I’ve never liked dressing up — or at least that’s what I’ve always told people. The truth was there, but only half-conscious; never total denial, just a feeling I kept below the surface. Over time, I’ve learned not to bury things too deep — with all I could have buried, that would’ve been a dangerous way to live.
Journaling and sharing my thoughts publicly about life after being badly burned aged 14 has been incredibly therapeutic. Now, working with the team at Changing Faces, I get to mix personal reflection with a bit of social commentary — a new space for me, and one I’m excited to grow into.
I’ve often said I dislike Halloween because it’s become so commercial — take our money, sell us plastic, make us consume more. There’s truth in that, but it’s also a convenient distraction. The deeper truth is simpler: I really dislike it because of the links between scars and the horror industry — Halloween being the biggest entry point into that world.
One of my strongest traits since my accident has been refusing to let what I live with define me. People often follow my lead, which is great, but sometimes it means stepping into situations I’m not ready for. Halloween 1993 was one of those times.
Friends and siblings were heading out trick-or-treating, and I wanted to go too. It felt like a rite of passage — proof I was still part of things. I was 15 by then, a bit old for it maybe, but this American trend was relatively new in the UK and I didn’t want to miss out. By then, I was a year into a two-year sentence of wearing a clear Perspex face splint, 24 hours a day, to help my scars settle down.
I do like the trend I see now, where costumes are more creative and less about monsters with scars or visible differences. It’s a small but important shift.
When most people dress up, they start from a blank canvas — from “normal,” whatever that means. I didn’t have that luxury. I already had a costume I’d wear for life. Any other one I added felt like a second layer that never quite fit. It was a mismatch in others’ eyes, or worse, it hid me altogether. And that was tough, because I’ve always tried to walk into a room with my head held high, here for all to see.
That night, I tried to hide. “It’ll be fine,” I told myself. “I’ll go with my mate Will, mask on top of a mask, hands in pockets, grab the sweets and go home.” But I got uncomfortable and too comfortable at the same time — hiding and performing all at once.
We reached a house on Fernhurst Road. Before we rang the bell, I pulled off the top mask as it was digging into my neck, standing half in shadow. “Trick or treat,” I mumbled beside Will. The woman who opened the door looked at me and said, “Wow, that’s amazing! How did you even do that?”
Cue the awkwardness. We fumbled to explain, she realised, apologised, and we all wanted the moment to end. I’ve never worn a Halloween outfit since, and I’ve mostly avoided fancy-dress parties ever after.
I still roll my eyes at the commercial side of these holidays, but my truth runs deeper. I do like the trend I see now, especially in the U.S., where costumes are more creative and less about monsters with scars or visible differences. It’s a small but important shift — a move toward empathy and understanding, even if unintended.
Because not everyone starts from a blank canvas. Some of us are already layered before we even begin.
I’ve been lucky to have dogs in my life, and with Guy Fawkes Night (and the bangs of fireworks) following soon after Halloween, it’s always a testing time of year for them too. I talk to them, tell them we’ll get through it together. They couldn’t care less what I look like, and I’ll gladly cover their ears and calm their shakes in return.
Fair trade, I’d say. And before we know it, it’ll be Christmas — and if you think I’m dressing up as Santa, you can do one.
