Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
My college-aged daughter, the one with the skyscraper legs who wears 8-inch heels, entered the dimly lit living room modeling something tight and black. To the motherly eye, it appeared to be a skimpy tank top, possibly from third grade, that shrunk in the wash.
“It’s a dress,” she assured me, in that familiar tone indicating I’m someone who could easily get the joint between my shoulder and wrist confused with the fluffy part I’m sitting on.
“OK, if you’re sure,” I said. “But it would look really nice with leggings. That way, you’d be safe from frostbite. And if the occasion called for it, you could bend over.”
“Mother, please. I’m trying to ask you a serious question,” she said.
The moments when she solicits my opinion are few and far between, so I didn’t want to blow this rare chance to bond. I sat quietly, trying not to twitch, just freezing my facial muscles in a neutral, non-terrified expression as I waited for The Question. It’s usually a “Does this make me look fat?” or a “Which metallic, strappy stiletto heels are classier?” question. But you have to be ready for anything.
She and her alleged dress came closer. Lowering her face near mine—which never happens—she looked me straight in the eye as I fought back panic.
“Does this make me look trashy? ” she asked.
I swallowed my initial reaction, because we’d already covered the dress. And she never leaves the house perched on heels that make her any less than 6-foot-3, so it wasn’t the shoes.
“Does what, exactly, make you look trashy, Honey?” I asked. She pointed at her ample, pouty red lips.
“Um, no,” I ventured. “You have very nice lips.”
“MAAAHHHH! Does this red lipstick make me look trashy? ” she demanded in that tone again, only louder.
Suddenly, I was balanced precariously on that fine line between the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It’s a line that must be negotiated carefully, lest you alienate someone who will eventually select your nursing home.
The whole truth would be, “Don’t blame the lipstick. It goes perfectly with that outfit.” And nothing-but-the-truth would be, “Nobody’s going to notice your lipstick. They probably won’t notice your head. But I wouldn’t wear that getup to a church potluck or linger on any street corners.”
In the interest of lasting peace, I opted for the wimpiest, path-of-least-retaliation truth: “No. The lipstick isn’t making you look trashy.”
Technically, it was the truth—the light, low-calorie version.
Later that night, she and her friend—who must have the same wardrobe consultant—returned early from their hunting expedition for intelligent, sincere, romantic, buff bachelors who would not be frightened or misled by their outfits.
“Mom, you would not believe what happened to us,” my daughter said as she stomped around the kitchen. “We went to this little club and some old drunk guy, maybe 30, starts yelling, ‘Zowie! We got hookers!’ I told you this lipstick was too red!”
Young, intelligent and completely clueless, the girls were shocked. Shocked. After some discussion of a class-action suit against Maybelline, they washed their faces, threw on jeans and headed to a movie. Sometimes, the truth hurts. But it could protect you from frostbite.
Jan A. Igoe, a writer and illustrator from Horry County, always keeps a stash of leggings, clear lip gloss and flip-flops in her emergency parenting kit. Share your fashion battles with her at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop .