One Sunday when I was 11, I walked to church with Mother. I was dressed the way Mother dressed me, like the most proper of proper 11-year old girls. We were walking by the Barasconi house when Angela Barasconi walked out onto the porch.
Angela was in her twenties. Her father had died the year before and her mother hadn’t recovered from it emotionally. I’d seen Angela plenty of times before, but I’d never really noticed her. Of course, I’d never seen her dressed the way she was now, or I’d have taken notice.
Mother and I walked by as Angela just stood on the porch. She was wearing a red dress and white high-heeled shoes and holding a white clutch purse, and somehow, she looked real busy doing it. She stood out against the sad, gray house and the unkempt lawn.
Mother didn’t even look at Angela, but I was mesmerized by her. Mother pulled me along by the hand. “Look straight ahead,” she whispered.
Her voice was stern, so I looked straight ahead. I didn’t understand why, but I knew that voice.
When we were several houses away, Mother said, “That Angela is trash. Imagine dressing like that. Ever. But on Sunday? With her mother still in mourning? Trash. Pure trash.”
I didn’t say a word. I knew better. I also knew right then that I wanted to look like trash when I got older. I’d never seen anybody so beautiful. And if plain-Jane Angela could transform herself, so could I. Her dark hair was curled and layered. She had on bright red lipstick and otherwise a gentle application of makeup. Her nails seemed to be two-toned, white and red.
I had been too far away to see her nails clearly and I only got a glance at them, anyway. It took everything I had not to run from Mother to go take a look at Angela’s nails to study the technique. I wanted to try to duplicate it. I wanted to experiment with nail polish as soon as possible, which would be never if Mother had anything to do with it.
Yes, trash was what I wanted to look like when I grew up. It clearly took a lot of effort to look like trash. A woman couldn’t just throw on any old red dress and slap on some makeup. No, to look the way Angela did on that particular Sunday, it took attention to detail, and patience.
But I was determined. I’d put in the effort by studying magazines, television shows, movies. Whatever it took. I’d study Angela herself, whenever I got the chance. If any other women came along that looked like trash, I’d study them, too.
As Mother and I walked on to church, I started working out a plan in my mind. For sure, when I grew up, I was going to look like trash and nobody was going to stop me. And unfortunately, nobody did.
Angela was in her twenties. Her father had died the year before and her mother hadn’t recovered from it emotionally. I’d seen Angela plenty of times before, but I’d never really noticed her. Of course, I’d never seen her dressed the way she was now, or I’d have taken notice.
Mother and I walked by as Angela just stood on the porch. She was wearing a red dress and white high-heeled shoes and holding a white clutch purse, and somehow, she looked real busy doing it. She stood out against the sad, gray house and the unkempt lawn.
Mother didn’t even look at Angela, but I was mesmerized by her. Mother pulled me along by the hand. “Look straight ahead,” she whispered.
Her voice was stern, so I looked straight ahead. I didn’t understand why, but I knew that voice.
When we were several houses away, Mother said, “That Angela is trash. Imagine dressing like that. Ever. But on Sunday? With her mother still in mourning? Trash. Pure trash.”
I didn’t say a word. I knew better. I also knew right then that I wanted to look like trash when I got older. I’d never seen anybody so beautiful. And if plain-Jane Angela could transform herself, so could I. Her dark hair was curled and layered. She had on bright red lipstick and otherwise a gentle application of makeup. Her nails seemed to be two-toned, white and red.
I had been too far away to see her nails clearly and I only got a glance at them, anyway. It took everything I had not to run from Mother to go take a look at Angela’s nails to study the technique. I wanted to try to duplicate it. I wanted to experiment with nail polish as soon as possible, which would be never if Mother had anything to do with it.
Yes, trash was what I wanted to look like when I grew up. It clearly took a lot of effort to look like trash. A woman couldn’t just throw on any old red dress and slap on some makeup. No, to look the way Angela did on that particular Sunday, it took attention to detail, and patience.
But I was determined. I’d put in the effort by studying magazines, television shows, movies. Whatever it took. I’d study Angela herself, whenever I got the chance. If any other women came along that looked like trash, I’d study them, too.
As Mother and I walked on to church, I started working out a plan in my mind. For sure, when I grew up, I was going to look like trash and nobody was going to stop me. And unfortunately, nobody did.
