shimmied back and forth. She wore a short black crinoline skirt over a pair of biking shorts and black boots. In short, she was awe-inspiring, and the whole thing was giving me the shivers. In the two minutes that I watched the video, she spoke to me as being exactly who I wanted to be. She was cutting edge, sexy, playful, feminine yet one of the guys, tough, independent, and radical all rolled into one. I had to look exactly like her. I needed to be her twin, and thank my lucky star, I kind of looked like her already ... at least I thought so. When I asked Amy Chaikin about this possible switched-at-birth phenomenon, she said as tenderly as she could, “Well, you both have blond hair.”
The most important thing was this: I had to get this look down before anyone else found out about her. Chances were, no other girl at school would have seen the magnificence like I did. No one in suburban Philadelphia had the keen fashion eye that I did and could pick up on this singer’s obvious up-to-the-minute air of aptness. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror showering half a bottle of my mother’s V05 hairspray onto my head and teasing the matted locks with my brother’s comb, I thought to myself, If anyone accuses me of copying, I’ll deny it to the end.
“You look like that singer on MTV!” Greg Garron shouted the second I walked into homeroom that Monday morning.
“What are you talking about?” I asked with the straightest look I could manage as I nervously scratched my face. I immediately regretted it since I might have smudged the fake mole I’d created from mascara that morning.
“You do! You do! You look like Madonna!” Debbie Franklin joined in.
“Who is Madonna?” I asked nervously as I fiddled with the silver bracelets I’d spent all Sunday night creating out of some silver wire from the hardware store.
“That singer,” Debbie said, “on MTV”
“I don’t have MTV,” I lied as I ran my hands through my teased coif and straightened the do-rag tied around it.
As I sat in my seat and listened to that morning’s roll call, I could feel the eyes of my peers upon me like vultures circling my combination chair/desk, getting ready to attack at any moment. How could they have all found out about her in one weekend?
“Adena Halpern?” Ms. Greaser, the homeroom teacher, asked taking roll call.
“You mean Madena?” Greg Garron snickered.
The crowd went into hysterics. I was mortified.
I went into the bathroom before first period and wiped the faux mole off my face. Maybe it was a little too much.
It was my first lesson in perpetrating a look: Never go for the entire look head-on, just go for little nuances of it.
The next day I arrived in class, my hair was still disheveled, since that was the part I liked the best, but I eighty-sixed the mole, the wire bracelets (which were poking into my skin anyway and I was afraid they would slit my wrists), and I wore a pair of Girbaud neon-orange parachute pants with my blue-and-white-striped Vans sneakers. I knew I looked like the bastard child of Madonna and Bozo the Clown, but I was my own person, not a carbon copy of someone else.
I’ve seen Madonna through almost every stage of her material life. When Madonna cut the do-rag and went like a virgin, I was enthralled. Not only was I like a virgin, I was a virgin, and the bustier I found at Screaming Mimi’s gave me the figure that would soon make me otherwise. When she affixed a long faux ponytail and played Truth or Dare, I took the dare and sadly got that ponytail stuck in some subway doors. The last I saw of my faux mane, it was kind of waving good-bye as it flapped in the wind when the subway took off and made its way toward Grand Central Station.
I did skip the geisha look, and when Madonna came out with the sex book, I skipped that look too.
These days, Madonna has been more apt to wear tailored suits, which really aren’t my thing, so I’ve sort of broken off from her, but I’m always
The most important thing was this: I had to get this look down before anyone else found out about her. Chances were, no other girl at school would have seen the magnificence like I did. No one in suburban Philadelphia had the keen fashion eye that I did and could pick up on this singer’s obvious up-to-the-minute air of aptness. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror showering half a bottle of my mother’s V05 hairspray onto my head and teasing the matted locks with my brother’s comb, I thought to myself, If anyone accuses me of copying, I’ll deny it to the end.
“You look like that singer on MTV!” Greg Garron shouted the second I walked into homeroom that Monday morning.
“What are you talking about?” I asked with the straightest look I could manage as I nervously scratched my face. I immediately regretted it since I might have smudged the fake mole I’d created from mascara that morning.
“You do! You do! You look like Madonna!” Debbie Franklin joined in.
“Who is Madonna?” I asked nervously as I fiddled with the silver bracelets I’d spent all Sunday night creating out of some silver wire from the hardware store.
“That singer,” Debbie said, “on MTV”
“I don’t have MTV,” I lied as I ran my hands through my teased coif and straightened the do-rag tied around it.
As I sat in my seat and listened to that morning’s roll call, I could feel the eyes of my peers upon me like vultures circling my combination chair/desk, getting ready to attack at any moment. How could they have all found out about her in one weekend?
“Adena Halpern?” Ms. Greaser, the homeroom teacher, asked taking roll call.
“You mean Madena?” Greg Garron snickered.
The crowd went into hysterics. I was mortified.
I went into the bathroom before first period and wiped the faux mole off my face. Maybe it was a little too much.
It was my first lesson in perpetrating a look: Never go for the entire look head-on, just go for little nuances of it.
The next day I arrived in class, my hair was still disheveled, since that was the part I liked the best, but I eighty-sixed the mole, the wire bracelets (which were poking into my skin anyway and I was afraid they would slit my wrists), and I wore a pair of Girbaud neon-orange parachute pants with my blue-and-white-striped Vans sneakers. I knew I looked like the bastard child of Madonna and Bozo the Clown, but I was my own person, not a carbon copy of someone else.
I’ve seen Madonna through almost every stage of her material life. When Madonna cut the do-rag and went like a virgin, I was enthralled. Not only was I like a virgin, I was a virgin, and the bustier I found at Screaming Mimi’s gave me the figure that would soon make me otherwise. When she affixed a long faux ponytail and played Truth or Dare, I took the dare and sadly got that ponytail stuck in some subway doors. The last I saw of my faux mane, it was kind of waving good-bye as it flapped in the wind when the subway took off and made its way toward Grand Central Station.
I did skip the geisha look, and when Madonna came out with the sex book, I skipped that look too.
These days, Madonna has been more apt to wear tailored suits, which really aren’t my thing, so I’ve sort of broken off from her, but I’m always
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