Lest you think that my fashion problems emerged as an off-shoot of work-at-home motherhood, I present to you the following.
Picture This: Upstate NY. Spring, 1990. 14 years old.
I am on my way to my 8th grade dance at the Catholic grammar school I attended for nine years.
Note the following:
The gigantic poof of bangs took me and a curling iron at least 30 minutes to perfect in the mirror before school each morning. I then applied half a can of Aqua Net to them to seal the deal (literally). They were bullet-proof.I sported this long, permed look for two years in grammar school. It's hard to see in this photo, but the chemicals created an adorable two-toned look to my cascading mane of nastiness once the perms began to grow out.
And lastly, my dress. Yes, I attended a Catholic school. Yes, I was puritanical, nerdy, sheltered, and totally square. But what in the hell was I thinking when I selected this dress? The drop-waist, asymmetrical, multi-tiered hem? The color, which looks like I bought it in Boca while visiting my grandma? And the coverage? I think the Duggars show more skin.
I didn't do much better in high school.
Picture This: Upstate NY. Spring, 1993. 16 years old
I am about to depart for the junior prom at my Catholic high school.
The hair is slightly improved, although not much.
The dress, however, is horrendous. It is white, people. WHITE, for the love of all this is good and holy!
And I am wearing white tights! And satin shoes!
And apparently, from my pose and expression, I actually believe I look quite good.
Fortunately, my boyfriend at the time thought I hung the moon and therefore bit his tongue about my attire.
I'm so sexy, it hurts.