I started reading my mother’s Vogue when I was nine. Although I couldn’t articulate half the words I read, I knew just enough to stare at the sleek pages occupied with Hollywood actresses who led glamorous lives and wore gorgeous Burberry scarves and carried around Prada bags that cost more than all my clothes combined.
When I was ten, I subscribed to the Seventeen Magazine behind my father’s back, who took the title literally and claimed that I should be at least seventeen to read it. I waited anxiously every first week of the month by the mailbox to collect the next issue that appeared to hold all the answers about makeup, hair care, and latest trends, which together combined the meaning of life for me.
All I ever wanted to do was grow up, to be extraordinary and mature beyond my years. I couldn’t wait for the day when I could wear five inch heels, shop at forbidden stores like Express and Gucci, and cake my eyes with eyeliner and mascara. My father was against my sudden desire to change and placed restrictions on anything that came to his mind.
Do not wear hair dye or streaks or any other chemical hair products.
Do not wear shorts or skirts unless they go past your knees.
Do not wear clothes that show your cleavage.
Do not wear nail polish of any color.
Do not wear perfume.
Do not wear earrings.
Do not wear makeup.
The list goes on. But of course, me being me, I rebelled. Starting from sixth grade, I would layer pullovers, which my parents very much approved, over my low-cut tops from Express and don baggy sweatpants over miniskirts from Forever 21. I would take off the pullovers and sweatpants once I got dropped off at school. I would sneak makeup and temporary hair dye in my backpack and put them on in the school bathroom right before the bell rang and wash it off before I got picked up.
And because my friends were skipping classes, I thought it was right to follow in their steps and skip too. We would head for the local Starbucks right after homeroom and come back at lunchtime. When we go to parties, I would tell my parents I’m at a school debate meeting or at a school fundraiser. My parents always bought my explanations and my friends and I would always laugh at their obliviousness. I felt special, and even powerful, as my friends and I enter school each day, and my classmates gaze at us in awe.
But like everything else in life, I had to pay a price. My parents were called for conferences due to my falling grades and lack of attendance. It didn’t take long for everything to unravel – the classes skipping, the undone homework, and the nonexistent clubs.
I was grounded and although I was extremely upset at first, viciously throwing a tantrum, I later began to question myself and my behavior. By high school, every other girl began wearing makeup and high heels and perfume. And suddenly, being grown up wasn’t so great anymore. With adolescence came superficiality, and the rat race to be popular, to be gorgeous, and to be known. I poured into the magazines for solutions and my passion for fashion became a true obsession. Seventeen expanded to Teen Vogue, Elle, and Stay Fit, none of which had enough answers to make me happy. I was always on some diet and after years of looking at supermodels and celebrities, what I saw in the mirror wasn’t good enough. I could never be as skinny or as pretty or as anything to be extraordinary, and I became what I always feared: just another high school girl.
But I learned that being “just another high school girl” is not that bad, because that is me. I am not the kind of person that skips classes. I am not the kind of person that wears inappropriate outfits. I am not the kind of person that fabricates lies to my parents just to please friends. School should not be about how a person dresses or what a person does; it should be about who that person is on the inside. My four magazines have decreased to one, and when they run out, I won’t be renewing them, even with the promise of free perfume with a one year subscription. The miniskirts and low-cut tops were shelved and I wore more comfortable t-shirts and loose pants. Although my friends dwindled, I felt I now was controlling and directing the route of my life, the path I should take.
I was happy.
THE END
Okay, so that wasn't exactly the end. In fact, it was more of a beginning, a good one. I still wanted to go back to the days when people didn’t judge you on what you wore or how you looked. I still wanted to be that little girl who dreamed about growing up and becoming extraordinary and thought that she could find all the answers in the pages of a magazine. And I’m still trying – trying to find the middle ground between being an adolescent and an adult.
I guess I’m stilling changing. So I can't say this change will end or even have an ending because it's just life. And I'm going to do my best to try and really live it one step at a time. I’m extraordinary, just because I’m me.
BEGIN
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