When I was about eight years old, I decided to compile every stereotypically nerdy thing in my closet into an outfit and wear it to school. This idea came to me suddenly, and at once I lunged into my closet, tearing an orange polo and a plaid skirt off their hangers. That morning, I pulled my hair into braided pigtails, and wore a sort of cloth belt around my neck, fashioned like a tie. I put on my high socks and sneakers and leapt onto the bus, grinning. I walked into that big school hallway with a new feeling: I was so excited about what I was wearing, that suddenly I wanted everyone to look at me. I marched triumphantly into Mrs. Weigand’s third grade classroom and immediately sought out my best friend, excitedly showcasing my attire. That was when the popular girl walked in.

She looked at me and smirked the best mean-girl-smirk a third grader could. She pointed, laughed, and asked why I was dressed so nerdy. I tried to explain that it was a look, and that it was actually really impressive, but was assaulted into muttering excuses for myself. My vision slammed to the tiled floor. Other classmates joined in, mocking and giggling. I thrust myself into the corner of the classroom, to the tacky red and blue carpet, to attempt to normalize myself. I ripped out the pigtails, and tied the belt around my hair as a headband, like the other girls wore. My best friend helped sympathetically as I pushed down my knee-socks, and covered the orange polo with a sweatshirt. I could feel the hot tears welling in my eyes as I mumbled adamant excuses, tasted the salt enter obstinately into the corners of my mouth. Unable to hide the plaid skirt, I felt those girls’ eyes behind me the rest of the day, heard their whispers and giggles.

For the next four years I tried to dress as normally as possible. I’m not confident that my normalcy was caused by those girls, but I know that they took my confidence that day. I rarely wore anything but jeans and t-shirts and hooded sweatshirts; I even went through a phase with basketball shorts. I straightened my hair every day; I looked cool, like the other girls.

Then, at Christmastime of my sixth grade year, my grandmother did something completely abstract: she gave me a skirt. And I loved it. It was a winter skirt: sweater material, with an intricate fuschia and black striped pattern. I wanted desperately to wear it to school, but how was I to suddenly stray from my jeans and graphic tees? I’m unsure of my motive, but one day, I finally decided to wear it.

I sat in the car with my mother at the bus-stop, rehearsing audibly what I would say when the other girls confronted me about my attire. My mother gave me a look that retrospectively makes perfect sense: it asked why do you care so much? My twelve-year-old self took a deep breath and got out of the car, ready to face the girls at my bus stop. That world stood still. I felt the crisp air against my bare knees, smelled the cold wind and leaves. A girl looked at me, saw the skirt, and… smiled. And complimented me. And she wasn’t the only one. They didn’t tease me, they liked my skirt.

I walked down the white hallways with that same new feeling: confidence. I was smiling, feeling all eyes on me, knowing that I was different, and it was working for me. I looked nice. It was good.

Gradually, things began changing. I bought two more skirts, and a leather jacket. I bought hair flowers and bows, and began wearing them every day. I stopped straightening my hair. People didn’t make fun of me for being different, they respected me. And it felt amazing.

Now, of course, skirts and bows are a major trend, but I still find myself wearing things that no one else does, and not minding at all. In fact, there’s even a word for people like me: hipsters. I wear that title proudly.

This is why I find the cliché “all dressed up with nowhere to go” to be true. To this day, I dress up in skirts and collars and lipstick and heels for no reason at all, other than that it’s fun. I wear all of my fancy clothes to school, only to change for rehearsal; but I don’t mind. I am all dressed up with nowhere to go, and it feels good.