Time to Change-80s styleđ
Every kid has their time.
That time is preceded with an era of feeling completely content with everything. COMPETELY CONTENT. Toys, playing, a warm cookie and milk. It's all you could ever want. If you want to leap across the field pretending you are a monkey, it is completely fine. Why wouldn't you?
Then, the itch comes.
Watching some older girls coming out of a store; laughing, confident, sleeves rolled up with tons of bracelets--it's like they have this whole mysterious other world that is so funny. What is so funny? What is the joke?
You couldn't dream of being that cool yet, but it is interesting. You want to learn more. You want in on the joke. Not now, but eventually. So you will study and pay attention. This will take up more time. Maybe you don't leap in public anymore. It seems wrong.
At some point, every boy or girl gets the itch. Some hard-wired date in the DNA code sets the process in motion. You can almost envision Larry, from DNA HQ shouting, "Commence the pimples, and release the pit smell...pronto, people!"
Then, the next three to four years marks that slow, awkward metamorphosis of trying to transform from interested, to the part where you are in on the joke.
It's really ugly. Really, really ugly and horrible and awkward. A rare few kids, usually the ones deemed "popular," either have won the lottery of not having a pubescent nose twice the size of the rest of their face, or the advantage of having older siblings that they can study, learning to mimic their coolness. This jump on the competition--knowing just the phrase to say and how to deliver it--obliterates the rest of the fledgling population. The rest just have to endure the years following the lead of these chosen ones, trying to catch up to cool. Some never do.
In the 80s, matters were complicated by the fact that, to look cool, you needed really big hair like Farrah Fawcett, black eyeliner, and huge hoop earrings. You either looked ten or sixteen--absolutely no middle ground. My grandfather, seeing me for the first time after attempting this leap--permed, layered-hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, jelly bracelets and a fluorescent pink, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt--had a look of pure terror in his eyes. The look said it all. My leap was too grand and he wasn't ready for it. Try as I may, I wasn't ready for it either.
I have to hand it to our MTV generation for having the hutzpah to attempt this look. It's like we thought we could avoid all the awkwardness and light-speed directly to cool through hairspray. We tried. Most failed--I know I did.