I've Seen Men In Skirts Before,

but this one was a peculiar sight. He wore a pleated, floor-length number with a bold floral pattern. His top was a striped jacket, oversized in length and width. On his head, he wore a make-shift veil. It was essentially a speckled piece of purple fabric, but he had fixed it to his head with a band so that it flowed down like a sheet of hair. A neon blue feather ornamented his headgear, looking a little cockeyed and a little royal. Under all this he wore Converse sneakers. The man was probably around twenty-five years old, and he was hugely theatrical under his drapery, like a mime - every movement was accompanied by a grand flourish. It was sensory overload watching him enter the train; I wanted to push pause on him so that I could have enough time to take him in, but propriety and physics got the better of me, so I stared instead at his reflection in the window in front of us. He had caught his reflection too, and whether his aim was to entertain me or himself, his face became a flashing screen, switching rapidly from surprised to distraught to inquisitive, and so on. He paused intermittently to take puffs from the hot pink feather he held between two fingers of his left hand. It was a shame that he only stuck around for two stops.