I came of age in the ’80s, a decade largely (at least in my schools) ruled by Queen Gloria Vanderbilt, Lady Bonne Bell, Lord Simon LeBon, and Prince. Emerging from a young childhood in the free-wheelin’ ’70s, where “cool” was a banana-seated bike and all-you-can-drink hose water, I found myself unable to keep up with the credit-card kids of consumerism.
My family didn’t have much expendable cash flow, so I did “cool” the best way possible. I’d borrow ankle-zippered designer jeans and flowy ESPRIT tops from friends and scour the clearance racks of Lerner and The Limited. My pop music education came from the newly minted MTV and the comfort of Casey Kasem’s voice on “American Top 40.”
In middle school, I was obsessed with makeup and pantyhose (what?). When I asked Mom about wearing the coveted treasures, she quickly replied with a strict timeline that she must have rehearsed because how do you recite such preciseness off the cuff?
- Age 12: I could shave my legs.
- Age 14: I could wear pantyhose.
- Age 15: I could wear makeup.
- Age 16: I could date.
Age 12 came and went, and THANK GOD because I had dark leg hair and was mortified wearing shorts. Age 14 arrived, and I was duly rewarded with a fine pair of L’Eggs (suntan, of course). I was still a year away from wearing makeup, but that didn’t stop me. With babysitting money ($1 an hour and all the name-brand snacks I could devour), I purchased a palette of Wet n’ Wild eyeshadow featuring glitzy hues of blue. Thinking myself a clever one, I’d leave the house sans makeup, and then apply my “face” on the bumpy, no-suspension-whatsoever Bluebird yellow school bus. I was a GENIUS . . . until I wasn’t.
- Dumbass move #1: I borrowed someone’s charcoal gray eyeliner on the bus and wound up with a raging case of pink eye.
- Dumbass move #2: I didn’t put two and two together (math isn’t my strong suit) and showed up for school picture day wearing thick swaths of uneven blue eyeshadow up to my eyebrows, AND I’d smeared the icy blue shadow over my lips. Classy! Did I take any of it off before picture time? Oh, hell no. I didn’t realize my dumbassery until I pulled the finished photos from the giant envelope and gasped. This would not land well with Mom, but I went home and handed her the overpriced photo package. The main thing I remember from the big reveal is that she told me I was wearing “Star Wars” makeup. Then she showed me how to properly wear the stuff. A whole year ahead of schedule. BOOYA!
After years of trying to fit in, I finally found myself in predictable Gen X style—at a John Hughes movie. My friend and I rushed to the mall’s cinema the weekend Pretty in Pink premiered, and I left the theater steeped in Molly Ringwald-flavored epiphanies.
- I could be my version of cool. I didn’t have to look like everyone else. I could inexpensively create unique outfits from thrift store finds. I could dye my hair reddish and shave half of it. I could add a damn rat tail. WHO CARES? I DO draw the line at Andie’s godawful prom dress. I mean . . .
- I needed to own the soundtrack immediately and became the biggest Psychedelic Furs fan 1986 had ever seen. In fact, they were my first real concert. John Hughes was my music tastemaker.
- Screw Blane. I was and am Team Duckie.
Well, I’m glad pantyhose have gone the way of the parachute pants. I’m not impressed by brand-named clothing, but I love a good thrift find and appreciate quality—I love my personal mish-mash style. I don’t borrow eye makeup anymore and automatically question the Star-Wars-ness of my eyeshadow.
And bless the Psychedelic Furs and Richard Butler’s raspy, grizzled voice. I’m seeing them again this September. I might wear pink.
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