The other day I went to B.Box, one of the largest nightclubs in France, for a very odd fete. Everything started out normally enough, until a French rap group took the stage.

Then, out of no where, six people with their faces all painted and dressed in an array of odd things (from joker's hats and stilts to space suits and G-strings) began performing in the crowd. There was even an albino python involved.

Today is Halloween, a holiday that (even at this age) most college students love. The fun of hiding behind a costume or acting a part is almost overwhelming. I just wonder if we ever stop dressing up or putting on a show the other 364 days of the year.

Sometimes I feel like I created this personality with my dress and character without really being certain if it is "me." Then, I have to go out everyday and perform the "Kerri Show," rain or shine.

Sometimes it seems like, by dressing a certain way or putting on a performance, I am allying myself with stage actors: people who live in solitude despite having so many people coming to watch them. Creating a persona is easier than trying to actually explain who I am to everyone I meet, not to mention figuring out who I am.

Maybe society worships entertainment and art because they allow us to look at and try to understand another human life without having to do the work of connecting to one. Most of my ideas on working class American life I got from plays like "Death of a Salesman," because I would probably not socialize with a middle-aged shoe salesman.

Our appearance is the face we choose to show to the world; it is the first impression of who we are for the people we meet. Even if we decide to just wear a T-shirt and jeans, that decision makes a statement about our personalities and leads to preconceived notions for those who may want to know us. So, it takes a truly brave person to dress outside the norm, and invite people to judge them by their clothes.

By contrast, most of us are trying to find a hiding place in the middle of society where we can be looked at and admired without truly standing out or bearing our souls on our sleeves. The fashionable look binds us together as a society, and to wear it shows that we are connected to humanity superficially, eliminating our need to unite on a deeper level.

Or maybe we all try to look the same to force people to talk to us if they want to get to know our real personality. We refuse to let the cover tell the whole story; one must read the book to know what is real.

Or, perhaps most likely of all, we are not sure if we want to let strangers in or not, and a standard appearance gives us the option to choose.

As far as appearances are concerned, France is full of dichotomies. More so than in America, there seem to be two camps of people walking the streets: the beautiful and the grotesque. During Paris Fashion Week, John Galliano generated much controversy by designing clothes for the "outcasts" of society -- midgets, fat people, ugly people -- and letting them walk down the isles of vogue next to traditionally beautiful models. Parisian journalists called it a crude mockery, and Americans praised the democracy of including different body types.

Still, everyone seemed to focus on the differences between the extremely beautiful and the ugly. Instead, I see something similar; both groups are people you would never stop to visit with on the street, one intimidating in its perfection, the other in its cruelty, but both equally inaccessible.

Being in an environment where appearance seems more important has made me realize certain things about how I choose to look. I spend hours a week doing my hair or make-up or matching outfits in an attempt to look as impressive as possible. However, if someone stops to admire the way I look or sees my appearance as an invitation to start talking to me, I want to shut down.

I think, if I dress sophisticatedly enough, it will intimidate strangers out of addressing me. It is as if I want to be like a piece of artwork -- something beautiful, but whose very beauty tells you it is not open for conversation.

In Paris, I made the great pilgrimage to see La Joconde, the Mona Lisa, a woman of renowned beauty with a c?l?bre sourire (famous smile). I never thought she had particularly stunning features: Her hair is stringy, her dress a hideous color, there are bags under her eyes and she's slightly chunky by today's standards.

Yet, she definitely does hold an attraction, and I think it is that great closed-lipped smile and the accompanying look. Although so many people stare at her appearance, her pursed lips and wandering eyes say she remains remote.

Perhaps that is what gives Mona's smile that enigmatic quality -- she knows that we are desperate to know what she is thinking behind her beautiful mask, but she will never let us. In that way, maybe we are all a bit like Mona, hiding who we think we could be behind a false face of our own creation.

-- Kerri Shadid is a letters and political science senior. Her column appears every other Monday, and she can be reached at dailyopinion@ou.edu.
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