Ever wonder why the hairstyles of female politicians seem stuck in the suffragette era? Here's your answer: The first job of candidates and elected officials is to represent huge swaths of incredibly disparate people. Conventional wisdom holds that challenging one's audience via personal style is counterproductive to the role.

It's not all that different for political staffers, lobbyists, and people like me—whose job is getting politicians elected, advocating for issues, speaking on behalf of marginalized communities, and generally convincing the media (and thereby the public) that X organization/cause/politician is great. According to the caption on the bottom of the screen when I appear on, say, MSNBC, I am one of those creatures variously known as a political consultant, a Democratic consultant, a strategist, or—my least favorite—a pundit. When we're not on air defending our positions, we tend to aim for a certain sartorial anonymity: dodging out of camera shots, blending into backgrounds, and generally making no waves. You're speaking on behalf of a cause. It isn't about you. And the last thing you'd want to read in an article quoting you is something that undercuts your authority. Watch: " 'This pipeline will have huge consequences for our children's health, and the governor should resign if he's unwilling to address it,' says McIntosh, the pink-haired spokesperson for Clean Water USA." See what that does?

For 12 years, since I graduated from NYU with the master's in English lit I've never figured out how to use, I've made a living talking people into acting on, or believing in, or voting for whatever noble, progressive political cause I believe in—and also happens to be paying my bills. I think of myself as a hired gun for the good guy. Going to bed with the knowledge that the majority of your day was spent making the world safer or cleaner or fairer is an amazing feeling. Even when—especially when—the role you have to play to do the work you want to do is not always the most authentic to who you really are. Because, left to my own devices, I'd have the pink hair.

I've always gravitated toward a more androgynous personal style, a more fluid sexuality. Growing up, I wanted to be Luke and Leia; to my mind, David Bowie's Goblin King was way out of poor, sweet, white-dressed Jennifer Connelly's league in Laby- rinth. In college, my uniform consisted of jeans, black tanks, and a '50s gas-mask bag from the army-navy store, which I carried as a purse. But I knew from the get-go there was no chance I could work in politics dressed like that. So immediately after graduation, I broke up with the 20-hole black Doc Martens that had been the longest relationship of my life.

For the first decade of my career, I dressed for interviews or important business meetings with the same mentality I'd have for a date. At 24, I was working as a researcher on the campaign of a New York City borough president, a job that requires the kind of round-the-clock dedication only possible with the utter abdication of style. Running the length of Manhattan and back every day, working late into the night with spreadsheets all over the floor, drafting and perfecting documents that might become city policy, I hardly had time to shower, much less to accessorize. And yet I instinctively knew when the job called for me to look good—not just professional, but good in a way that men would appreciate, men who typically were far older and more important than me, and whose help the campaign needed. In one memorable case, our candidate was working on an issue that a certain man owned in the state legislature; if we were going to wade into the conversation without getting smacked for it, we needed his input and blessing. I was the ambassador sent to get this blessing. So while I showed up for work that day in my standard jeans and campaign tee, before the meeting I changed into my cutest vintage pencil skirt and the four-inch Chinese Laundry heels I'd stuffed in a plastic bodega bag that morning. Did any of my all-male colleagues think the costume change was weird, or even worth noting? Not to my knowledge. To them, these spiffier clothes were just the girl's version of the suit jacket they all kept hanging on their office doors in case of impromptu meetings. But in my case, the "professional" gear showed off my shape, flattered my legs, and made me a good four inches taller.

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I wasn't an office Lolita; I didn't attempt to seduce bosses. But did I make use of my erotic capital? Hell, yes. I was always aware that I possessed a certain type of prettiness—I can play it up to the point of turning heads, or ignore it completely and receive the same in return. This is a neat trick for inviting or avoiding attention at bars. But, more insidious, it works in the office, too. I understood, even before I graduated from high school, that most bosses were men, and most men were more likely to take the time to notice you were smart if they'd already taken the time to notice (even subliminally) that they vaguely wanted to have sex with you. Otherwise, you risked being invisible.

In my late twenties, while I was working as a midlevel press secretary for a senator, I once listened as an older woman helpfully explained the "rule of three" to new interns at the start of a semester: They could show legs, décolletage, or arms, but not all at once. The implication: Turning heads was going to get them noticed, and being noticed was going to count for their careers—they just needed to learn how to do it right. The fact that they were learning the acceptable way to sexually present themselves in an office setting didn't cause the amount of outrage in this group of young women that one might hope, or really any at all. (Nor do I recall any strenuous objections to the fact that, as supposedly idealistic up-and-coming wonks, we mocked en masse the women who got it wrong: Girls who wore their sheathdresses a little too short or their heels a little too Forever 21 were labeled "skinterns.")

For years, I obediently wore my skirtsuits and pumps. I kept my hair long, my makeup always on, my smattering of tattoos well hidden. I did my best to emulate the women who seemed to thrive under the male gaze, not the ones who challenged it from the margins. I figured, Hey, we all know it's tough to get ahead in any male-dominated industry. Just ask female directors, or corporate lawyers, or Silicon Valley engineers. You do what you have to do. Besides, there's nothing inherently unfeminist about pencil skirts and lipstick. Claire Underwood and Olivia Pope still kick ass in stilettos and buttery silk blouses. (Okay, they're both fictional, but whatever. It could happen.)

Then, six years ago, I switched from working on the Hill to working in feminist politics, first as press secretary and eventually as vice president of communications at EMILY's List, an organization dedicated to electing pro-choice, progressive women. It was my job to help determine our message, the language we'd use to help our candidates, our strategy to fight back against anti-choice legislation. I worked almost exclusively with other women. Inside this odd Washington enclave, looking professional was still a must, but women dressed in whatever the hell they felt like, which turned out to be mostly Tory Burch flats and comfortable, easy dresses. Slowly it dawned on me that my sexual viability vis-à-vis the man across the conference-room table was irrelevant. My ability to hold a room long enough to pitch an idea had nothing to do with my looks.

In a case of happy synergy, this feminist immersion collided with two major developments in my life and my understanding of style: One was getting the hell out of my twenties. The other, as luck would have it, was catalyzed for me in a March 2015 article in ELLE, "Urban Outfitters," about the rise of androgynous streetwear led by designers such as Shayne Oliver and Telfar Clemens. I loved this stuff. I started paying attention to contemporary fashion, the fun of it, the humor of it, the power of it. Without really knowing it, I had begun to wield this power in my own life, gradually but dramatically overhauling my appearance at work, even as my role became more public. I was speaking at more panels and conferences and appearing on cable television several times a week about whatever issue bubbled up that day. But by then, my heels were long gone, even for fancy events. What was the point, when I could live in Opening Ceremony grunge-soled oxfords and Dries Van Noten metallic brogues—and when designers are making flats that cost as much as pumps and are recognized (outside the Beltway, at least) as every bit the status symbol?

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At the moment when I was ready to consciously realize and reject the idea that I'd been dressing to please powerful men, here were designers churning out clothes I loved that helped me make a pointed statement about femininity and gender constructs. Today, I wear an AllSaints men's overcoat with oversize button-downs. My Monrow graphic-print sweatpants cost as much as the leather-paneled pencil skirts that used to populate my closet—and look far cooler. I have a hard time controlling myself around the tomboy-chic offerings at Rag & Bone. I lust after Hood By Air's tech-canvas crop top—I just don't know where I'd wear it. I've started sporting more visible tattoos; bats and snakes peek out from scoop-necks and sleeveless shirts, and blouses with sheer backs show off the 20-plus hours of work I've had done from shoulders to hipbones. And I've been doing an aggressively asymmetrical white-blond thing with my now-shorter hair. I wear less makeup. Often, I wear none at all.

"At the moment when I was ready to consciously realize and reject the idea that I'd been dressing to please powerful men, here were designers churning out clothes I loved that helped me make a pointed statement about femininity and gender."

Even formal balls, which look glamorous from the outside but are, in fact, the bane of every female staffer's existence (how do you keep up with your boss in those shoes? Where do I carry my phone in this gown?), have become an opportunity for reinvention. I bought a tuxedo. It's Helmut Lang, and cost far more than I'd ever spent on one of my many now-discarded Karen Millen dresses (purchased because they had pockets and thus a prayer of accommodating business cards). It's also perfect with the vintage Chanel blouse—cream, with that iconic black piping!—I found at a Paris flea market. I love my tux. When I walked a red carpet for the first time in it, I finally stopped diving out of shots, no longer embarrassed to be caught in costume at work.

I wonder now how much of my previous allegiance to the standard DC uniform was necessary. Things were different 10 years ago, but maybe not so different that I couldn't have nudged the Washington norm along just a bit. But maybe at 25, I'd have done it wrong—maybe with the designers available to me then, I couldn't have struck the right balance of punk and professional. Or maybe Andreja Pejic and Ruby Rose and a riot of men walking down women's runways had to happen before I could stand up in a boardroom dressed as the best of all genders.

I don't mean to suggest I've reached some state of political/personal style zen. Because there are still TV appearances. Something I love—a privilege! A chance to share my opinions about feminism, politics, and news of the day with the world! Except that before I can do that, I have to spend 20 to 30 minutes in the chair getting my hair and makeup done. You know, so that I can look presentable enough to talk about feminism alongside wild-haired men in their sixties who receive a two-minute comb- and-powder.

It's not that I lack vanity—I like looking good. But TV makeup is not the stuff I'd use if I were going somewhere special for dinner with my boyfriend. It's thick and powdery; it settles into wrinkles and clogs pores and pulls other unattractive tricks you can't see onscreen. Though I will say that one glorious time, they gave me false eyelashes. My lashes have always been superskimpy, and these were a revelation. I wore them for two days straight—they looked amazing under my HRC flat-brimmed ball cap.

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As a society, we're becoming used to women in flats and pants at formal events. We no longer think cutting your hair means you'll never catch a man. But seeing a woman on TV without, at minimum, eyeliner, foundation, mascara, blush, concealer, brows, eye shadow, and lipstick? Radical. She'd look tired, washed out, just…wrong. (Political commentators are rarely as well lit as the gloriously barefaced Alicia Keys on The Voice.) Viewers would never get past the shock to notice we were saying something interesting.

Sure, I could refuse the makeup chair. But the same way I once knew a date-ready outfit would help me get noticed in a meeting, I know that on TV, makeup helps me land a point. I don't want to challenge the audience by daring to go barefaced. I want to land a punch over the potential GOP repeal of abortion rights. I once heard Senator Elizabeth Warren ask a makeup artist to do "as little as possible," which made me love her even more. But even she isn't completely immune—no one is. Do you think Rachel Maddow wears that much smoky charcoal eye shadow in her daily life?

Never before have women in Washington been so sure that the man in charge wants us to look a certain way. But my own little evolution is proof we can make progress regardless. Style can be even more radical under oppressive circumstances. We can get heard just by being seen—as long as we have the age or the privilege to be a little subversive. Eventually, we'll enter a gender-binary-smashing world where women can go makeupless on TV and men can go in full-face, and each can be free to identify by whatever pronouns and performances and pants feel right to them. Until then, I'm going to keep my eye on that sleek, formal suit Gabriela Hearst sent down her fall 2017 runway. One day I'll have the inauguration of a woman president to wear it to.

This article originally appears in the August 2017 issue of ELLE.

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