Among the many things my mom held onto: School photos. Lots and lots of school photos that FOR SOME REASON I CANNOT FIGURE OUT never made it into frames on the wall or hell, even tacked to the fridge with a magnet, because here they are years later still in their envelopes. Most of them didn't even get the wallet-sized ones separated from the 5x7s.
(Sort of like Noah's school portrait this year, which I only ordered because I thought they were funny, because I completely forgot about picture day and sent him to school in desperate need of a haircut [and probably a bath], in a soccer jersey because it was the only clean shirt I could find. Now I have two dozen of these studies in ragamuffinism and zero idea what to actually do with them:)
Anyway, now on to the really embarrassing shit.
This is the only photo I can for-sure identify what grade I was in -- sixth -- simply because of the accompanying class photo with me wearing the same outfit. It was a dress. A floofy full-skirted one, with matching tights. I remember picking it out at TJMaxx and thinking it was a terrific find, because do you see the black check? BLACK. Black = cool. Black = cool enough to totally negate the fact that I was a 12-year-old girl basically wearing an overgrown five-year-old's sailor dress. I am not kidding, I really totally thought the black check made this dress kind of hardcore and felt like getting my mom to buy it for me meant I was getting away with something.
Clearly, I still had a lot to learn in sixth grade.
Which...okay, still working on all that learning, and on fashion horizons beyond the sailor dress. I THINK this photo is from seventh grade, but I cannot say for sure. I am at least allowed to wear dangly earrings -- that and the braces mean I'm at least 13, and therefore a WOMAN, a woman who obviously has better things to do than style BOTH sides of my hair. Like figure out which fingers I should put an inexplicable number of cheap rings on, probably.
Okay, maybe eighth grade? I'm really not sure. The non-dangle earrings suggest THIS could be seventh grade, but the progression of one-sided poof in my hair tells me I'm older than in the last one. By the time I graduated high school my curling iron and I needed two hours to get ready in the morning -- right before I got introduced to hot rollers in college, which, man. Those were some crazy days. CRAZY CRAZY DAYS.
I only have vague memories of that sweater, but I can tell you for absolute sure that I stuffed my bra special for this picture.
You know, I have to hand it to myself: I found a look I thought worked and stuck with it. The left side of my hair could go fuck itself, basically, I was simply NOT going to devote the same kind of time and hair spray on it that I devoted to the right side.
I remember really liking this photo, actually, because my hunter-green sweater looked black instead. And BLACK = STILL COOL. This photo reflected the darkness, the edge the art, the secular music I only pretended I was allowed to listen to.
(A trick I'm still doing, occasionally. I never listened to Whitesnake, nor have I ever seen that Tawny Kitaen video outside of a Pop-Up setting. I just read a lot of Wikipedia.)
(It's Jason's birthday today. When he met me I looked like these photos. Though to be fair he had a regrettable hair part of his own. But still! Happy birthday, Mr. Sainted Selective Memory.)