I’ve always been fascinated by beauty, although I haven’t necessarily been entirely committed to the most consistent beauty regimen. When I was six I knew that I wanted to be a costume designer (or maybe a veterinarian...), and made my own Barbie clothes from scraps I scavenged from the seamstresses down at the cleaners. I taught myself how to sew, and made the most bee-OO-tiful dresses for my dolls. I was such a Barbie girl.
I didn’t see much practical application to my interests, though...Mom made me dress in bulky sweaters and neon scrunchies that were tres Midwest 1988, and I was not the most attractive individual in general, with the scars and painful thinness. I was skinny, but not in a pretty model way...more like in an emaciated, translucent sickly kid way. I didn’t see much point in trying out my newfound sense of lookism on myself...I would never look like Audrey Hepburn.
It was when I was maybe twelve that things started to get a little screwed up. I bought my first copy of 'Teen magazine, because I thought that was what you were supposed to do when you were nearly a teenager...buy fashion magazines. I probably would have bought into the whole “happiness through perfect looks” concept, too, except for...you know what, I don’t know what saved me. I’d like to think it was my incredibly strong sense of self, but to be honest, no one has a strong sense of self in their early teens. It might have been my feminist upbringings. I don’t know.
Right around then I also started reading the bane of junior high schools, Sweet Valley High books. You may not believe this, but I was deeply into Sweet Valley propaganda for about five years. I devoured those things like Mallomars, which is appropriate because the nutritional content is about equal. I bought the whole “High school really IS this cool and perfect!” bullcrap they espoused, and was genuinely disappointed that, um, no, you won’t instantly be the attractive girl with a hot boyfriend and millions of great friends when you get to ninth grade and higher. Y’see, those books didn’t explain that in order to get these fabulous prizes, you first need a modicum of social skills. And social skills were something they didn’t even mention in those books, because everyone mysteriously knows exactly how to behave around everyone else. It was frustrating in the extreme.
Around that time, I’d also started buying Judy Blume books...you know, the ones where all the characters are Interested In Boys about around sixth grade or so and have Normal Life Experiences? I fully and completely bought into those books, and when the title character in Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret started having hissy fits because she didn’t have her period until the ripe old age of twelve, I started panicking. I was abnormal! I hadn’t taken into account my extreme non-growth spurts, and stayed panicked for two years, until the Menstruation Fairy blessed me with a visit. I’ve spent the years since wishing to all God that menarche never existed (quite a literal pain in the ass), but such is life.
By then it was the mid 1990s, and I was getting all of my sense of style from episodes of Roseanne and Saved By the Bell. I thought Darlene Conner was the shit, and wanted to be just like her, all creative and cool and sarcastic, with maybe less emphasis on the big hair. I’ve been told I’ve at least partially succeeded. Meh. I started becoming very eclectic in my tastes, and began wearing all sorts of funky things, often culled from Mom’s old clothes. My favourite “look” was to pair a long-sleeved shirt with a patchy denim vest procured from the J.C. Penney’s (not as geeky as it sounds...at the time it was the ONLY place anyone could buy nice new clothes, barring trips to Grand Rapids) and top it off with my silver sunflower necklace. Yeah, I had it goin’ on, especially when I took up that time-honoured adolescent tradition of bra-stuffing. Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, eat your heart out.
I was completely oblivious about social structure in junior high, and plodded merrily along for three years, certain that my meager attempts at fitting in would be rewarded when high school rolled around. It wasn’t until eighth grade or so that I discovered that being cool wasn’t about being unique...it was about fitting in and wearing what everyone else was wearing and being perfect and pastel-cardiganed and a model of femininity. I took a step back and really looked at my peers, discovering them to be vapid, shallow caricatures of trends. Such was the start of my disillusionment.
I lost a lot of public interest in fashion, determined not to be like my vapid, shallow peers. I wore plaid shirts and holey jeans. Fortunately, grunge was “in” by this time (it was the mid-90s, but when you’re in Michigan, trends are always a few years late in blooming, and plaid is a timeless Midwest classic), and everyone was dressing like Kurt and company.
Late in high school, I met DC, who became--and still is--a huge influence on me (in a good way!). Since she wore black clothes and vampire necklaces, well, Freya see Freya do. When she got me into role-playing, I completely dug the whole Goth groove and started building up a lot of black in my wardrobe. By this time I’d also discovered the joys of Delia*s catalogues, and had begun dressing fashionably again, although not slavishly trendy. To give you an idea, I dressed like Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, with maybe a tad less emphasis on colour. Any time I wore cosmetics, I was always--what now? Yep. Heavy on the eye makeup.
When I went to Prom my junior year (because, despite having no boyfriend and less than a handful of friends, of COURSE I had to go to Prom! High school isn’t worth going through if you don’t get the Prom Experience!), I went the El Cheapo way and bought all my Prom Gear at J.C. Penney’s for less than $80 altogether. This includes dress, shoes, jewelry, and make-up, for which Mom had me go to a salon and get done that day (and yes, I was heavy on the eye makeup...). I still remember what I had...hell, it’s all still in my closet. Short blue metallic dress with spaghetti straps, black open-toed sandals with four-inch heels (I still love those shoes, and call them “My Bond girl heels”), a sparkly necklace with grey crystal beads, and a black crocheted cardigan (in case I got cold or shy). I looked highly out out of place among all the pastel satin eveningwear.
It was not fun. I did the Prom thing for the requisite three hours, then spent the rest of the evening tagging along after my sister and her friends, who were all in various involvements with the high school theater group. I remember we spent a long time driving around in a piece of shit with the windows rolled up, since it was cold (spring in Michigan is usually 40 degrees Farenheit or lower), while everyone excepting Sally and myself chain-smoked Pall Malls (which are a nasty kind of cigarettes that emit thick brown smoke).
That, however, was an Timeless Adventure To Be Relived compared to my senior Prom. I went with a former friend whose name I will not mention (we are no longer friends due to an unrelated incident, and I do so out of vestigial respect), and spent fifteen minutes getting all gussied up in a brand-new (Mom INSISTED I buy a new Prom dress, since I had used my old blue metallic dress twice in a row the previous year) $120 silver floral strapless dress from trusty old J.C. Penney’s. Then I waited, I kid you not, three hours for her to get ready. I still remember, “I’ll be out in a little while,” and the bathroom door closing, and I waited. And waited. And waited. And the door opened. “Forgot my nail polish.” Sigh.
The Prom itself? Well, to quote Buffy, “On a scale of one to ten? It sucked.” We showed up, and she had a panic attack after thinking someone was making fun of her dress, and decided to leave within fifteen minutes. I should have gone with her, but I was determined to get my $15 fee out of that crepe-infested gymnasium, and elected to stay. Three of the suckiest, most pointless and depressing hours of my life. I amused myself by throwing popcorn in the air and catching it with my mouth, and dancing alone in a corner (I asked no one, since Nice Catholic Boy wasn’t there and otherwise what was the point? and no one asked me). By then I’d inherited a reputation for being kinda a nasty psychotic bitch, and the last person who had communicated with me at a dance had gotten a punch to the back of the head for his efforts. Yes, I punched a guy at the Winter Dance. I’m such a hard-ass.
After high school, I got a lot more free time, which I used (and still use) for futzing around on the internet. Here’s where Phil can point and laugh and say, “I told you so!” because, yeah, I got a lot of fashion ideas from Shanmonster’s site...that and Faith on Buffy (relax, I’m not that much of a slut). That and exposure to alternative folks at GenCon made quite an impression on my shopping habits. I got fairly into the goth/punk thing, with a huge streak of good old fashioned dorkiness. I now dress like...okay, get ready for a bizarre mental image: Gothic Willow (no, not Vamp Willow), with masculine accents, Asian designs, punk accessories, and a slightly elven air. Mix it up with clothing procured from children’s stores, and you have FreyaStyle (patent pending). I’m a strange egg, I am.
And I still tend to go heavy on the eye makeup.