I’m entering the land of the quarter life crisis and while trying not to cry about how old I suddenly appear to be, I’m also trying not to cry over the mistakes I made in the 90’s . I thank my lucky stars there are few photographs to document my fashion disasters but alas all in the name of honesty I will this very night reveal the details of the biggest fashion mistake/ all around disaster night of my life.
The night in question: My matric dance… what North Americans would refer to as Prom and British people ‘I’ve never had one of those ‘.
I was so nerdy and obsessed with films I didn’t know any boys so a friend of a friend set me up with my date. He seemed okay and I met him at the Milky Lane (American equivalent Dairy Queen, British equivalent Ben and Jerry’s) for our first meeting pre dance …we shook hands and tried to find something in common, I was all Nirvana and had just discovered Nick Drake and he was all Black Eyed Peas (pre Fergie) but he agreed to be my date so I didn’t care.
My mother drove us to the dance and all seemed okay until he refused to dance with me – fair enough for once you see this picture I’m about to reveal you’ll understand him wanting to avoid me – but later I couldn’t find him only to stumble across him tongue deep in another girls mouth. Slightly depressing but I rallied above the situation and ended up slow dancing with my friend Beverly confirming the school years suspicions I was lesbian while letting me take to the dance floor like a scene from Angus, like I’d always imagined my final school dance would be.
The night was horrible but taught me a valuable lesson, never trust your date with a slutty friend and don’t think you’re dancing to the beat of your own drum when you’re clearly drowning in a sea of individuality.
Case in point the reason why it all went tits up:
Yes I’m wearing braids and yes I’m blushing (it’s all I seemed to do in high school) and yes I was not under the influence of narcotics or alcohol …so I have no excuse but I was a bullied teen and took a page out of Madonna’s book and decided to express myself not repress myself only I was channeling the ethnic version of myself, which alarmed not only my parents but my ethnic friends. It’s embarassing to admit this but from 16 to 18 I had braids and wore corn rows because I thought I was cool. No amount of pleading from my friends could convince me to abandon my braids.
I’m still mortified when I think back but luckily age has brought with it a sense of humour and perhaps photographic proof for any mini-Anna-Lisa I might create in the way distant future why they should not express themselves and definitely repress themselves.
Damn these photos will come back to haunt me but I must admit they make me laugh because I really didn’t care what other people thought.
I wonder when I started to care and how sad that I’m 20 something and still do