Every October, adults participate in a very strange ritual.
We spend weeks deciding which person we'd like to pretend to be for approximately six hours.
A movie star.
A villain.
A cowboy.
A vampire.
Someone famous.
Someone dead.
Someone wearing significantly less clothing than would be appropriate in almost any other social setting.
Then we spend an unreasonable amount of money assembling the look, walk into a party full of people who also aren't themselves, and act as though none of this reveals anything about us.
But does anyone really choose a Halloween costume accidentally?
Because somewhere between the black wig, the red lipstick and the completely impractical shoes, I couldn't help but wonder:
Are we dressing up as someone else—or finally getting permission to dress like a version of ourselves we normally keep hidden?
Halloween Has Excellent Loopholes
There are things you can wear on October 31 that would require an explanation on November 3.
A corset.
Opera gloves.
A cape.
Fishnets.
A crown.
Fake blood.
Enough eyeliner to fundamentally alter the architecture of your face.
Halloween doesn't ask why.
That's its charm.
For one night, nobody can accuse you of trying too hard.
You're supposed to try too hard.
You can be louder.
Sexier.
Darker.
More dramatic.
More ridiculous.
You can walk into a room wearing something completely unlike your normal wardrobe and simply say:
"It's my costume."
Convenient.
Because sometimes "costume" sounds much safer than:
"I've always wanted to look like this."
Nobody Wants to Be the Sensible One for Halloween
Have you ever noticed that?
Nobody spends all year managing a household, answering emails, scheduling dentist appointments and remembering which day the garbage goes out only to dress as a highly competent middle manager for Halloween.
We've already nailed that character.
Halloween tends to pull us toward whatever our regular lives don't provide.
The person who spends Monday through Friday in corporate clothes suddenly wants leather and eyeliner.
The person who is always responsible wants to be chaotic.
The person who dresses quietly wants sequins.
The person who never wants attention suddenly walks into a party dressed like they personally invented cleavage.
And good for them.
Maybe costumes aren't always about becoming someone else.
Maybe they're about temporarily removing the rules from ourselves.
Then There Is the Sexy Costume
We need to discuss it.
At some point, Halloween became the only holiday where adding the word "sexy" before virtually any occupation became socially acceptable.
Sexy nurse.
Sexy police officer.
Sexy vampire.
Sexy pirate.
Sexy angel.
Sexy devil.
At this point I'm surprised nobody has attempted sexy certified public accountant.
Although I suppose the glasses practically style themselves.
We laugh about it, but there is something interesting underneath it.
Halloween gives people permission to wear things they might otherwise worry were too revealing, too attention-seeking or simply too much.
And maybe that's part of why the costume matters.
The outfit becomes an alibi.
This isn't how I normally dress.
Of course not.
It's Halloween.
But perhaps the better question is:
Would you like to?
We Dress for the Person We Wish We Were
Some costumes aren't fantasies.
They're aspirations.
The glamorous old-Hollywood character.
The effortlessly cool rock star.
The dangerous Bond villain.
The elegant socialite.
The person who walks into a room and everyone notices.
For a few hours, we borrow their confidence.
And something strange happens.
We stand differently.
We talk differently.
We take the photograph we'd normally avoid.
We introduce ourselves to strangers.
We dance.
We flirt.
We stop checking whether our stomach looks flat every eleven seconds.
Maybe it's the tequila.
But maybe it's also the freedom of deciding that tonight, you're allowed to be someone who doesn't worry about those things.
Sometimes Pretending Is How We Find Things
We're told constantly to "be ourselves."
It's lovely advice.
Except who exactly is that?
The person we are at work?
At home?
With our oldest friend?
With someone we've just met?
On vacation?
After two martinis?
We're not one fixed personality.
We're a collection of selves that appear under different circumstances.
Maybe pretending occasionally gives one of them room to come out.
You wear red lipstick as part of the costume and realize you actually love red lipstick.
You wear the ridiculous dress and realize you like being overdressed.
You spend the night talking to strangers and remember you're not as shy as you've decided you are.
You dance badly and discover nobody dies.
Sometimes the costume comes off.
Something else stays.
Of Course, Some Costumes Mean Absolutely Nothing
Let's not psychoanalyze a man wearing an inflatable dinosaur suit.
Sometimes a dinosaur is just a dinosaur.
Sometimes your friend dressed as a witch because she already owned a black dress and remembered Halloween approximately fourteen minutes before the party.
Not every costume is an unconscious cry for liberation.
Sometimes Amazon simply had next-day delivery.
But the costumes we think about?
The ones we've wanted to wear for years?
The ones that make us look in the mirror and feel slightly unlike ourselves—but strangely good?
Maybe those deserve our attention.
The Real Costume Might Be What We Wear Every Day
That's the uncomfortable part.
Maybe Halloween isn't the night we're pretending.
Maybe some of the pretending happens during the rest of the year.
The sensible clothes.
The polite answers.
The professional voice.
The version of ourselves that doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.
We learn what works.
What gets promoted.
What makes us look respectable.
What keeps the peace.
What doesn't attract too much attention.
And eventually we get so good at playing those roles that we stop thinking of them as costumes.
Until October arrives.
Suddenly we're standing in front of a mirror wearing something outrageous and thinking:
There you are.
Keep Something When You Take It Off
I'm not suggesting anyone attend Monday's budget meeting dressed as a vampire.
Although it would certainly improve attendance.
But maybe when Halloween is over, we don't have to put absolutely everything back in the box.
Keep the lipstick.
Wear the boots.
Make the reservation.
Flirt with your partner.
Talk to the stranger.
Be overdressed.
Take up a little more room.
Let yourself be mysterious.
Let yourself be ridiculous.
Let yourself occasionally do something that doesn't fit the character everyone expects you to play.
Because perhaps the best part of dressing like someone else isn't escaping ourselves.
It's discovering how much of that person was already there.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
If it takes a costume to give us permission to become someone we've secretly wanted to be, which version is actually the disguise?
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