May 13, 2007

Fluffy, Huffy, Hussies
(The dramas and traumas of mamas)

Ahhhh, Prom Night! At last little girls get to act really grown up and make their parents proud. As I sat in the nail salon waiting for my geriatric manicure and pedicure, I observed three different cultures in one small room—two male and one female technicians from Viet Nam, various moms with daughters who appeared Hispanic, and myself and two other women with girls who were definitely Anglos.

Having been to the salon on several occasions, I knew a little about the techs. They had escaped Viet Nam after the war, leaving many family members behind. Their goal was to reach safety and help provide for their remaining loved ones whose lives and livelihood were devastated. The three of them operate the salon, each doing whatever and whoever is next. Six days a week from 9:00 AM until the last customer leaves; and when asked about vacation plans, one replied, “We don’t take vacation…we work…”

Their diverse clientele wove a story of its own as I observed. One of the daughters of a Hispanic woman had a toddler child. The other American girl was getting her toes and nails done for the night’s prom, and had brought her date’s boutonniere into the salon as a safety precaution against the heat outside. One of the American girls had something printed on the butt of her jeans which, I’m sure, had stopped traffic when she had crossed the busy highway to rejoin her taxi-mom being pampered and pedicured.

But speaking negatively of women’s attire is like attacking a major religion. And so I kept my mouth shut and went back to browsing the magazine whose purpose and profits were designed to do just the opposite. Buy, buy, buy no matter how it looks, feels, or launders. Little did the editors know how savvy I am!

First of all, people such as the Pope and other elites have dubs on all the golden gowns, robes, shawls, hats, jewelry, accessories, and house décor within their sovereign walls.

Secondly, fashion for centuries has been controlled by males, or more truthfully, by homosexual males. Thank goodness! I’m really looking forward to reaching critical mass in the sex change arena of modern medicine—men to women that is. When men remove their penises and replace their parts with a very sensitive membrane crevice leading to even more tender realms, fashion will change. She-men in pants, thongs, and wired chest slings will begin to resent that constant irritation of seams, elastics, fabrics, and friction where none should be except by invitation.

Above the waist, that bra-hoo-hoo is another tear-jerker altogether. A symbol of womanhood (woe-man-hood) in many cultures, the brassiere, French dontcha know, is a lethal contraption for females, while men perceive them as arousingly challenging. Designed to squeeze the life out of you through your nipples, bras should’ve been burned long before the ‘60’s. Yes, support is desirable, and perky mammaries are coveted, but constraints to breathing are simply unfair! However, corsets are back by popular demand from the he-he, she-she, she-he, and he-she crowds. Wouldn’t old Louie be pleased, darling!

Shoes—oh my god—I’d love to see a gay guy wear those needle-nosed ice-pick pumps they design for at least eight hours on concrete and during mandatory California Swing dancing lessons. Abu-Graib knows nothing of real torture—their prisoners were made to go barefoot.

Thirdly, women should never criticize what other women wear. Every girl knows that by age three. Women who wear the burka, neck rings, or have their feet bound do so generally by agreement or other form of trade to insure acceptance, favor, prosperity, and/or protection. Many forms of dress we ridicule or rise up against are seen within our own culture and totally approved. Nuns in habits look little differently than so-called prisoners of the burka. And besides, we don’t know what’s under the burka, or habit, or couture d’ jour!

Fourthly, the more masculinity in a culture, the more subdued the feminine attire. You’d think the opposite! What does that tell you about the culture to which you pledge allegiance? The merchants before whom you bow? Well, okay, okay. I’m guilty as charged and charge all I can to look the way I think they want me to look. I just don’t want them to look away!

Fifthly, global climate and geological shifts will ultimately decide what we wear at any given hour. That makes it really, really hard to decide what to keep in one’s closet at all times. It is difficult enough with winter and summer choices! Add quakes, and ‘namis, and maybe even nuclear fallout—fashion police, help! See how we’re entrapped by the runway bunch in exchange for acceptance and protection?

Sixthly, boys and men have a standardized approved uniform. Whatever his hero wears he wears. Whatever she wears, he wants to take off anyway, so why bother. Remember the merchants of Venice? Didn’t someone recently report their cash registers have pontoons? The sounds of which brought me out of my ‘zine zone’s pseudo-shopping spree reverie and back to reality.

Perhaps I was just jealous of the younger generation primping for proms I wish I could still attend, but something about the scenario (besides the thought of dancing in stilettos) turned my stomach.

What did the teen mother think of the scenario occurring around her? Where would she be tonight? The younger siblings of the pampered? At what age would they adopt their look? The men techs fulfilling the girls’ glamour goals? The moms in waiting to pay the bill? What will tomorrow’s reward or shackles for today’s choices be?

My own “magical night” could have cost me my future. My mom had worked feverishly the night before the prom to finish my dress, as there was no money to buy such luxuries. I was allowed to wear makeup in public for the first time, which was a really big deal, but manicures and pedicures were years in my future.

Yes, I felt like a princess in waiting bedecked with crinolines and corsage. But the fluff of my attire was hiding the guilt I felt at having betrayed my steady boyfriend by attending the prom with someone else. I could’ve gotten in so much trouble that night, and I still wonder how I escaped my own naiveté. But that’s another embarrassing story. Although just a haze of memories now, I remember my night of nights wasn’t as much fun as I and everyone had schemed. But compared to the nail techs’ stories, mine, without fateful intervention, would’ve been about as bad as a good soap opera, if there is such a thing.

Isn’t it strange that night time television is producing a plethora of these hypnotic dramas, sudsy traumas and sexy pajamas, while real people with whom we interact on a daily basis are of little concern? But then I reckon the fake problems we see on TV are entertaining because they’re not ours. Push your magic button, Froggy, and they’re gone, as in early-day cartoon style.

Aren’t we Americans saturated with our own troubles after a long hard day at the office (if lucky enough to have a job), broken relationships (but always searching for the next best), out-sourced kids (if parents can afford to), raging religious wars (leftovers from the sixth century B.C.), and sensationalized public scandals (a continuing global pandemic)? Yet, we rush into the arms of our make-believe saviors—money in hand and willing to stand in line. No shoving, either, or I’ll have to hurtcha bad!

Happy Mothers (the real saviors) Day!
© 2007 Lynne Sims
#0007