My sister used to dress me up
like a doll.
Big fancy dresses,
tons of make-up,
and extravagant props,
using backdrops specifically for the photos,
of course.
I thought dolls were boring.
How do you build something with a doll?
Or make a doll move
with gears
and pieces that fit together
so you could make them do something
interesting?
Even a blank piece of paper had more potential than a doll.
And the way my sister pulled my hair –
trying to curl it
putting it up in some fancy-schmancy way – hurt.
A lot.
It was always too big,
and the hairspray stunk.
Not to mention it was a l o n g time to sit still.
Complete torture.
And I hated dresses.
Ech.
When I was older, she wouldn’t even let me leave the house until she approved of my outfit.
If When I came out of my room wearing something she didn’t approve of, she would actually make me go back to my room and change, which drove me crazy.
Whatever sort of style I had was probably due to Punky Brewster* not any fashion trend you would find in a magazine. No color-coordinated outfits, heels, fluffy dresses, little skirts, blouses… (Blouses? Really?)
And that drove her crazy.
My sister wanted me to have style and
believed I had to match.
I couldn’t clash;
I had to be presentable.
I played along for a while because I cared about her –
and it was important to her.
She loved me and
took the time to try to help (my helpless self).
Eventually I had to learn how to gracefully say no
(I said learn),
and figure out how to be me – whoever that is.
I didn’t – don’t – do outfits.
I still hate dresses.
If I could, I would wear shorts and a t-shirt every day. Shoes if necessary, I guess. Done.
I could never be that doll.
I’m sure there are a lot of pictures of me in those photo shoots where I was upset or crying that never made it into the family albums, but I guess I have to admit some of those pictures are memorable – even if they aren’t really me.
If nothing else, I guess they deserve a good laugh.
* Punky Brewster ©1984-1988