Sheila Hill Colston
Those of you who are close to my age, or a little older, may recall the sixties and the quandary we were in.
I am not talking about protests, wars or the changing of the world…. I am talking about something REALLY serious for a teenager….looking good.
I was too young to be a real hippie. I did attempt it, but I didn’t make it to Woodstock, therefore my leaning toward Hippieism was thwarted. I did beg my Momma to take me there, to roll around in the mud and smoke pot, but she didn’t drive back then, and it was too far to walk.
When I saw the news on television, I took off my bra, tied a leather string around my head, and stopped painting my toenails. I prayed the government would mistake me for a guy and send me a draft card, so I could burn it in public, along with my bra.
I once had a friend over, who informed my Momma that she was not wearing a bra, and wasn’t going to. My Momma was cooking, and never turned a hair when I bragged that I hadn’t worn a bra for a week. She did say, “I don’t think anyone will notice”….and kept on stirring.
From this point, I was into “bleeding madras”, Nehru jackets, and the Beatles, the Stones, the Animals. I leaned on our Frigidaire where our Zenith radio played music my parents hated, and dreamed of going to London to hang out with Paul, or at least living in a flat with Eric Burton. I was sure I could talk Keith and Mick into fighting over my affections.
Since we were “pore”, it was sometimes hard to stay in style after I gave up being a hippie or a Beatle groupie, and decided to become Twiggy. The skinny part I had down pat, but the eye makeup was a different story.
I once went into the kitchen to tell my parents, who were playing Rook with my Aunt and Uncle, that I was being picked up to go to a party. I was looking great….and, just like Twiggy! I had my bottom eyelashes painted on and my double knit mini dress was short enough that I had a coat over it….My plastic go go boots from Kent’s Dollar Store flopped around my skinny legs and my fishnet stockings finished off my perfect get up.
My Uncle took one look at me and asked, “How do you keep your eyelids open with all that makeup on them? You look like you fell in a bucket of blue paint!”
Of course, I had to wash off the makeup…..my Daddy ordered me right back to my room. I would never forgive my Uncle for this….who knows what great things may have happened to me that night, if I had been allowed my Twiggy eye makeup?
After that, I became Cher. I am sure you have heard me mention this before. My hair was long, my bangs were in my eyes, and my vest was made of fake fur. I stopped begging my parents for surgery on my big nose. My red and white striped pants were so wide at the bottom that I often tripped over them. My eye shadow changed from blue to white. I constantly slung my long hair back over my shoulder, Cher style.
One Sunday, I was stopped in church by a member who apparently felt the need to patrol the teens. She said, “Why are you wearing your bangs down in your eyes?”
I just kept walking, but she grabbed the skirt of my paisley “tent” dress and pulled me back to her.
“You know God doesn’t like for you to wear your hair down in your eyes.” She said, menacingly.
I escaped her, and got in the car. I went home and sewed myself another fur vest.
When I told my Momma what the lady had said to me, she said, “Why didn’t you ask her for book, chapter and verse?”
My Momma was cool like that.
I then decided I would get all classy, like Audrey Hepburn or maybe Katherine. I started ironing my clothes and cut my bangs. I even wore headbands and flat shoes. I teased the top of my hair so it would puff up in the back like the models in the magazines.
The lady at church was very pleased. She stopped me once again to tell me that I looked wonderful and classy, and I may possibly get into Heaven by the skin of my teeth. Well, she didn’t actually SAY this, but I could see her thinking it…….
Since I loved Ava Gardner, Joan Crawford, and Bette Davis, I changed into a mixture of them. I tried languishing around the house, draping myself on the furniture a la Gloria Swanson. I really wanted a long cigarette holder to point at things with, but I knew that was going way too far.
This didn’t last long, as it was garden season and I had to pull weeds and pick okra and turnip greens. A long cigarette holder wouldn’t have gone over well in the cotton fields, either, but my new baby brother did enjoy being laid on my cotton sack and being dragged through the patch. It was a scene right out of the Grapes of Wrath, as far as I was concerned.
Later, I changed into Diana Ross. Never mind that I was one of the whitest people in the world, she was who I wanted to be. I would grab the broom, mop, and rake to use as microphones, force my little cousins onto the back of Daddy’s flat bed truck, and sing EXACTLY like the Supremes!!
“Baby, baby…where did our love go?”
When I tired of this, or the cousins started crying, I would turn into James Brown and dance to make them laugh and forget to tell on me. Never mind that James Brown was a man, I could dance JUST LIKE HIM!!
Nowadays, I am not trying to be anybody. I am the queen of pajamas and sweat pants. The makeup I used to have to replace once a month now lasts for a whole year. I get my hair done when it is totally out of control and looks like Phyllis Diller’s.
When I drape myself on the furniture now, it’s because I am tired and need to drape. I realize now I will never become a Hepburn. I will never be ready for my close-up, or walk down a runway, or sing like a Supreme. If I try to dance like James Brown, it causes a trip to the doctor. More than likely, I will never get to hang out with Paul, or date Mick.
As they say, Old Age Is Not For Sissies. I feel that I brave up pretty well. I still run down the hill and jump into the river with all my clothes on. It tickles the grand kids and causes the dogs to bark and the neighbors to look out their doors.
The kid inside of us never really goes away. She or he is still in there, waiting to wear something cool, sing like someone famous, dress to the nines, hang out with rockers, or dance like someone other than Elaine from Seinfeld.
You see, life can still be fun. Our bangs need to be shorter, because we can’t see well any more, and the makeup had to be toned down, because it gets into our wrinkles and makes us look like the Halloween masks on a Walmart endcap.
Our clothing can’t touch us anywhere because it chokes, strangles and makes us miserable. Our shoes must be comfortable, or our corns and bunions cause us to stop strangers on the street to beg for Ibuprofen.
If we wore fur vests, we would sling them off into a Court Street trash can because of hot flashes.
But…Never think that getting older gets rid of the real YOU. Never think you can’t put a tiara on your head and feel like a queen. Go ahead and wear a hippie-esque shirt and pants…we deserve it.
You can still lay near a radio and dream of having Eleanor Rigby sung.. just to you.
Never think you can’t sing and dance…just ignore those who are pointing and laughing…..
Put on some great old music, throw that walker to the side, and dance..Just like James Brown. Be careful though…..don’t trip over your pajama bottoms. Hips break easily at our age……
1 comment
You – da – best, Cuz! Ve