The Dress
I push past rows of tee shirts emblazoned with “The Bitch is Back” and “I’m too pretty for homework”. The music is so loud you can’t hear yourself say, ‘the music’s loud in here, isn’t it?’ My thirteen year old is looking impatient. She’s standing at the back of the shop with one hand on her hip and a dark look on her face, and I still have to get past three racks of leggings, a table of see-through cardigans – surely they don’t wear these for warmth – and a row of skirts decorated with skulls and daggers.
I dodge underneath a rack of singlets just like the ones my mother made me wear in winter, except these are fluoro coloured – mine were Omo white. And I’d worn mine under my clothes to keep me warm, not like the shop assistant, who’s made a feature of hers, wearing about five at once. A girl with incredibly shiny hair and a spotty face pushes politely between me and a row of jeans. Their legs are so narrow, you’d be hard-pressed to squeeze your arms into them.
The noise of the thumping bass vibrates in my ears and I can see my daughter’s lips moving – just above the top of a stand of earrings – but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She rolls her eyes. As I negotiate around one final table of track pants, and brush shoulders with a rack of studded black belts, my eyes fall on the top she’s holding up for me to see. It’s silver, spandex, sparkly, halter-neck and what a twenty-something would wear to a night club. She asks me what I think. I refrain from telling the truth.
I hear my mother’s voice whisper in my ear: surely you’re not going to let her wear that – she’ll look like a prostitute! I think back to the first time I wore an anklet, and hear her saying much the same to me. I was thirty five.
I ask my thirteen year old where she plans to wear it and am given a look that says, ‘Der?!’ I say, ‘It’s very sparkly, isn’t it,’ trying to sound positive. She heads in the direction of the change rooms with the top slung over her arm.
I follow her and pick up a pretty dress I know will suit her colouring. I try to catch up, but am hampered by another bewildered-looking mother who steps out in front of me between two racks of three quarter-length pants. By the time we wrestle past each other, it’s too late; my teen’s has been swallowed by the change rooms.
The music seems even louder as I call out to her, then resign myself to the futility of competing with the sub woofer. I decide to wait for her to reappear. I look along the row, wondering which door she’s behind. It reminds me of a lift-the-flap book she used to love when she was a toddler. I have a momentary flashback of her sitting in my lap, eagerly turning the pages.
I lean against a rare section of free wall space, holding the dress, and relive moments from her childhood. I stroke the fabric of the dress and shift legs. Then I’m pulled out of my reverie by a young girl who’s stuck her head around a change room door. She’s trying to attract my attention. She’s also thrusting a pair of jeans at me. Her mother is in the shop somewhere but she can’t see her and these jeans are too big and could I please get her an extra extra extra small?
I hesitate, weighing up the chances of my girl emerging from the change room while I battle with more racks of super-low-waisted mini skirts and knee-length shirts. The girl waves the jeans at me again, and I oblige. I remember seeing the jeans near the front of the shop, so I use my free arm as a scythe and carve a path through the jungle of clothes.
While I fight my way back to the change rooms, my darling emerges, casts her eyes around the shop, spots me and throws me a look that I read as, ‘You couldn’t even wait for me to try on the top. I came out to show you – it’s such a cool top – all my friends will love it. But you never like the clothes I choose. You’re such a bore. You’re so old fashioned. You’re so old.’
By the time I deliver the jeans to the girl, she’s standing in front of the change room, dressed again, in an old pair of track pants, arguing with her mother. They’re not buying clothes today. My girl’s disappeared into the bowels of the shop. I heave a sigh and glance down at the dress. My head thumps in time with the bass guitar and the words in the song thump through my brain: Get me out of here, baby!
I eventually spot madam between two stands of tee shirts, and miraculously make my way over to her with minimal bush bashing.
I show her the dress.
She asks if it’s for me and dismisses it with a glance as she holds up a blue tee shirt – it features a lurid display of music notes all down the front. I say I love the tee shirt and she heads back over to the change rooms.
I have one last look at the dress, then replace it reluctantly.
She would have looked lovely in it.
(In Hannah's defence, elements of this story have been subject to a degree of extrapolation.)
I dodge underneath a rack of singlets just like the ones my mother made me wear in winter, except these are fluoro coloured – mine were Omo white. And I’d worn mine under my clothes to keep me warm, not like the shop assistant, who’s made a feature of hers, wearing about five at once. A girl with incredibly shiny hair and a spotty face pushes politely between me and a row of jeans. Their legs are so narrow, you’d be hard-pressed to squeeze your arms into them.
The noise of the thumping bass vibrates in my ears and I can see my daughter’s lips moving – just above the top of a stand of earrings – but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She rolls her eyes. As I negotiate around one final table of track pants, and brush shoulders with a rack of studded black belts, my eyes fall on the top she’s holding up for me to see. It’s silver, spandex, sparkly, halter-neck and what a twenty-something would wear to a night club. She asks me what I think. I refrain from telling the truth.
I hear my mother’s voice whisper in my ear: surely you’re not going to let her wear that – she’ll look like a prostitute! I think back to the first time I wore an anklet, and hear her saying much the same to me. I was thirty five.
I ask my thirteen year old where she plans to wear it and am given a look that says, ‘Der?!’ I say, ‘It’s very sparkly, isn’t it,’ trying to sound positive. She heads in the direction of the change rooms with the top slung over her arm.
I follow her and pick up a pretty dress I know will suit her colouring. I try to catch up, but am hampered by another bewildered-looking mother who steps out in front of me between two racks of three quarter-length pants. By the time we wrestle past each other, it’s too late; my teen’s has been swallowed by the change rooms.
The music seems even louder as I call out to her, then resign myself to the futility of competing with the sub woofer. I decide to wait for her to reappear. I look along the row, wondering which door she’s behind. It reminds me of a lift-the-flap book she used to love when she was a toddler. I have a momentary flashback of her sitting in my lap, eagerly turning the pages.
I lean against a rare section of free wall space, holding the dress, and relive moments from her childhood. I stroke the fabric of the dress and shift legs. Then I’m pulled out of my reverie by a young girl who’s stuck her head around a change room door. She’s trying to attract my attention. She’s also thrusting a pair of jeans at me. Her mother is in the shop somewhere but she can’t see her and these jeans are too big and could I please get her an extra extra extra small?
I hesitate, weighing up the chances of my girl emerging from the change room while I battle with more racks of super-low-waisted mini skirts and knee-length shirts. The girl waves the jeans at me again, and I oblige. I remember seeing the jeans near the front of the shop, so I use my free arm as a scythe and carve a path through the jungle of clothes.
While I fight my way back to the change rooms, my darling emerges, casts her eyes around the shop, spots me and throws me a look that I read as, ‘You couldn’t even wait for me to try on the top. I came out to show you – it’s such a cool top – all my friends will love it. But you never like the clothes I choose. You’re such a bore. You’re so old fashioned. You’re so old.’
By the time I deliver the jeans to the girl, she’s standing in front of the change room, dressed again, in an old pair of track pants, arguing with her mother. They’re not buying clothes today. My girl’s disappeared into the bowels of the shop. I heave a sigh and glance down at the dress. My head thumps in time with the bass guitar and the words in the song thump through my brain: Get me out of here, baby!
I eventually spot madam between two stands of tee shirts, and miraculously make my way over to her with minimal bush bashing.
I show her the dress.
She asks if it’s for me and dismisses it with a glance as she holds up a blue tee shirt – it features a lurid display of music notes all down the front. I say I love the tee shirt and she heads back over to the change rooms.
I have one last look at the dress, then replace it reluctantly.
She would have looked lovely in it.
(In Hannah's defence, elements of this story have been subject to a degree of extrapolation.)
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