Do you ever have those moments where you catch a glimpse of your reflection and are taken aback? I had this reaction at work today. My sense of style is in need of a little mouth-to-mouth.
It took me back to a day in eighth grade when my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I instinctively said, “A fashion designer.” My teacher performed the equivalent of a verbal pat on the head and went on to the next student, but I was sure of it. I probably sat there in my patchwork jeans, “Boys cheat” t-shirt with a glitter decal glued between my eyebrows like a typical ignorant teen. I always had to one-up everyone. I had the Spice Girls’ platforms, Caboodles puking tubes of glitter, bangles, every shade of red hair dye, peace sign patches on every jean surface in my closet and an angst-stricken attitude.
This thought was still fresh in my mind today when I caught sight of what I’ve snowballed into at an alarming rate. I saw brown slacks, little librarian flats with conservative buckles, a green v-neck sweater with earthy-toned beading around the collar and, gasp, plain brown hair. The hair is probably the most shocking part, actually. From the days of Sun-In until entry-level job applications I had every color, cut and style of hair. I’ve had mom-dos, spiky cuts reserved for bikers or chubby flight attendants, multi-colored punk looks, you get the picture.
How in ten short years did I go from hip tween to the next model for Christopher and Banks? It’s actually quite humorous how one can be thirteen and so sure she will be the next Tommy Hilfiger and is slapped with the reality of selling phones and having a bad case of mom-butt.
Maybe it’s time to unleash a little flare. I mean, I won’t break out my sacrilegious glitter-Bindi. But maybe I could use a little spice in my wardrobe? I might not be the next Vogue sensation but I don’t have to look like I’m attending a mid-summer breakfast on the farm every day.