Debutante Ball

Photographed by: Frederico De Angelis for TeenVogue

I’m probably not the girl you imagine when you think of a debutante. I’m not the descendant of European royalty, the daughter of the French ambassador or entitled to a trust fund large enough to run a country. I’m also a feminist. And as a feminist, I was hesitant at first to ritualistically tell the world I was pretty and ready for marriage. Debutante Balls would be just another addition to the long list according to society of the ways I’m doing ‘feminism’ wrong. For starters I shave my legs, I’m not a lesbian or a vegan, I’ve never burned a bra and I know by heart every word of Eminem’s degrading rap songs—sue me. That was until I realised that dressing up for a ball doesn’t make you a bad feminist, since feminism is about empowering women to make their own choices. Yes I took part in an event that may seem anachronistic to some, but is it such a bad thing for small divisions of society to continue this tradition for one enchanted evening? This isn’t like your wedding day: cotillion only happens once in a girl’s life!  So at sixteen I traded my converse for a corsage to become part of the rich history involved in the female experience of coming of age. And I wanted it to be something out of a fairy-tale tale— like Romeo and Juliet. I know Romeo died, but he died for something compelling, and I wanted my debut to be something to die for!

For 200 years the first Debutante Balls were held at Buckingham Palace, as a way for upper class families to announce their daughters were eligible for marriage. It seems my mother facetiously suggesting that I “marry a rich husband” to solve whatever idle adolescent drama I was experiencing at the time, may not have been too far removed from the young aristocrats presented to the Queen. This continued up until 1958 when Prince Phillip announced the whole thing was “bloody daft” (I think he’d probably get along well with Grandfather, who was on to his 3^rd glass of Moët) and Princess Margaret complaining “every tart in London was getting in”. The night was followed by a whirlwind of parties, with debutantes introduced to eligible bachelors (and prevented at all costs from being swept off their feet by the 18^th century version of a ‘bad boy’ with tattoos and a motorbike).

Today, the International Debutante Ball is considered the most exclusive in the world, presenting “the luckiest young women in the world” according to the New York Observer, into high society. These are the girls written about on Page 6. They ski in Vermont and sunbathe in Santorini. Their names have been on Harvard’s acceptance list since birth, and when they come of age, designers like Ralph Lauren send personal sketches of gowns for them to choose from. There’s something so illustrious at the thought of sipping Veuve Clicquot cocktails at their invitation-only after party at the Waldorf Astoria in New York— something that does not translate AT ALL into the ‘Real Teens of Ringwood’ parties I’ve been to thus far. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not spend my Sweet Sixteenth finding out people were fraternizing on my favourite sofa. 

Classy.

Photographed by: Frederico De Angelis

Whoever said ‘money doesn’t buy happiness’ has obviously never been a debutante. I used to be a total tomboy, spending my weekends skateboarding and wearing anything that wasn’t pink, frilly or a dress. I never truly understood the bond that exists between women and shoes until I went shopping for the Ball. Since then, I have been steadily increasing my collection; enough to keep a small country afloat and second only to Imelda Marcos. On the night I was questioned by my mother on the safety of my heel height, and offered suggestions to switch to a more “sensible” pair. Um… I wear five inches or I wear nothing! I can say this because I’ve tried out “sensible” when I succumbed to inebriation, and surrendered my dignity to buying a pair of Crocs.

They say “You can never know a person until you walk a mile in their shoes”, so in making my debut into society, I wanted to be like a princess, wearing the highest, most glamorous pair imaginable. After all, if a commoner from Tasmania can become the Crown Princess of Denmark, who can argue a sixteen year old can’t dream of poufy chiffon ball gowns and tiaras that aren’t made of plastic? All I’ve ever wanted is a modern fairy-tale. Mary Donaldson has it— and everyone knows I have much better shoes! 

 

It’s easy to see Debutante Balls exactly as they appear; elegant, classy, imposing— by the mid 80’s however, girls continuing the tradition were presented not in Buckingham Palace, but in downtown London nightclubs like Wedgies. Ah! Even wearing gloves I’d still want to wash my hands. Like every regretful fashion choice made in the 80’s, debutante’s hair wasn’t just teased— it was pissed off! And the only girl caught dead wearing white was Madonna in ‘Like a Virgin’ (accessorised by a lacy lingerie bodice and ‘Boy Toy’ belt) that would have seen aristocrats retracting the photograph from Page Six faster than the Queen could yell “off with her head!”

“You have such beautiful hair Gabby!’ praised my mum. ‘It reminds me of Mia Thermopolis”

Now that I think back on that…I really hope she meant AFTER her princess transformation. As much as I wish I could say a real life debutante is far from the lame teen comedies where the girl with the frizzy hair and braces suddenly becomes the belle of the ball, this is actually a pretty good descriptor. I had my braces taken off and my thick, dark hair twisted into an elegant up-do. As the ladies lined up with glamour and poise to be formally announced, I crossed my fingers hoping that I wouldn’t trip over the yards of frothy tulle in true Jennifer Lawrence fashion. And I can successfully report that no debutantes were harmed in the making of the Ball.

“I’d like to present Gabrielle Capes, escorted by Joash Veith. Miss Capes has thrived in her position as president of the student council and youth of the year finalist. She hopes to work as a columnist for Teen Vogue or as a lawyer; that way if anyone ever gets on her bad side, she can unleash her inner Erin Brocko-bitch and haul their butt into court!”

After 12 weeks of intensive ballroom dancing lessons, wearing my gorgeous white dress and elbow length gloves, I really did feel every bit the star of my own Cinderella story. As I curtsied to the panel of esteemed guests, accompanied by my knight in shining Armani, I began to direct the movie I was starring in at the moment; the movie that is my life. 

Xx