Friday, July 29, 2011
About which I am plenty enthused.
Another way of putting this: I'm supposed to dance in a showcase on Sunday, this coming Sunday, and I still don't have anything to wear. So that there I sit, in a studio abuzz with talk about tailor-made dresses, hand-stoned dresses, new satin shoes, fine hair, sequined headbands, items that require tape measures and pins, thinking: I haven't even been to the mall (which is not, by the way, where the fine ballroom dresses are known to live).
I didn't grow up thinking about beauty the way most girls did. I grew up wondering how hard I could kick the ball, how fast I could run the race, how well I could rhyme my poems. I am, therefore, at a deficit. And perhaps am no woman after all.
To the mall I go. You can picture me there. And I don't want to hear a thing come Sunday about the ruthless wild country that is my hair. There's only so far I am willing to go and besides, my clients need me to stay right here, near the desk, on this side of invisible, where clothes don't matter one bit.