Uniforms are synonymous with the Australian high school experience. They’re the great equaliser—no matter how many centimetres you can convince mum to raise the hem of your skirt, it’s still going to be daggy. Everyone looks gross in blue and green stripes, and while the conformity of a uniform makes it easy to blend and coast through your most angst-ridden years, it also makes it hard to express that angst. You’re stuck in plaid personality prison.
One bored evening during my first semester of uni, I sat in my bedroom, turned up the Modest Mouse, and cut my own hair for the first time. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the beginning of my efforts to look how I felt. Formative scissor-holding experience like these usually happen when you’re 15, but I’d attended a classic girls school with strict uniform and hairstyle regulations. Stuffed into rigid wool blazers, wide brimmed straw hats and knee high socks I didn’t have the room to experiment with my visual identity.
Your university years promise a lot in terms of self expression. Not only do you get to pick your course, but you can finally get total control over the image you project to others. It’s really the first time you are defined by your interests—the first time you’re asked who you are, or who you want people to think you are.
The summer between high school and uni, I lived my own stilted version of Crossroads. No road trips but plenty of “not a girl, not yet a woman”. Shedding the Converse All Stars and skinny jeans combo that had stood by me in high school, I attempted to develop a “sophisticated”, “intellectual” look that I felt befitted my new status as an arts undergrad.
What this basically meant was wearing floral maxi skirts as dresses and thrifted 80s business jackets as evening wear. I wasn’t dressing like a deranged blogger on purpose—I just had no idea what the hell I was doing. Clothes were not a daily decision I’d had to make before. While I could throw on a pair of jeans I’d never attempted to use clothes as a language to talk about myself.
While I was struggling with my aesthetic coming of age, the kids lucky enough not to have worn uniforms in high school were epitomising casual campus cool. Thanks to their years of practice, they were consistently nailing outfits that looked thrown together while being carefully planned. As I floundered in op-shop hell, they accessorised with jelly sandals, political badges, vintage cardigans and limited edition Docs Martens.
Years of comfortable school uniform security had left me totally unequipped to compete with these kinds of people. How did they put together a casual outfit that communicated their impeccable music taste, film knowledge, and leftist leanings while subtly hinting at their sexual availability?
Eventually, about six months in, I started to catch up with my free-dress-friends. In time I learned to put together a look I liked—just like I learned to make friends who weren’t in the same grade as you or pick classes that allowed for maximum sleep ins.
But after the novelty of picking your outfit out of the laundry wore off, I noticed I had the space to see my school uniform from a different perspective. Maybe school uniforms held me back from expressing my teen angst properly, but they weren’t a totally malevolent force. More than anything, my uniform was convenient. And I did sometimes miss my pre-assigned dress and jumper when I had to be in class, and looking human, before 9AM.
I didn’t need to mourn my dress code for long though. Because the weird thing about uniforms is that we end up imposing them on ourselves. Even if you love experimenting with clothes, time and taste begins to form patterns and you institute your own personal uniform policies. Today I can wear when I want, but when I reach into my wardrobe I still tend to grab one of six variations on the same black and white striped tee.
When I took off my uniform at the end of year 12, the opportunities for personal reinvention felt limitlessness. But in reality it was one of very few moments in life when I’d have the opportunity to suddenly and dramatically alter my entire image. Sure now I’ve regressed to my own code-of-fashion-conduct, but it’s a code I was able to form myself through four-years of HECS supported mishaps.
If you’re doing away with your school uniform and starting university this month, take advantage of this moment. Feel relieved to kick off your sensible shoes, but also revel in the opportunity to speak for yourself through clothes. Eventually you’ll probably find your outfits repeat themselves, but enjoy striking up that conversation with garments. Put on your favourite album, give yourself a haircut, experiment, just don’t wear a maxi skirt as a dress.
Credits
Text Katherine Gillespie
Photo Jason Lloyd Evans