Clothes Calls

My and my sister’s school photos, fourth and second grade, respectively, doesn’t do our Little Lord Fauntleroy ensembles much justice. Snapped from mid-chest up, you see only part of our purple velveteen jackets, a peek of our ruffled collars, wavy locks tumbling around the placid cheeks of two of the wisest- and most serious-faced young lads from the mid-1880s to ever walk the 1970s. Too bad you can’t see the matching knickers, the cable tights, the fey buckle shoes.
My sister’s impish face looks like she’s hiding a secret. Mine just blatantly says, “Years from now I will regret this.”

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Sixth grade, my first in the new house and new school, and I survey the kids in my new class. Interchangeable beige brats, zipped into Toughskins, buttoned into doofy plaid shirts, parading in forgettable footwear right out of a 1950s science textbook? Come on! This is 1974, damn it!
The class photo has me seated front row center, one hand gripping each knee, leaning forward, staring straight into the camera, challenging: Any of you freaks hip enough for my jungle-animal print Qiana shirt, camel moleskin bellbottoms, and royal blue crepe-soled semi-platforms with the thick red laces? No? Didn’t think so.