The great reign of the TomBoy has ruled my life for the past 12 years. One report on the correlation between underwire brassieres and increased risk of breast cancer was all it took to convince me of the beauty and simplicity of sports bras and I haven’t looked back since.
Excepting this past Sunday, that is.
While it doesn’t take much goading or arm twisting to get me into a dress, it is generally understood that I will do something socially unacceptable while imprisoned in the flowing freedom of dress fabric. There was the fateful Peruvian high school graduation where, with a small child in my lap I performed a fashionable rendition of “Pony Girl Pony Girl” compliments of a childhood spent being thrown off of adult laps at family get togethers, the the shouts of “Miss Julie, I can see your UNDERWEAR!!” from across the convention center. The crowning moment? I couldn’t hear my student clearly over the din and excitement so I shouted for him to repeat himself louder. A few of his friends joined in the yelling fun, assuring my comprehension the second time around.
Then there was Easter Sunday 2011.
“Try these on,” my host sister said with a mischievious grin, unloading an armful of shiny dresses on my bed. I had agreed to be the representative of my host brother’s soccer team for the beauty pageant out of a persistent need to be liked by the people I presently live with. I figured that prancing around in my public enemy #1 (dresses) would be my one way ticket to Ecuadorian family popularity.
No one told me that the dress would be so short.
“But you can see my uterus in this dress…” ”Don’t be ridiculous, it covers your butt completely-don’t bend over like that, or that.”
At 7am my host sister knocked on my bedroom door. ”Ready?” I had just run a 3 mile loop around my town, winding up and over 9.865 feet. My lungs were not so slowly exploding and my sweat glands were still stuck in an executive meeting about whether or not to sweat at 40 degrees fahrenheit. ”Ready for what?” ”Your hair appointment.” Oh, that. ”Should I shower first?” ”We’re already late.” I grabbed an apple from the kitchen to satisfy my raging campo hunger and followed her out the door.
We took a left out of the back door, where I definitely would have taken a right to flag a bus to take us down to the city and the civilized world where normal girls shower before Beauty Pageants. Slipping and sliding down the muddy path, we traversed potato and corn fields, finally arriving at…nothing. “Where exactly am I getting my hair done?” She signaled to the left, in the epitomal Ecuadorian manner, with her bottom lip. I followed the vague line of direction to a pasture where two cows were lazily grazing the morning mist away. “The hair stylist is still moving her cows.” Of course she is. I hope she washes her hands, I thought silently, then remembered that I was probably dirtier/smellier than my bovine friends.
I stamped my feet against the cold while my host sister jiggled the baby strapped to her back. Finally my one maid a milking approached us. “Buenos dias, follow me.” Suddenly I felt nervous. Milk maids have really strong hands; hands so powerful that they could rip the very hair from my scalp and call it a hair do. I mean afterall, if a t-shirt was a dress these days, what criterion did I have for judging the validity of this ‘hairdo’ or the hair doer. My feet turned in the opposite direction. ”Where are you going Julie?”
She pulled a chair into the poorly lit dining room and bade me to sit. I sat. And fidgeted like a 7 year old waiting for the principal after starting a food fight in the cafeteria. Only I threw a glass bottle of Izzy’s while everyone else lobbed fruit-by-the-foots and pb and j sandwiches. Regret shook me to the core as I thought of my soon to be bloody scalp.
The Last of the JFast.ohicans. Trail of Tears.
Surprisingly gentle hands untangled the sweaty nest of hair that had taken residence on my head. “Let me know if I hurt you.” You better believe I will Bertha. But…I never had to so much as chirp my pain. Maybe so little showering had deadened my pain receptors. Perhaps all the extra dirt and grime had clogged my neural pathways. (God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt…)
Either way, an hour later I left with the dreamy sensation that always follows a loving head scratch or a grandmother’s strength hair playing sesh. Funny she didn’t offer me a mirror at the end.
Hiking back to the house my sister got down to business, checking her watch like a compulsive train conductor every 4 steps. “You have 13 minutes to change, shave, do your make-up, and get into the car (and try and wedge your huge American feet into small Ecuadorian stilettoes).”
Fast foward 24 hours. I examined the second degree sun burns covering my arms and chest with disgust. Always a camp counselor, always prepared, I had really failed myself this time. In a land plagued by clouds, the beauty pageant had brought out the best in the Ecuatorial sun. After such a rushed make up disaster (imagine that the innocent soprano from your favorite Methodist church choir decides overnight that she wants to be a transvestite heavy metal rocker…is basically how I looked), it completely slipped my mind that I would shed the black pea-coat covering my bare arms and chest at the outdoor stadium.
To my credit, there were 56 contestants in total competing for three spots on the podium. Not only was I 10 years older and 3 shades paler (redder) than most, but my crotch was practically on display. What kind of risque queen would I have been on that podium?
And who knew that stilettoes could give blisters even when the wearer is just standing still.
Thanks for reading!
