I guess as far as crimes against fashion go, my mother would have been considered a repeat offender. She rarely put herself in the firing line however, oh no, I seemed to be the one taking the bullet. Her biggest misdemeanour involved me. And my hair. See she liked my hair short. I liked it long but I was 6 so she won that particular round. Exhibit A:
The worst was yet to come though. And it happened when I should have been at the top of my game, Year 6. Well technically I gave her the go ahead. See, she loved to see me with short hair, while I on the other hand, knew the only way to my first kiss and/or boyfriend was to not look like a guy. But she got me with the almighty dollar. She offered me fifty bucks if I would get my hair cut short. See, right there, that’s messed up. I mean, who does that? But being the easily bought little good for nothing that I was, I accepted.
I took my Dolly Magazine down to the salon, showed the hairdresser a picture of a model with a short yet stylish short ‘do’, sat down and waited to be transformed. The result? A brunette Ronald McDonald.
Pretty much not one of my school “friends” spoke to me for almost 5 months. Here’s a heads up: Fifty bucks can only buy you so many packets of chicken twisties and hair gel to take away the pain.
Now they say clothes don’t maketh the man, but they almost certainly maketh the teenager, raging her way through puberty. I am testament to this. See, back when I was around 14, I wanted labels. Those labels on the Gold Coast were Cheetah and Oakley. Sadly, even back then, over 20 years ago, a pair of Cheetah togs were $70. Oakley sunnies were over a hundred, yet the fact that mum could not supply these made me feel undeservedly hard done by.