You don’t need to believe me. But as I read the email confirming this article, a hand grazed over my phone screen. I looked up to see a man I’d never seen before, waving his hand in the space between my phone and my face, trying to get my attention. 

Something must have happened - maybe all the trains were cancelled, maybe we were being evacuated, maybe he recognised me from that time I was on Comedy Central. I looked up expecting the worst (or, to pretend it was the worst).

‘Why all the black, love? Are you going to a funeral?’ 

I stared blankly back at him. 

‘Young girl like you should be in bright clothes; happy girl.’

You don’t need to believe me. But I’d just confirmed to write about what women wear on stage, and here was this random old piss-can, gasping for my attention like he’d just seen someone from Comedy Central in the flesh, telling me what I should be wearing. 

It wasn’t the first time. Random men (and no not all men but only ever men), yell at me, women, girls, femmes, AFABs [assigned female at birth], on the streets all the time about what we’re wearing and whether they approve or not, like a lecherous Trinny and Susanna (Though, to be fair to T&S, they didn’t half grab a lot of tits). 

So when I moved myself to the stage, I didn’t expect anything less. But this time, men could claim to have authority on the subject - it wasn’t if they wanted to shag me, or belittle me, honest - they were helping me with my art. 

By telling me I should tie my long hair back so it’s not distracting, that I should wear baggier clothes if I didn’t want people to DM me after shows, or that if I want to talk about depression, I should dress depressed (all real things that I’ve been told, all by guys dressed like battle rappers). What does a depressed person dress like? Because I’m sure as hell depressed, even more so in this conversation, and look at me, wearing this - a suit, a bikini, sweatpants, a mini dress. 

Men get to go on stage with a stain on their T-shirt, a stain on their pants and a stain on their shoes and it would never factor into how we viewed their performance unless they wanted it to. Guys can think about what they wear on stage, on a night out, walking home alone, as a fun added extra - for women (and girls) it comes as standard. 

Starting out, I’d often be the only woman on a bill, and as a short 20-something, in some rooms I’d read to the audience as a toddler ‘giving it a good go’. Shirley Temple on Sertraline. 

So it wasn’t that I followed my esteemed colleagues’ advice, so much as I wanted to ‘other’ myself the least I could. I’d done it my entire life, and always felt like I’d failed, like they could smell the difference on me from a mile away. First impressions definitely count in comedy, especially when there’s still that tired troupe of ‘women aren’t funny’ ringing around the head of some audiences. So when I was new, stepping on stage in an unsupportive room, I felt pressure to look like a real comedian. But what does a comedian look like? 

Being terrified to give the wrong impression on stage, for years I strived instead to give no impression. My comedy uniform was plain t-shirt, dark jeans, no shape, nondescript trainers, hair in a ponytail. 

I didn’t wear that in ‘real life’ - I wore vintage dresses, suits. But I’d take all that off at that gig and change into my comedian costume to avoid detection. It’s probably worth pointing out I’d done the exact opposite in my day-to-day. I’d found with my body dysmorphia I always assumed people were staring at me, but if I was dressed up, I could trick my brain into thinking, yeah they’re staring at me - because I’m dressed so well. 

On stage though I wanted to fly by undetected. I wanted people to not pick up on the weird, not pick up on the ‘other’ - I could be just like you! I was terrified an audience would just click off - no, too weird! - so I felt like I had to trick them into thinking I was relatable, before they were able to laugh. And you know what’s relatable? Jeans.

I genuinely don’t know what changed. Confidence? Getting over myself? Being better at comedy? Probably all three. There are still some gigs where I think I probably have to tone it down. 

And look, I’m not Lily Savage, but I enjoy a look. I like something that would (and does) make my mum go ‘oh you’ve got that on backwards’. 

But I’m lucky enough where the majority of the audiences I perform to know my funny lies in its authenticity. And being fully authentic includes how I present myself. It does mean some days I wear some big smock because I just can’t do it today. But that’s authentic too, it’s real, it’s relatable. 

I’m a multifaceted person - some days I cannot be fucked. I should be allowed to not be fucked. Especially at the Fringe - I’m playing to an audience who have come to me, in my house. And I wear what I want in my house. (Read: mourning dress).

• Hannah Platt is at the Edinburgh Fringe with her show Cult Classic, on at Pleasance Courtyard at 7.15pm