Postcard From Australia: Face Time

You’ve seen them all. The famous models that serve as the international faces of fashion’s biggest houses. Daria Werbery for Chanel, Lonneke for Ralph Lauren, Gemma Ward for Prada, Julia Stegner for Gucci, Kate Moss for Calvin Klein. I often wonder, had I ever had the opportunity, what fashion designer’s core aesthetic would my face represent? Just like the aforementioned models, I don’t think I would fit very well with any of the big designers from my own home country: Daria is Canadian and working for a French house, Kate is British but her big break came with the king of American simplicity, and, while their golden blonde manes shine on double page spreads for Italy’s most revered houses, Gemma and Julia call Australia and Germany home respectively. With my decidedly Polish dairymaid fair skin, prominent Eastern European features, and lanky arms, I’m hardly the typical American beauty. After asking for a job application at the local Abercrombie store in my hometown of Baltimore, Maryland, I was turned down. While living in New York, countless old men speaking incomprehensible Slavic languages approached me, one hand scratching their grey stubble beards, and desperately asked for directions around the city.

Now that I’m in Australia, I find it unnecessary to even open my mouth—everyone knows with one look that I am not Australian. Where there might have been an ounce of ambiguity in the melting pot of America, none exists here. The Australian population is predominantly comprised of freckle-faced British descendants with significant Asian and Indian diasporas. Not a lot of room left for me between the Kensingtons, Lees, and Singhs. Even when I don the tight tapered jeans, jersey tops, and flats worn by all the Aussie girls running around Sydney, I look decidedly more Miu Miu than Sass and Bide.

All this identity confirmation has left me curious, if a bit worn out. I am a typical American girl at least in habits if not appearance—I love barbeque, American cheese, and the Beach Boys. I drive an absurdly large SUV. I am the owner of an even larger and more absurd collection of Beanie Babies. It is only here in Australia that I realize I have none of those things to fall back on, to cling to as a declaration of my belonging in America. I am a stranger in a strange land down here, and starting to capitalize on the mystery my nebulous look can generate. When I walk down the streets of Sydney’s Central Business district, I meet the eyes of people I can easily identify as Australian, but they cannot do the same for me. That girl in the red wrap dress, is she French? Lithuanian? Northern Italian? My face is mine alone, and that’s just fine with me.

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