The most hideous thing that I had ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on that hanger, ruffles sticking out awkwardly like the disorderly feathers of a wild duck. The color wasn't much better, the shade of blue reserved for veiny arms and that tint on the upper windshield of cars. It seemed unthinkable that anyone, let alone a good friend, dare suggest that I try it on.
The heat of Montreal in July was getting to be enough to drive me mad. Jeans weren't even an option anymore and I was beginning to deem even shorts were too warm. So what the hell was I supposed to do? My friend and I had ducked into the little dress shop as a last resort, to escape the blistering heat. I was never one to wear dresses; they were never practical for me. They’d blow in the wind, they didn't allow me to sit cross-legged, and with the amount of attention I paid to my surroundings they would often get caught on door handles, the corners of tables, and whatever else I walked past.


That summer was different, perhaps as a result of my quickly melting brains, and dresses were beginning to look just as appealing as a glass of water in the midst of the Sahara Desert. This dress was the one exception. “Dresses are never how they look on the hanger,” my friend insisted as I tried to come up with excuses not to try on the unsightly, beginning-of-an-algal-bloom colored dress. After a ten minute dispute, I finally relented to try it on.

Getting the dress on was a pain, to put it lightly. I was just dreading the moment where I could just take it off already. I had to examine the dress closely to distinguish the arm holes from the head hole. After I had it over my head, I’m happy to say I managed to tie the bow on the back, a little bit slowly. Walking out from the changing room, I felt ridiculous. Far from fabulous. I was sure it looked awful. There was no way that that ungodly dress could possibly look good. Especially on me.


“Told you so,” my friend cried victoriously as I wandered reluctantly out of the change room. I glanced in the mirror and to my disbelief, she wasn't wrong . Off, the dressed was everything that was wrong with the world. On, however, was a different story. It hung astonishingly well, the ruffles fell into their rightful place and they no longer looked disorderly. Perhaps most importantly was the transformation of color. The dress had turned to the shade of summer skies.


The choice was made unconsciously; I bought the dress. On that fateful afternoon in July, it became evident that a dress can’t and shouldn't be judged from a hanger. A dresses job is to be worn and its potential can’t be judged unless it’s allowed to do its job. Just as a book can’t be judged by its cover, maybe a person can’t be judged on appearance alone, and perhaps a dress cannot be judged until it has be tried on.