“Why
can’t I get a dress at the mall with my friends?”
Even just voicing
this desire was risky. I knew she didn’t want me to. I knew I wasn’t supposed
to want to. But I really wanted to. My Grade 8 graduation was in a few weeks,
and this was important to me.
“Aiy…Why do you
need to?”
My mom’s tone was
a light brushing-off, with a hint of belittling meant to deter future requests.
I don’t know if she ever gave actual reasons, but I knew what they were: trying
on dresses at the mall was too vain, too frivolous, too conformist. And, I wouldn’t
have dared to even try to articulate this at the time, but as I understand now,
it teetered too uncomfortably close to “sexy” for her.
She was not the
kind of mom who dressed up and checked herself out in the mirror. My mom never
flaunted her beauty, and now at age 13, it was clear I wasn’t to flaunt mine,
either.
She ended up
making a dress for my graduation. It was light blue with little flowers, fitted
and flowy, and had double spaghetti straps. It was pretty, and I liked it. I
knew she wanted me to like it, even asked for my opinion, and no doubt she put
her love in it.
I think she really
tried; maybe she wrestled with my coming-of-age and decided she could let me go
a bit. After all, the way it fit and flowed, this was no party dress for an
eight-year-old. I guess we ended up meeting somewhere in the middle with that dress.
Though, I still felt wrong for wanting what I wanted.
I wanted to fit
in. I wanted to be like everyone else. I wanted to shop for trendy things – flared
jeans and platform shoes and LaSenza Girl bras. I wanted to try makeup. She
herself only wore lipstick on a handful of occasions that I remember - at
weddings, and even then it was always the same, single lipstick from decades
ago.
My friends each
shopped for a dress, a little purse, and their moms booked them hair
appointments for the night of the event.
“Why can’t I get
my hair done?”
The same brush-off
and scoff. I knew better than to talk back right away. Instead I pouted and
glared when she wasn’t looking. She, in turn, disapproved quietly at my teenage
longings.
On the night of my
graduation, last-minute, she relented and took me to a hair salon. I rejoiced
inside; I had won! But I had no idea what to do. The stylist asked me what kind
of updo I wanted. I said I didn’t know and she could do what she thought looked
best.
So I sat in that
chair, watching in the mirror as she artistically transformed my hair into a
showy top-knot resembling a rooster. It looked ridiculous on a shy teen girl
who worked so hard, every moment of her waking life, to fly under the radar and
stay small, silent and invisible. I hated how uncomfortable my victory felt.
With wet armpits,
I managed to croak out a few words about how I didn’t like the knot. She said
okay, and asked a few questions to try to understand what I wanted. She
listened and then disassembled the rooster, replacing it with a simple updo. In
the end, my hair looked nice, and not memorable. I was relieved.
When I entered my
school building that evening, wearing my light blue dress, clutching my little
purse (also handmade by Mom), hair in my nice and not-memorable updo, I was met
with my dolled-up classmates’ exclamations of, “Ingrid! You look so pretty! I
love your dress! This is so cute!”
The awkwardness of
the earlier events of my evening, and the fury of my weeks-long, mostly silent
fight with my mom, gave way to relief and glee as I realized, I look right. My appearance had earned a
checkmark. I hadn’t outed myself as weird or different, not too anything or not
enough something else.
Phew.
On this night of
my Grade 8 graduation, a milestone in my journey of education, I passed.
***
Ingrid
Ng is
a mom of two children who inspire her to re-visit and re-understand her
childhood. Besides family, she also dedicates her time to community,
creativity, and expression. Some of her favourite things include: camping, solo
time, cooking for others AND being cooked for, and bubble tea.
Read more short stories, essays, and poems by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).
See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
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