“Fashions have done more harm than revolutions.” -Victor Hugo
First of all, a huge thank you to Mrs. S. for letting me guest blog today! She’s kind of a blogger superstar/goddess, so I am both honored and intimidated to write for her.
Here’s the thing- I am a bit worried about my daughter, Millie;
specifically, I’m worried that she will turn out like me.
Most of my nieces dress like tiny pink and purple versions of their mothers. If Millie is going to have the same fate, the poor girl was doomed years before she was even born.
I am the kind of girl who can/does spend hours pouring over fashion magazines. I drool over the creativity of bloggers who post fabulous outfits (ahem, like Mrs. S.). I watch What Not to Wear, Project Runway, and all the award show fashion-recaps. The amount of time I spend studying the merits of trench coats and cashmere should have made me an expert by now. I should be able to walk into a room and have everyone lose their breath in awe of my stunning look.
My mistakes started young. I was a bit of a tomboy as a kid, but I remember my first moment of fashion-awareness: jellies. Never mind that these shoes were popular in the 80s. I discovered them in the early 90s, and fell in love. I had pair that were a classic ballet flat, pointed toe style, and they were clear with silver glitter. Obviously, they were gorgeous shoes, and I wore them everywhere. My mom did not understand their beauty, and asked me to please wear a dressier pair to church. I clearly remember running to the car, and sliding my shoes underneath the front seat so she wouldn’t notice. Halfway to church, she remembered to check my outfit. “Oops, I…uh, forgot,” I said, secretly glad it was too late to go back home. I didn’t realize then that my mother was trying to save me from myself.
That was only the beginning. There was an outfit in junior high made up of wide leg corduroy pants and a flannel shirt, all in the same color. There were a lot of awkward moments in turtleneck and sweatpants combinations. And then there was the episode of the perm, even though I already have naturally curly hair. I enhanced this look by cutting it to chin-length, and giving myself at-home highlights. What I didn’t realize is that at-home highlights actually mean “fry your already perm-fried hair and bleach color out of you entire head”. I wore that look for an entire year.
Maybe Millie can somehow escape the horrible legacy handed to her. If not, she will have a lot of school pictures to regret, and a lot of worry for her own children in the future. For now, I dress her in little footy pajamas with a butterfly on the rear, and pray to God for a miracle.