The Lipstick Rebellion
My current must-see TV is Love Story with Carolyn Bessette and JFK Jr. I find myself singing along to Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, and Mazzy Star because the soundtrack was my childhood. The early 1990s transport me back to the expectations I built around girlhood. The clothing style, the cars, and the music are so nostalgic, and I’m delighted by their resurgence. I will admit I’m not as sentimental about the return of low-rise jeans, though. They can stay in the past, thank you very much.
At 42, I often think about what 13-year-old me and what 80-year-old me would feel about who I am right now. CBK’s womanhood seeps from the screen, from an era when I held onto a different POV than I do now, and a different POV than one I will soon have. I distinctly remember thinking her minimalism was what an adult woman should look like. Her iconic headbands, long blond hair, and her career at Calvin Klein. She was chic, but I was more interested in the abundance vibes of Lisa Frank. More color, more dolphins, more rainbows. I took that mentality and translated it into my future: more love, more family, more kids. Lisa Frank did not prepare me for a life of less.
While motherhood was assumed, it wasn’t something that I thought of regularly at 13. I focused more on the Spice Girls' girl power, Cover Girl makeup, and which Hard Candy color to paint my nails next. I was also preoccupied with how to get the boy who failed biology to ask me out (ughhh). I had a baby tee in the 8th grade, with "angel baby" written in rhinestones, and I can say with full certainty that I was no angel at that age. Even with all the dreams of makeup, dumb boys and how to pass Mr. Webb’s science test, becoming a parent was always in the back of my mind. I imagined biology boy changing (bahahah! He didn’t) and raising a young girl with the same Lisa Frank abundance mindset (because my imaginary children would, of course, accept any lessons I shared). Last Thursday, when I watched the latest episode of Love Story, I wondered what younger me would think about girlhood today.
In the seventh grade, I had a short-sleeved brown shirt with rainbow stripes that I purchased from the store Closetime. The style was odd, and I loved it. There weren’t many shopping options in Hollister, and when there were, most people purchased the same things. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing this particular shirt, and I realized how much I liked that feeling of expressing my femininity uniquely. Later, when I was trying to become a parent, I stayed connected to that girly energy. I tracked my cycle with a cute pink app that helped me pay close attention to my body. I tried “just relaxing” by lounging in bubble baths with fancy salts. And my favorite was preparing my home for a baby. I decorated the nursery with a street sign reading Gratitude Drive, hand-sewn quilts from friends, and disco balls that cast sparkles across the room. When I was pregnant, I got really into maternity clothes. I wore overalls that hugged my belly with a bright pink shirt. I cropped t-shirts to layer over floral dresses to show off my body shape. I embraced a new version of me.
And then my daughter died, and everything changed.
In the first few days after Clementine died, the world was out of order, and yet I understood things more deeply. The amount of time we have is limited. What I did with that time would be intentional. Now, it took me a while to fully grasp the intentionality, and it might be a lifelong process, but I saw the goal. I would live a beautiful life.
Nights were the hardest in the early stages of grief. The concept of time disappeared as the sun set, and my purpose in life became the focus. Was I even a woman anymore? How could I go about life normally without my child? Should I burn my life down and start over?
One night, I lay in bed and stared out the curtainless windows. The street lamp’s orange glow made the room look as if a sepia filter were on. I played with my hair while I imagined what the next version of myself would be. I pulled hard on my loose hair. The scalp pain sent tingling down my legs. I pulled another part of my hair, and tingling spread to a new area. And then I had the urge to cut off my hair, maybe even shave it. My hair has had many lives, and I love that I’ve explored different styles. But I haven't had a shaved head before. In the wee hours of the night, I listed off the things hair signals to the world: the male gaze, youth, health, and femininity. A shaved head would show: rebellion, confidence, and an “I don’t have any more fucks to give.” In that moment, I most certainly did not give a fuck. And all of a sudden, I understood why Britney Spears did it in 2007.
I pinched the ends of my hair together and tapped the sharp edges. The soft and jagged prickles tickled my index finger. What would people think of me without hair? Infertility ripped motherhood from me. My connection to being a woman went along with it. And as a result, my definition of femininity was altered in my bedroom that night.
I didn’t shave my head because making big decisions in the middle of the night has rarely served me well. But, for a while, I wore the grief like a uniform. Grief divided me from those who didn’t know what it felt like to give birth to a dead baby. I zigzagged between my desperation to get back to my old self and embracing who I’d become. And with deep therapy, I realized there was no going back. Grief me was who I was, who I might always be.
Soon, things became softer. I no longer hated a woman buying fancy new lipstick, assuming she had a glamorous life to lead while I stayed at home in my sweatpants. Slowly, I made space for the grief, and when things started to get really good, I even dressed that version of myself up and took her out to dinner. I understood that most of us carry grief with us. And if they don’t, they will. Maybe my initial response was out of spite. Or survival. Either way, a different version of myself appeared. My attitude towards womanhood and femininity shifted, and I was ready to explore it. I also bought myself some fancy new lipstick.
The exploration emerged in many ways. I quit my teaching job to write. I surrounded myself with people who sparkled. And I started reflecting on fashion again. It does help that the 90’s and Y2K are cool again. Younger me never saw that coming. The overalls with one shoulder strap undone, an oversized crewneck styled with spandex shorts, and I even acquired a bucket hat last week. And with adult money to spend freely, I am well into the healing era via fashion. Who knew dressing like the woman you wanted to be in 1998 would mean so much?
In my 20’s, I explored the drugs, the men, and the college life. Think Juicy tightly fitted sweatpants, trucker hats, and thinking I had to dress for the male gaze. In my 30’s, I married and headed straight for motherhood. Think skinny jeans, chunky owl jewelry, and thinking my life didn't start until I had a child. In my 40’s, I’m childfree after infertility, thrifting almost every piece of clothing I own, and thinking a lot about what makes younger and older me proud. I might not be dancing on tables in bars anymore, but when those bangers come on in the antique stores, you bet I’m singing along while examining brooches to add to my wool blazer. Honestly, it feels like magic.
For most of my life, the assumption of motherhood defined my view of girlhood. One simply did not exist without the other. And the unraveling of the two is where I sit today. Grief started it all. The grief of losing my daughter, the grief of not having kids, and the grief of who I was as a woman. I like to think everyone experiences this in one way or another. Mothers lose a version of themselves when they have kids. Teenagers let go of the childhood whimsy. And we all know CBK let go of a version of herself when she married JFK Jr. Letting go is part of life.
I recently pulled out all of my old CD’s and started going through them, many of them from Love Story. I sat on the kitchen floor, listening to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer, and remembered learning this song for ASL class in high school. I was really happy in that class. And I’m really happy now. Yes, I expected a different kind of life, but that doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying the one I’m living. I’m 42, almost 43, and so thankful for all of the ways I’ve explored my girlhood. I still love to paint my nails and dress up in unique clothing, but thankfully, I married a very smart man who passed biology. My perception of girlhood will most likely change as I do. Who knows what 63-year-old me will think is cool? For now, I will catch up with the latest and last episode of Love Story and remember who I was in 1998. Younger me would be pleased with who I turned out to be, especially because I have an entire drawer dedicated to lipstick.