Autobiography

I was always the first to laugh, the first to stare and certianly the first to mock and make fun of when I saw eighth and ninth grade teeny-boppers parading in their stilleto's on a Friday night at the local Boardwalk; arms linked with all their equally airhead friends, all overly made-up. But Friday 30th March I was one of those girls. I was wearing high shoes and a glitzy outfit, laughing with my arms linked with my friends. And I had a lot of make-up too.

In between the laughs and jokes, I took a moment to look at all the teenagers sitting at family resturants with their parents, wondering if silently they were cursing me for my shameful appearance that I too had scorned upon before. But being the girl in the high shoes, I realised how fun it was, and how although to the world you look made-up, childlish, silly even, just a fifteen year old trying to act as though she's legal, to me I was having fun, and I never wanted that night to end.

But it did. After drinks at a grown-up resturant my parents picked me up. It was late in the night by then, and my make-up was smudgy and my beautiful shoes were causing blisters and were extremely uncomfortable. Each step was another painful one.

By Saturday morning I had slipped out of my glitzy persona and was now just an ordinary material girl. Although my hair was all ruffled, no long dead-ironed straight, and my throat was stratchy. It was the day after school had closed and my immune system had crashed.

I slipped into my now dirty jeans and an old shirt. The shoes that I had put on were the one's I had bought for my upcoming mission into Africa. They were navy blue and only cost R40. Normally I would never be seen dead in an outfit like this one, with no make-up to boot, but today wasn't like any normal day.

Today I'm heading for the mall. It's hot and the airconditioner is clearly not working. I look around me at the pretty girls enjoying their first full day of Easter holidays, and it's like in a moment the glamourous me sinks down beneath my feet and the tomboy-wannabee, or maybe 'I don't give a stuff about how I look in public' look (how I look today, sadly) rises and I feel embarressment coming on.
Instead of shopping at my usual expensive places I head on down to Mr.Price, almost like the American Target. Strangely enough I head straight past the girl's section and move onto the guys. I need to find shirts.