other people in your class were thirty-eight
debutantes.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. There were only ten debutantes in our class that year; the other twenty-eight had to make do with their trust funds. Needless to say, nonconformity was not an option.
The girls I went to school with fit into three models: The first, in every sense of the word, were the gorgeous, slim-hipped, size-six (in my day, the popular girls weren’t size zero yet—which is a really frightening prospect for teens these days), usually blonde, milk-and-cream-skinned goddesses; these girls were so frighteningly pretty that when they graduated they made a profession out of it, and not just by modeling. The prettiest girl in my high school went on to marry an heir to an oil fortune, and she now graces glossy magazines with riveting tales of how she stocks her closet. Still, she’s not a fashionista. There’s a difference between fashionista and just being rich enough to buy nice things. Real fashionistas have a joie de vivre, a certain wacky irrepressibility that keeps them just shy of overt materialism.
The other two types of girls at my school were the aspirational, snub-nosed, dark-haired girls who acted like ladies-in-waiting to the goddesses, while the third group was made up of everyone else: the misfits.
The misfits at my school included anyone who didn’t wear a red Patagonia jacket over her uniform. To this day, I consider red (or blue) Patagonia jackets the uniform of the oppressor. I went to school wearing an ankle-length green army trench coat with epaulets and a beret. (The beret was a jaunty addition.) Other days I wore a gray fedora and an extra-long silk snakeprint scarf that I tied to my knee in homage to John Taylor of Duran Duran. “What’s up with the fedora?” I would hear the girls whisper.
“What’s up with the scarf?”
“Why is it on her
knee?
”
Mel at a really bad age. Her hair is bigger than the Xmas tree!
I could have explained that I was working a skate-punk-hip-hop-quasi-alternonew-wave-mall-rat look. But with my dyed-blond bangs, feathered hair, three-dollar Salvation Army blazer, and a best friend who dyed her long hair red with Kool-Aid and snorted when she laughed, I had no hope. On certain special Fridays, our school initiated a “free dress” day, wherein students were allowed to wear whatever they wanted—within reason (i.e., no midriff-baring shirts or spandex leggings—as if!). Most of my classmates took the opportunity to bust out the Benetton, Esprit, Guess? jeans, cable-knit sweaters (the sweater of the oppressor!), and a colorful palette of pastels, plaids, or khakis.
I still remember my favorite free-dress outfit. It was a checkered minisuit (with mighty stiff shoulder pads), white tights, ruched boots, and my fake Louis Vuitton bucket bag. I still remember how much it cost—$19.99 from Foxmoor, a trendy store in the mall. It was my “New York” outfit. When I wore it, I dreamed I was dashing around the streets of Manhattan, a smart, successful, independent woman. I was sixteen then, and little did I know New Yorkers would never be caught dead in white tights and the hellacious perm I am sporting in this picture. But back then, this outfit was my rebellion against the cookie-cutter preppy wear of my peers. And even if I cringe when I see it, I’m still proud of the suburban girl who had big-city dreams bigger than her hair.
Bittersweet Sixteen
KAREN
When I was sixteen, I begged my parents to get me an oversize Dallas Cowboys fully sequined royal-blue football jersey—with shoulder pads and number on the back—to wear to my best friend’s birthday party. It was expensive, so they said no. Not having it felt like such agony. I had no idea how I’d even get out of the house on the eve of her sixteenth year. Clearly no other ensemble would do. And one sweet day, my mother came home with it to surprise me (she got it through a friend, who knew a friend who worked in the showroom
debutantes.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. There were only ten debutantes in our class that year; the other twenty-eight had to make do with their trust funds. Needless to say, nonconformity was not an option.
The girls I went to school with fit into three models: The first, in every sense of the word, were the gorgeous, slim-hipped, size-six (in my day, the popular girls weren’t size zero yet—which is a really frightening prospect for teens these days), usually blonde, milk-and-cream-skinned goddesses; these girls were so frighteningly pretty that when they graduated they made a profession out of it, and not just by modeling. The prettiest girl in my high school went on to marry an heir to an oil fortune, and she now graces glossy magazines with riveting tales of how she stocks her closet. Still, she’s not a fashionista. There’s a difference between fashionista and just being rich enough to buy nice things. Real fashionistas have a joie de vivre, a certain wacky irrepressibility that keeps them just shy of overt materialism.
The other two types of girls at my school were the aspirational, snub-nosed, dark-haired girls who acted like ladies-in-waiting to the goddesses, while the third group was made up of everyone else: the misfits.
The misfits at my school included anyone who didn’t wear a red Patagonia jacket over her uniform. To this day, I consider red (or blue) Patagonia jackets the uniform of the oppressor. I went to school wearing an ankle-length green army trench coat with epaulets and a beret. (The beret was a jaunty addition.) Other days I wore a gray fedora and an extra-long silk snakeprint scarf that I tied to my knee in homage to John Taylor of Duran Duran. “What’s up with the fedora?” I would hear the girls whisper.
“What’s up with the scarf?”
“Why is it on her
knee?
”
Mel at a really bad age. Her hair is bigger than the Xmas tree!
I could have explained that I was working a skate-punk-hip-hop-quasi-alternonew-wave-mall-rat look. But with my dyed-blond bangs, feathered hair, three-dollar Salvation Army blazer, and a best friend who dyed her long hair red with Kool-Aid and snorted when she laughed, I had no hope. On certain special Fridays, our school initiated a “free dress” day, wherein students were allowed to wear whatever they wanted—within reason (i.e., no midriff-baring shirts or spandex leggings—as if!). Most of my classmates took the opportunity to bust out the Benetton, Esprit, Guess? jeans, cable-knit sweaters (the sweater of the oppressor!), and a colorful palette of pastels, plaids, or khakis.
I still remember my favorite free-dress outfit. It was a checkered minisuit (with mighty stiff shoulder pads), white tights, ruched boots, and my fake Louis Vuitton bucket bag. I still remember how much it cost—$19.99 from Foxmoor, a trendy store in the mall. It was my “New York” outfit. When I wore it, I dreamed I was dashing around the streets of Manhattan, a smart, successful, independent woman. I was sixteen then, and little did I know New Yorkers would never be caught dead in white tights and the hellacious perm I am sporting in this picture. But back then, this outfit was my rebellion against the cookie-cutter preppy wear of my peers. And even if I cringe when I see it, I’m still proud of the suburban girl who had big-city dreams bigger than her hair.
Bittersweet Sixteen
KAREN
When I was sixteen, I begged my parents to get me an oversize Dallas Cowboys fully sequined royal-blue football jersey—with shoulder pads and number on the back—to wear to my best friend’s birthday party. It was expensive, so they said no. Not having it felt like such agony. I had no idea how I’d even get out of the house on the eve of her sixteenth year. Clearly no other ensemble would do. And one sweet day, my mother came home with it to surprise me (she got it through a friend, who knew a friend who worked in the showroom
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