Following on from my previous techno-centric musings, I have decided to delve, once again, into the joys and the absolute horrors of teenaging in the early 2000’s. Today’s instalment is focused on how I was expected to become a fully functioning female, without the assistance of Instagram filters or SnapChat air brushing, without ASOS telling me what to wear or Zoella teaching me how to apply a red lip without looking like a cheap whore.
It seems, rightly or more likely wrongly, I took a lot of my adolescent advice from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Thankfully it only took me a few attempts to come to terms with the fact that I could not perform witchcraft with the point of a finger, unfortunately fashion tips took me a little longer to source from elsewhere.
Behold, the butterfly grip. Every thirteen year old in the know knew the art of the twist and clip. Whether it was just the fringe pin or a half head or cornrows, I felt like pre-head shave Britney in these bad boys.
To accompany the above, no self-respecting teenage girl would be seen dead without the obligatory ‘Hippy Kitty’ t-shirt teamed with the most ridiculously flared jeans pocket money, or your mum, would allow. We all knew the drill, if they didn’t cover the entirety of your Sketchers, they weren’t mufti day material. If, like me, your mum was too tight for Tammy Girl, you could always customise/take the kitchen scissors to your C&A alternative.
When the time came and your mum, without muttering a word, neatly laid out a couple of Big Girl Bra’s on your bed, you wanted everyone to know: I am a fully fledged bra wearer! Whether it meant donning a vest mid-December, or graduating from the corner of the changing rooms, where you had so ferociously mastered the art of changing into your PE kit without displaying an inch of flesh, to strutting through the changing room in your ill-fitted, gaping A-cup. Everyone needed to know you had joined womanhood.
Once the Big Girl Bra club had become a little less prestigious and your tanga pants were beginning to cut into your burgeoning hips, the only natural progression was to venture into town on a pant shopping expedition with the besties, in search of the allusive thong. The first one was always the hardest to sneak through the wash without raising mothers suspicions, but once it landed back in a freshly laundered heap on your bed, you knew you were safe.
Much like the aforementioned bra, apparently everyone also now needed to be aware that I was now the proud owner of the thong. I had two pairs of school trousers (unfortunately neither of which were the Miss Sexies, flammable type that shed after going through the tumble dryer), and only one of which was low-rise. I would do my best to keep them as clean as possible so I could go a whole week of bending over desks, or kneeling down in assembly to reveal my florescent pink ‘I Heart Robbie Williams’ thong.
When I have a little girl, and she reaches adolescence, I will not buy her Mac cosmetics nor will I take her to the salon for highlights. She will be subjected to these:
And instead of doing this:
She will do this:
Not because I don’t think young people should be entitled to quality or technology, but because it is character building.
In reality, my children will most likely have almost everything they could possibly desire if it means I get to sit quietly watching Sex & the City re-runs, drinking wine.