on a blue glitter beard (yes, it took forever to take off).
I felt a shift. In this masculine ensemble, I felt powerful.
I’d always been a smiley person—always beaming in photos, and grinning whenever I caught someone’s eye. But in these photos, I was a mysteriously brooding man, looking down the barrel of the camera as if I were slightly taller than the onlooker.
From here, I didn’t play with being a drag king the same way I had with being a queen. But I talked about it a lot. One of my friends was just as passionate as I was about drag and once confessed that they, too, wanted to try performing as a drag king. Together, we went to makeup classes and talked nonstop about the kind of men we wanted to portray.
But while my friend went on to perform, I was stuck. I couldn’t even bring myself to do drag at home anymore. I couldn’t understand how something I loved so much—something that brought me community, joy, and connection—had now become a wish. A wish to one day perform as a drag king.
This didn’t go unnoticed. And one day, my best friend inquired why I wasn’t toying with drag makeup anymore. The truth? I was terrified of the thought that I’d try being a drag king and want to become a man.
It was many months, two therapy sessions, and a half-arsed closet clean-out before I could interrogate that thought; before I could interrogate the dysphoria that was clouded by years of dissociation, before could sit on the bathroom floor and breathe through the tears and fear to finally see the person—the man—trying to get out underneath.
As it turns out, I was right.
Exploring masculinity revealed the truth: I am a trans man. I still love fashion and playing with makeup, but now drag is a tool I use to help alleviate dysphoria. I use contour to cast shadows that makes my face appear broader. I wear shirts that are a little bigger to give my torso a squarer shape. I put mascara over my existing (very fine) facial hair to embellish it, and I don the occasional glitter eye shadow when the moment strikes.
But the way that I dress now isn’t a performance the way femininity was, it’s a homecoming; it’s looking in the mirror and exhaling with bittersweetness (the way you do when hugging someone you love after not seeing them for years); it’s the deep-in-my-bones warmth I feel when I see my reflection, some instinctual part of me grounded, knowing I can be now.
This article was proudly sponsored by Pride Foundation Australia.