I had an ongoing fantasy as a kid that I would someday become one of the “Precise Girls”. You’ve seen them: clothes are perfectly tailored and starched, jewelry is appropriate (and on), hair has never known a flyaway.
I tried. I really tried. I owned Lisa Birnbach’s “The Official Preppy Handbook”. I even read it. Hell, I practically committed it to memory. I should have been in!
Leader of the “Precise Girls” was Aimee. Sure, she was smart, but more than that she was precise. Two turtlenecks, an oxford under a pink or green sweater topped off with a blue blazer looked effortless and chic. Or as chic as any 15 year old really looks.
I always looked lumpy. Breasts came early for me. Yippee. I know that there were some girls who pined to move on from training bras, but I just spent a lot of time trying to find a way to make my breasts and short-waisted self look less like a pink and green troll. Good thing I was also branded with an izod.
Even Aimee’s hair was precise. When it was long, it fell in waves down her back. When it was bobbed, it had a razor’s edge. My hair? Um… not even spritz could get my hair to behave. It’s as though each individual strand wanted to leave my head in a different direction. Frankly, it still does.
I haven’t seen Aimee in 20+ years, but I bet even her home is precisely perfect. And mine? Let’s just say it is as lumpy and unruly as its owner.
Well, at least I have consistency going for me.