“You look like Stevie Nicks,” said the Wise Elder.
As I looked at my spread eagle reflection in the mirror, I was inclined to agree. Pink fringed arms akimbo, I looked as far removed from the edge of 17 as a 38-year old woman could be.
“I was thinking Tina Turner,” I replied, “but I get your gist.
“The last bus to Nut Bush City honey left in 1973,” came a half-whisper.
She was right. And with that I disrobed. I couldn’t help but mentally berate myself again for yet another personal style misdemeanour. Despite the tassel-clad cardigan’s inherent craftsmanship, it just wasn’t ‘me’.
“A quick question,” enquired the voice of reason from the other side of the room. “Just how were you planning on reconciling bohemia with a rockabilly quiff?”
Busted. I had all the cool kid / festival pedigree of a suburban housewife. I’d never even been to Coachella or The Electric Picnic. And The Burning Man for all I knew could be an STD.
“I guess I just got caught up in the beauty of it all. I keep thinking I can make it work but...”
“I’m really hoping here that your clothes horse mentality is not some sort of allegory for your relationships with men; otherwise, you are royally screwed.”
She was right. My last boyfriend fit as (im)perfectly as a pair of apocryphal size 10 jeans: willing them on, barely able to button them and then struggling to hide the garish muffin top.
“You’re going to have to learn that you can’t always wear you want; sometimes, you’ll just have to learn when to say ‘no’.”
“I guess I’m a bit like Annie Oakley,” I joked.
“Try telling that to your bank balance.”
