Being a woman of colour and curve at Australian Fashion Week is kind of like choosing to suffer. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic – but stay with me.
My voluminous, textured, “big” hair – a recurring shock to stylists, despite its consistent presence on my head – has been treated more like a problem to fix than a feature to celebrate. I’ve been handed sample-size garments clearly not meant for my body, along with a cheerful, “just try it on, babe.” And I say all this knowing that some models don’t even get the chance to be on a runway. I should be grateful, right?
Now, before this gets clipped and quoted – don’t get me wrong. I’ve had some fabulous, affirming moments on the runway (shoutout to Gary Bigeni, Lazy Girl Lingerie, and Mariam Seddiq), hair stylists who actually celebrated me, and people behind-the-scenes who had my back (thank you, thank you, thank you!). But unfortunately, these moments are more of a surprise than the standard.
And yet – year after year, I walk. I find myself stomping the runway, serving curve, giving the ka-ka-ka to the kids like it’s my job (because, well, it is).
If you’re thinking, “Sorry, Cassaerea – that sucks. Why don’t you just stop?” Excellent question – you should be a journalist. I wrestle with that question every season.
Why do I keep doing it? Why do I keep choosing to feel unseen, unheard, and unwanted? I can give you two answers.
Firstly, the selfless one.
The phrase “representation matters” has been rinsed out, but it’s still very real in my world. When my younger cousins see photos and videos of me taking up space on that runway, they see themselves. They’re the sole reason I’ve lasted this long in an industry that can forget to make room. Through my example, “I wish I could” becomes “I know I can.”
I owe them the gift of dreaming bigger. I’m deeply aware of my responsibility to them everytime I walk.
Secondly, the selfish one.
I love it. Can I say that?
The runway is a stage, and I live for the drama, the theatre, the movement. The moment I hit it, nothing before or after matters. As a criminal overthinker (Libra sun, for my astrology girlies), the catwalk is one of the only places where I stop thinking and just feel: the music, the lights, the crowd locked in. It’s electric.
Runways have bruised me – physically and emotionally – and I know I’m not alone. It’s taken years to get to a place where it doesn’t sting the same – I don’t want anyone else to have to build that kind of armour. But when the lights hit and the bass drops, I never think to turn away.
Whether I agree with it or not, I’m holding space for both truths: the pain and the power. So what does that make me? A bad curve advocate? Maybe. A good performer? Come find out.
