It’s official. The ‘Awkward Stage’ is no more. See you later blue eyeliner. Adios emo side fringe. Girls now take a graceful leap from endearing toddler-hood to a sassy and put-together adolescence. I can’t say I’m jealous though. Admittedly my ‘leap’ was more of a stagger, much like a baby giraffe experiencing its new limbs for the first time. I would have gone for baby deer but, alas, life had traded my big eyes and luscious eyelashes for spots and lankiness. Puberty did me a solid there.
When walking through a shopping centre now, I’m constantly surrounded by girls that ‘look about 12’. I can’t be sure, though, because whilst they still sport the irritatingly dewy skin that can’t be found on anyone that knows what a deadline is, they are also swanning around with larger-than-them handbags and the entirety of Rimmel’s make-up collection on their faces. They look like the women they want to be when they grow up. That is fine, in a sense. Everyone has an idol. But what they don’t seem to realise is that when they get to grown-up, they’ll only want to go back again. The idea of staying up late may look great now, but trust, some days an 8 o’clock bedtime is the best thing since fruit-winders.
It’s a surreal feeling when you realise that a person who inscribes ‘ I LOVE ?’ on the back of their hand, has perfectly sculpted eyebrows and a flawless contour. Meanwhile, I’m walking around bare-faced and munching on a Krispy Kreme. Attempts at effort are sometimes made, but frequently it’s in the shape of shutting my eyes, looking up and down and telling my housemate what I think of her work. She’s far more competent at this than me.
I did try the whole cosmetic thing when I was their age. I still have blue mascara and eyeliner lurking somewhere in the bottom of my makeup case. Whilst I fumbled around with the highs and lows of teenage skin-care, however, I was also taking my time to grow up. I was much more likely to be found scruffing around in boot-cut jeans, a pair of worn DC’s and a hoodie of some kind, probably handed down to me by my sister in an attempt to make me cool. It didn’t work. I wasn’t exactly the height of fashion back then but I was damn comfy.
Boys don’t seem so bad with it. My nephew, Patrick, entered the heady-heights of year 7 in September. He’s already gained that teenage attitude, the snotty answer for everything even if it’s a simple comeback of ‘your mum’. I immediately apologised to my sister for ever being like this when I first experienced the receiving end of it. Apart from this new found…confidence… nothing has changed. He still looks the same. His mess of blonde curls hasn’t been traded for a grade 2 and some styling wax. His seemingly hereditary lankiness hasn’t disappeared in place of chunky biceps and the need to chug a protein shake. In fact, he still opts for the comfort of trackies or shorts over jeans that hug his legs like a denim skin. He just doesn’t care, why waste time obsessing over the way you look when you could be playing football with your mates…or looking at your phone.
My first phone was a Nokia. It was red and still had Snake on it. I was 11 when I got it, before Instagram, before Snapchat and before my sister secretly set up my first Facebook account. I’m not even sure if there was a camera so the likelihood of me taking a selfie at that age was minimal. Now, I’m not feigning innocence in a relationship with social media. I use it now, as many my age do. More than some, less than others. I just know that without that space in my life where I could read a whole book in a day or go for a bike ride or practice an instrument without needing to check my phone, I wouldn’t have the drive to do some of the things I do today. I almost certainly wouldn’t have the mind to write as much as I do.
If I ever get round to having kids of my own, I’d like to think I could give them a childhood like mine. That they could actually have time to be a child. I hope that they can read a book without being interrupted by a text or that they won’t argue the idea of a bike ride with a disdain for mud and sweat. Or maybe it’s time to accept that the world is moving on and kids are going to stop caring how much Freddos are.
As bare-faced as I want and as carefree about it as it gets.
Over and out.
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AS WHITE GIRL AS IT GETS 