Remember That Cute Little Girl?
Remember the pride and joy you felt, as a parent, sending your little girl off into the big, bad world of school? All her schoolbooks carefully packed in a rucksack, school uniform clean and smartly pressed, eager for the future? Remember the keen anticipation of those first few weeks, of new friends?
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Finally, away from the little kids, the ones who are too young to play with any more, the ones still stuck in the sandpit or playing with Barbie dolls. And then, a few months later, once the new school year has really got going, you’re confronted with something else, some else walking back through the door, dropped off by the school bus and you think: what?
What went wrong? Is it me? Did we raise our little girl all wrong? Or is it the school and she’s fallen under bad influences. Suddenly our little girl – and I remember it from many of my classmates back in the day, is halfway grown up and determined to show it. Now she’s hit the world of fashion, of presentation, the world where there are boys – or other girls – and where appearance is of prime importance.
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It could be a good thing, reserved and tasteful. On the other hand, perhaps something walks into your house and the first thing you want to do is get out there with your shotgun and find those who did this to her. Has she been hurt? Will she be scarred for life? Is it, perhaps, a gang thing?
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Suddenly all the innocence is gone, all the care-free times, all the loving moments together as a family. There is a monster in the house, one who needs an hour in the bathroom each morning just to get her eyebrows straight. One who leaves smears of color on the sink and kisses across the mirror. Pillowcases are suddenly in danger of becoming mosaics of rubbed in face, if they can be found amid the debris of other clothing where once the carpet could be seen.
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I’m sorry, but has anyone actually tried to kiss you? I mean, would anyone even want to? Imagine that mass of pink stuff, that chemical concoction of man-made whale fat advancing towards your lips for a quick smooch, even a brush across your cheek.
Men, I know why you have beards now: it’s easier to shave the remains away than to wash it off.
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Jaundice. Has her face seen the sun recently? I mean, felt the warmth of sun rays on clear skin, the fresh breeze blowing? She scares me, because this is exactly the look one of our teachers had, in High School, when she planned a punishment or mulled over detention.
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I don’t know why, but I am reminded of someone, someone in a Hollywood movie like the big bad witch of the north or something and I have the feeling that if someone slapped her, the whole thing will fall off in one piece, complete, a perfect impression of her face ready to be fixed back on again.
What happened to subtle make-up? What happened to a light enhancement of cheekbones and a little eye-liner, or a touch of lipstick? Why do so many younger women feel the need to hide their natural beauty behind a concoction of gunk as if they’re in a Geisha lookalike competition? I just want to get a wet towel, smack it across their face and see if there is a human underneath. Although, thinking about it, I’m not sure that there will be one after all.
Love & Kisses, Viki.
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