The wall of my bedroom is lined with satin ballet pointe shoes. From left to right, oldest to newest, each pair is a tiny bit more ragged than the one before. The gentle first steps of a ballerina learning to dance en pointe are like a gentle drizzle compared to the high-energy storm of leaps and bourrees that dancers do after being en pointe for years.

But it’s the pair farthest to the left that I cherish the most. The pinkest, the shiniest, the first. On this pair, the soft pale ribbons still gleam. The satin still has its sheen, unstained with sweat. They are frozen in time like an artifact in a museum. Outgrown before they were outworn.

Looking at that first pair, I remember my first fitting. I was proud and nervous. I looked at the hideous toe separators and toe pads – the unglamorous accessories that you need before you stuff your ungainly feet into the slim, elegant shoes – the beautiful skin that hides the ugly bones beneath.

I stood in front of the mirror popping up onto my toes while the fitter, a job for perfectionists only, circled my feet. Pinching the fabric at the back of my ankle, pushing my heel this way and that, down on the floor, peering at my feet from all angles.

The pile of rejected shoes grew and grew until at last, she was satisfied. But only somewhat. You never have the perfect shoe, my pointe teacher once told me. You’re always just trying to find something slightly better than the last pair. Something slightly less imperfect.

I, on the other hand, was perfectly satisfied with that first pair. I was practically afraid to sew the ribbons and elastics on – the first prick of the needle felt like sacrilege. Before class, I was always the last person to finish tying my ribbons up. I was too precious with them, feeling unworthy, fearing they’d crumble in my hands. Even after I gained confidence, I still took my time with the ribbons, relishing in the ritual of it.

One night, only a few weeks after getting this first precious pair and after only a couple of pointe classes, I found myself unable to sleep. I went to my dance bag and pulled the pointe shoes out. They practically glowed in the dark. I put them on my feet. I didn’t even dance in them, I just sat in my bed looking at them. My feet didn’t look like they belonged to me. They were detached, like looking at a stock photo. I noticed that the satin on the box, where your toes rest, was starting to fray. I took out my tiny scissors and carefully trimmed each thread.

That memory is funny to me now. When I look at the shoes next to that first pair, they look like prize fighters. The satin is completely worn off the box – you can see the skeleton peeking through. They’re stained with sweat, they’re beaten and battered. Some betrayed shoes have no ribbons because I’ve pillaged them to use on newer, shinier shoes. 

Now, before I put on a new pair of pointe shoes, I hardly notice their newborn appearance. Stiff, unyielding, nested together in the Russian Pointe box, they’re impossibly lovely. I overlook that and cruelly brutalize them. I bend them, stretch them, fold them in half, turn them inside out. I scuff the toes, I scratch the soles. Some dancers close door hinges on their new shoes, others take a hammer to them to soften their stiffness. Some might take a razor to the bottom to create friction and prevent slipping.

When pointe shoes become too flexible, too molded to one’s foot, and too soft to dance on safely, they are said to have died. It’s a tiny window – that window between perfectly broken in and past their time. Like a dancer, shoes have a short life.

                                                                  
CLOTILDE SEVERIN was a high school senior attending UAA through Alaska Middle College School. Clotilde Severin grew up in Anchorage, Alaska where she learned to love reading, writing, and dancing. Next year she will attend New York University's Tisch School of the Arts as a Dramatic Writing major.