I think the whole idea first occurred to me probably a couple years ago, but not in any huge way. I was at the ATM in my tiny, adorable neighborhood in the city, having trouble opening the door, and the person behind me offered to do it. Then she said, “Holy shit, Becky Allen?”

She was someone I went to school with. Being from a small town with a tiny school, by the way, that means she’s someone I went to school with for about twelve years. We had both ended up in Inwood, by random coincidence. And having known each other for years — never having been close, but always friendly acquaintances — of course we recognized each other.

But it was, I think, easy to recognize me regardless. So that’s where the thought came from: in my mid-20s, I looked, for all intents and purposes, exactly like I had in my early- to mid-teens. I have always had long brown hair (somewhere between a bit below my shoulders to a bit above my waist); I have always worn glasses; I have, for well over a decade, worn essentially the exact same outfit on a daily basis (sneakers, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie — yeah, every day). And I’ve always felt pretty fine with it, because I’m just not someone who’s ever really cared a whole lot about how I look. I can remember being pretty young — maybe nine or ten — and explaining to my mom that I wanted to join a nudist colony because clothes are just such a hassle. Like I said, I’ve had long hair; I’ve never done anything with it except stick it back in a pony-tail to get it out of my way. I dressed simply, didn’t put any time or thought into it, and that has never mattered to me.

But it struck me as really weird to think that at 25, I looked exactly the same as I looked at 15. Because I feel like such a different person. Or — well, I have the same core, but a lot of the traits that swirl around that core are different. And of course that’s normal, because darn near everyone will change drastically over a ten year period, especially one that sees you go from a high-school freshman to an adult with an apartment and a salary. So looking in the mirror, for the first time, I’ve been kind of unsatisfied with what has always been — due to convenience and accident, not design — my look.

Here’s some more stuff: I don’t do visuals. That is an odd statement, I get that, but I’m — best I can describe it is detail-blind. I have really poor visual recall; I don’t notice things like colors (I’m not color blind, I can differentiate them fine, but I don’t notice them) and I certainly have never noticed what people around me are wearing. (However, I have fantastic audio recall; I can memorize entire movie scenes after seeing them once, and recall conversations with near-strangers years later.) So the thought of walking through a store and trying to pick out an outfit freaks me out quite a bit. I can’t even tell you what colors clash, let alone what will flatter my body, or what styles are, uh, stylish.

And there’s a matter of time and importance and prioritizing. This stuff has just never been my priority. Ten years of a steady pattern happens in part because it’s easy. And aside from the fear of shopping, there’s also a fear of…other stuff. (Deep, I know.) Whatever phase it is in late middle/early high school, or whenever, when girls experiment with makeup? I missed. Where they learn to do things with their hair? I missed. Where they, you know, start to care about anything even remotely related to femininity? Oh wow did I miss that train. And now, at 25, when I see the makeup counter in a department store, I feel stupid. I wouldn’t know where to start, even if I wanted to.

And…it’s weird. Like, say I wanted to wear a skirt. It just has never struck me as practical for my own life. I don’t sit; I sprawl. My feet dangle in pretty much every seat (my office finally, kindly, got me a footstool for under my desk) so I tend to kick them up on something so they don’t get pins-and-needles-y all the time. That is not exactly ladylike — and I don’t really worry about being ladylike unless I’m wearing something where sprawling might, you know, show the world my underwear. I prefer to keep that somewhat private. On top of which, that whole outside temperature thing is a problem. I’m almost always cold, and skirts just don’t keep me warm like pants do. So I could only wear them in the summer anyway, and even that is very limited, because my office in the summer is kept at a crispy 50 degrees or so — we keep blankets around to huddle under — so it’s not like that would be comfortable, either. And besides, wearing a skirt always seemed to me to require wearing nice shoes, and — let’s just say I was once asked, when picking out a dress for one of the few occasions I’ve actually found it necessary to dress up, if I was going to wear a pair of Pumas with it. Because everyone who’s met me accepts that — cute little black dress and grubby sneakers together — as a serious possibility. (I didn’t. Given the bleeding and blisters that ensued, I wished I had for much of the night.)

And hair. I have occasionally blowdried it out of necessity, because long hair takes a lot of time to dry, and walking around in the winter turns wet hair into icicles. But…doing something with it? I’ve always felt like a pony-tail was not very flattering on me, but I’ve never had any idea what else to even consider. Getting my hair out of my way has always been way more important to me than anything else.

But the thought festered. I want to look different. Not in a huge way. Like with personality, identity: that core is still there. But I’d like the non-essentials to reflect who I am now, at 25.

So there’s a lot to overcome here. And I’ve been making progress. A few months ago, I cut 15 inches off my hair. This was a huuuuuuuuge change. It was above my shoulders for the first time — uh, I need to get it trimmed, my hair grows ridiculously fast — and too short to pull back. I luckily had a very, very kind stylist who talked with me not just about how I wanted to look, but how to do it. Products to use — yikes. And how to use them. And how much time it takes to do it. So even though this is possibly the easiest-to-maintain hair possible, it involves putting in a little bit of time, a little bit of effort. A little bit is a lot more than I ever had before.

And I try and think about it when I shop. Trying to look at things that aren’t jeans, t-shirts, and hoodies. Or at least that are different from the ones I already own. And trying not to wince at spending money on these things because I’m still getting used to the idea that better clothes cost more money, and yeah, it’s okay for me to look at priorities and decide to spend more on what I wear.

Which is a whole other point. I have plenty of valid reasons to think about how I look and what I wear; to put more time and energy and cash into these things. It doesn’t mean I’m selling out who I am — like I said, who I am is a core that is still very much in tact — but I do have to remind myself, over and over, that caring about those things isn’t selling out to the patriarchy and beauty standards. Because while I’ve passively rejected a lot of those things, though laziness or nervousness or poorness or habit, I’ve also rejected them actively because that is a bullshit game I am not interested in playing. I’ve always been happy with my body and how I look. (I have no idea how that happened; if I did, I’d already have written the self-help book.) Some part of me does feel like caring and putting in effort is selling out; that if I’m happy with how I look, I shouldn’t want to change it; that if I spend money and time on it, I’m selling out. Which is just plain unfair.

Even ignoring the double standards and the whole fact that women are judged on how they look more harshly than men are, why shouldn’t I work to look how I want? What’s wrong with that? Because if this about me, and what I want, isn’t working or spending money or taking time sort of…just how that happens?

I don’t know. I don’t have a huge resolution to this entry. I know I’m happier now, with short hair (and acknowledging that I need to get it cut more than once every year or two), and I’m happier with fitted jacket instead of a hoodie in the fall. And that it’s an adjustment just to acknowledge that. But there it is. A personal essay.