(Tall) Girl Meets (Tall) Boy, Part 3

When we last left off, our favorite awkward 14-year-old was practically floating on air after being asked to the homecoming dance by her dream date.

*****************************

The only thing that could bring me back to earth was telling Randy I was going with someone else to the dance. It turned out to be easier than I thought. He was smart enough to realize that I was plotting a way to turn him down when I told him I needed to think about it. But, you have to admire Randy’s pluck; shortly after I officially rejected him, he asked and was accepted by another girl, a nice lesbian named Kay-Kay, whose locker was just two down from mine.

Things were turning out perfectly. It was my first date and it was with the boy I wanted to spend my first date with. He was tall, cute, nice and smart. At age 14, I was pretty sure that I had reached the culmination of everything I ever wanted, and I couldn’t believe it was coming true.

As the anticipation for the dance grew, so did my crush on Karl. There’s something about being 14 that requires you to constantly have a crush on a boy. It is as necessary as breathing. So, poor Karl became the target of my awkward, teenage-hormone-induced affection. As you can imagine, this made it all the easier for me to talk to him … not.

It's amazing how girls can have a crush on a boy yet rarely talk to him. And so it was with me and Karl. We ate lunch seperately, and only spoke here and there, when we had classes together or passed each other in the hall. But that didn't really bother me, because we were going to the dance together, and that had to mean something.

As the date drew near, my friends and I couldn’t talk about anything other than the dance and our dates. What are you wearing? Where should we go to eat before? Where should we meet to take photos?

After getting a date, finding a dress was concern number one. Thankfully, a Saturday spent at the local mall turned up a sparkly black number. Tea length, sleeveless with a scoop neck, it was the most glamorous thing I had ever put on. With a brand new pair of black heels, I was ready to go … except for my hair.

Now might be a good time to mention my hair. It was long. And thick. And frizzy. And long … like, to my waist long. As a tomboy at heart, my knowledge of hair styling consisted of the ponytail. Shockingly, at age 14, I didn’t even know that I had curly hair, and therefore how no idea why it was so unmanageable or how to tame it. (Sadly, I wouldn’t discover that my hair was meant to be curly until I was 17.) Which meant that I styled my hair in the same way I saw my mother style her stick straight, fine, thin hair: run a brush through my locks until there were no more tangles … the exact worst thing you can do to curly hair. Because I separated the curls, my hair immediately frizzed and POOFED as it dried. It was a good look.

Anyways, I had to figure out what to do with my hair for homecoming. My mother had already spent too much money on my dress and wasn’t about to spring for a salon visit, so I decided to ask Kari, the girl who lived across the street and had babysat me during my formative years, for her help. Kari was in college now, and Kari was cool. She always had been cool. Blond, thin and popular, Kari had perfect, spiral permed hair. She wore tight jeans, chewed gum, and has two piercings in each ear. Kindly, Kari agreed to come over the afternoon of the big dance and help me prepare for my first date. And Kari’s mom was a florist, so she would make a boutonniere for Karl. Everything was in order.

Homecoming Saturday was upon us, and droves of teenage girls arrived at the football stadium to cheer for the good ol’ fighting Crusaders. OK, let’s be honest. Most of us didn’t know a cornerback from a quarterback; we were there because it was the thing to do, and it gave us one last chance to talk about the dance that evening, giggle and act like the ridiculous 14-year-old girls that we were.

We’ve already talked about my hair. Let’s talk about my skin now. Pale is the word that comes to mind. Very, very pale. And freckled. But mostly pale. After 14 years of living with this skin, one would think that I would remember how easily I sunburn. One would be wrong. Apparently, the fact that I had a date that evening (with Karl!)reduced any reasonable thought process to a vapor. So, I attended both the JV and Varsity Homecoming football games sans sunscreen. Making the resulting sunburn all the better was the fact that I was wearing short sleeves, leaving a farmer’s tan – or in my case a farmer’s burn. What was I thinking? But I didn’t have time to think too hard about it. I had to get ready!

Once I was home, I showered and Kari arrived to do my hair. Sweet Kari, was more in touch with current trends than tomboy me, and arrived prepared, with tiny butterfly clips and a curling iron. She painstakingly separated my waist-length locks, curled and pinned them. An hour later, the look was complete, just in time for me to get dressed.

Please notice that I never mentioned makeup. That’s because, sadly, I didn’t wear makeup. *sigh* Honestly, my ineptitude at being a girl still astounds me. How could I ever go to a formal event, a date with my crush, and never have the elementary consideration of mascara? Oh, it hurts to think about it. The pain is genuine, I assure you.

In all honesty, my overbearing father would not allow certain embellishments, such as makeup, nail polish or short haircuts, which is why I never even considered them as options. However, in retrospect, the fact that this didn’t really bother me seems atrocious. If only I had somehow snuck on some mascara … just mascara. *sigh*

Looking back, I might have done a few things differently, but at the time, I felt great. I was ready to go on my first date.