Mufti madness

Press, 27 June 1987, Page 16

Mufti madness

Rosaleen M c Carroll

No matter how many clothes you buy the teenager, she never has anything to wear to school on mufti day. Take last week

“Why can’t you wear your bubblegum jeans and sweatshirt from - Australia.”

“Not trendy enough.” “What about the jumpsuit I had made for you. No-one will have anything like that ...”

“That’s the trouble, I’d be the only one. It wouldn’t be trendy." . “What’s trendy?”

“Stirrup pants, denim jackets, black boots and anything purple.”

When I asked what she wanted to wear, she said stirrup pants, black boots, a denim jacket and something purple, thereby swapping one uniform for another. . ,

“But why do you want to wear stirrup pants, a denim jacket and black boots ...?”

“I want to stand out.”

“How can you if you are wearing the same as everyone else ...” . Impatient at my obtuseness, she says ... “If I can’t be trendy, I’ll have to be a dag.” “Is it cool to be a dag?” “Sort of.”

I suggest the layered look. The teenager interprets this as a quick whizz round the shops for a layer of stirrup pants here, a layer of black boots there, and a layer of purple somewhere else

When I rule this out, she settled for a “Dolly” magazine for inspiration. “Dolly’s” latest look is called Splash. Just grab one of your dad’s suits, a white shirt, or even his socks, and splash them with paint... the editorial crows.

The teenager is ecstatic ... “I’ll paint dad’s suit, your shoes, Jo’s miniskirt

“No you won’t!” I hereby demonstrate what a mean-spirited and most untypical parent I am. “Well, I’ll just have to be / a dag,” she sighs thumbing through the magazine explaining

which outfits are cool and which are daggy. They all look the same, so I ask ... “How can. you tell the difference?”

Deep sigh. “Experience.”

She cancels all weekend engagements because she needs all the hours God gives to plan her wardrobe. And so she does.

Ably assisted by her cousin, who knows what’s cool and what’s daggy, she puts on black footless tights, my new red shirt, her father’s white waistcoat, and a black bow tie and asks hopefully ... “Do you think Dad would let me paint this waistcoat with . black spots.” I . forbid her to even wear it. This sets me apart from all other parents who raise no objections to such reasonable requests. But all will be forgiven if I let her wear my red feather boa ...

I realise she is wearing my brand new red shirt which I have never worn myself ... Next time she appears in black tights and a gold embossed, black, Indianlook shift. Her bare arms are goosepimply so she adds a black .cardigan

from the op. shop. She.; looks dopey.. ? j Next question ...„ “would Dad have anyi shoes that fit me.” “Only if you take size ( pleven*?” ■ ,-.5 “I want to look a dag, ■ hot a clown," ’ she/ wails. N Surly now,, she says .. “I’ve got absolutely; nothing to wear ... I’lll just have to have ’flu on; Tuesday.” But she is’ saved by her cousin, who. locates a moth-eaten, waistcoat. ■

Together they create an > outfit. Black footless tights (just regular tights with’, the feet jacked off withthe bread knife), father’s: white shirt; cousin’s black, tube skirt; black bow tie,and father’s dark, striped', waistcoat. The teenagers 1 are delighted. It is cool, it is daggy, though not. trendy.... Mufti day dawns the coldest this year. The teenager sensibly adds a; black sweatshirt under the waistcoat,- ties herj blonde ponytail with a black ribbon; and cycles into the southerly. “How was mufti day?” I ask after school. “Cool!” “What did your friends wear?”

“Stirrup pants, denim jackets, black boots, and something purple." , “What did they say about your outfit? “They asked whose funeral I was going to!” I suppose . that’s a triumph of sorts.