Give me a memory of junior high (middle school)

Exercise #7 from Old Friend From Far Away

How to French Kiss with a Pop Bottle

My sister, all grown up and married with kids, thought it'd be a great idea to have a Halloween party at her place.  Sure, of course, sounds perfect, great. 

We papered the mache, stacked the corn stalks, dumped dry ice in a plastic cauldron and made s'mores bars out of cereal, marshmallows and chocolate chips.

The party would do double duty--she'd have her friends, I'd have mine.  Mine were all girls, tween style and tittering.

Early on we took to the Ouija board and a dark little bedroom where we tried to contact Sid Vicious.  Fingers played around the pointer, always someone pushing, denying, pushing, giggling.

Eventually some woman came in, I think her name was Sue, I didn't know her. Maybe she worked for the county with my sister moving the elderly from bed to bed, any guess is good.  There's nothing an adult likes talking about more with young girls than boys, especially a drinking adult. 

Sue warmed herself up to us.  Who did we like?  Did we go on dates?  Titter.  Have we kissed a boy?  Titter titter.  Then came the instructional, "You know, it's a good idea to practice first."

Uh, okay. How do we do that, then?  

"You can practice on a pop bottle.  You have to kiss it and don't forget to use your tongue."

The tittering was out of control by this point.  There was no going back.  The entire Halloween was tinted with soda pop fizz. After the party died down we girls sat in the living room giggling around an empty Coca-cola bottle and gave instruction to my sister's video camera.  Married now with 2 kids, I think it was pretty poor advice. 

A Memory of a Haircut

Exercise # 6 from Old Friend from Far Away

Of course, it was just before Freshman year that my hair had to take the hit for me.  That, and the cajoling of a dear friend who knew of my impetus for spontaneity.  "Let's get your hair styled," she'd said.  As harmless a word as any, styled didn't mean cut, it meant a small change, a cool beginning.

Later I would come to realized "Let's get your hair styled" also meant, let's not touch mine.

My dear friend and her perfect shoulder length dishwater blond and high, flat wall of bangs was not one to fall victim to the shears.  It would be me and an unceasing hunger for change.

So there at the end of summer, my butt plopped down in a chair at Cost Cutters and I pointed to a picture in a magazine.  The stylist must have thought I had a sense of humor.  Maybe she thought she'd help show off my over-sized spectacles and shiny braces.  Whatever she was thinking, it was not about giving me the style I'd asked for.  It was about butchery. 

Those were not bangs, they were spikes.  Those were not layers, it was a mullet.  Going into high school just got that much better.  I couldn't wait to find my locker in Dirt-ball Hall.