In the small town where I grew up, Daisy Dukes for men made a real splash (or at least they did in my case). For four misguided years I swaggered through the halls of my high school showing off more leg than a can-can dancer. I cannot remember if I tucked my T-shirts in nicely, or let them hang out and devour the length of my tiny frayed shorts. I do know, however, that my bottom half was never complete without my black suede leather high-top sneakers. And since ankle socks had not yet reached the country corners of the Midwest – or if they had it’s news to me – it was nothing to also catch me shin deep in a pair of sparkling white tube socks. 

I also had this I.O.U. sweatshirt the color of grape-flavored Bubble Yum. It had no hood but draw strings that passed through the bulk of an extended collar that stopped tantalizingly short of a turtleneck. All stops pulled, I strode right into my freshman year of college with it, along with the rest of my country apparel. Chest out, I felt cool and confident walking on campus, knowing that beneath the buckle of my braided belt was hidden the loudest pair of cheetah print underwear since Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan.  

It wasn’t long before I made some dorm friends who were of the more metropolitan regions of Ohio. Whether it was because they pitied me or were just curious to see what I’d put on next, they remained silent on the subject of my clothes. Although, it seems possible they would discuss it wildly behind my back. Surely someone had to get the burning image of my pegged stone-washed jeans and boat shoes off his chest. I was oblivious to what my trendy peers were wearing: Timberlands with wool speckled socks, cargo shorts, all of 1994’s latest fashions. But one kid finally broke, and for the first time I was forced to question my plush Bugle Boy polo with the turned-apple-colored front and the checkered long sleeves. 

One day, through a series of networking and by the fortune of being in the right place at the right time, we won an invitation to participate in a co-ed football game on West Green somewhere. Co-ed – that meant chances were good that girls would be there. I dressed to impress. The night air was just crisp enough for bringing out the grape I.O.U. sweatshirt. Having gone through several washes, it was beginning to ride up on me a bit. Down the hall to grab my friend, I kept stretching the bottom of my sweatshirt past the waistline of my loud, little Umbros. When my friend opened the door, he erupted into surprised laughter, as if I’d punched him in the gut with a whoopee cushion. I stood there in my Bubble Yum sweatshirt, taking it. ”You look so cool,” was all he could get out. Then, knowing it was all out in the open, he laughed harder and more freely. I heard it all the way down the hall to my room.

Inside the safety of my room, I looked in the mirror that stood between my dresser and the harsh dorm light. It was as though I were seeing myself for the first time. I tried to pick out the abhorrent elements of my shirt that had turned my friend into a jerk. Could it possibly be because the draw strings had no hood? I couldn’t tell. I suddenly felt illiterate. The stubby turtleneck stared back at me like a foreign cuss word. I opened my drawer, freshly skeptical of the clothes that lay innocently there, waiting to make me look stupid. You mean my forest green windbreaker, too? And my outdated mountain boots I got for a good price? What a dreadful revelation this was! I couldn’t have been more shocked than if my parents had told me I was Chinese.      

For a year I was severely overwhelmed by my dearth of fashion sense. I couldn’t tell what went with what. I even developed a mysterious rash on my face, but that could have equally been from living in a cloud of my roommate’s secondhand smoke all year and never washing my pillow case. But, nonetheless, I set my mind on learning what others were wearing. As my eye grew keener, I started trading my jean shorts for khaki ones. But I’d always just miss the mark, returning from home with a shopping bag full of prim and proper dress shorts instead of the cool baggy Abercrombie ones guys were wearing. I’d never even heard of Ambercrombie.       

By winter quarter, I noticed that guys were cool who wore their hair in their faces. They’d sit with their dorm doors wide open, picking sour notes on their beat-up guitars, with nothing but a burning cigarette poking through their perfectly messy locks. I’d march right over to Saturday’s Family Hair Care on Court Street and explain to the exasperated hair stylist that I wanted my hair to look like Brad Pitt’s in Legends of the Fall. If she couldn’t do that then make it similar to the late Kurt Cobain’s. But my hair was fuzzy and thick and wouldn’t budge. Sweating and flushed, my hair stylist spun me around to face the mirror. I considered the broccoli sprout haircut I’d just been given. ”You’ll have to give it time to grow past that awkward stage,” she said. There was nothing I could do; my whole hair was an awkward stage, defying gravity, always growing up and out, never down and cool.  It would be a few years yet before Justin Timberlake invaded the Hollywood scene, bringing my strain of hair back in style. So I was stuck all alone with a head of hay that matched my ridiculous wardrobe. 

Whenever I’d complain about this back home, my mom would try to coax me into letting her style it. At first, I refused; especially when I found out a hairdryer would be involved. But finally I gave in. She used the mirror and dresser in my bedroom as her beauty station. Mom laid out her tools: my sisters’ hairdryer and the oversized, thick-bristled hairbrush Mom bought before I was born. I felt the hot breath of the hairdryer on my face and nape. Using long, ponderous strokes, she brushed my hair back nice and squirrelly, until it rose like a souffle. When Mom’s work was complete, my hair had the dry, bristly look of a beaver pelt. And it seemed I had more forehead than I remembered. “There,” my mom said, still touching up the sides. Staring back at me in the mirror was the spitting image of Ted Danson.  

Everything changed during winter break of my sophmore year when I discovered Mom’s bottle of Paul Mitchell hair conditioning gel on the bathroom sink. Something otherwordly prompted me just to try it. But it’s for girls, I argued with myself. Just try it. I was desperate and no one was home. So I squeezed a blue dab of it into my hand and ran it through my hair. It was amazing! My hair drank it up greedily. It was so thirsty; I had no idea. I felt like a bad parent. I threw a little more in. Working my fingers frantically like combs, I watched my hair transform into a magical new do. No longer did it behave like a crappy swimming cap. It pieced and clumped, and cool, curly tufts emerged. My hair obeyed my every whim, and it stuck wherever I told it. Catching my breath, I moved back to take a look at myself. My hair actually looked, well, cool.    

When I returned to school with my new hair and an endless supply of Paul Mitchell, friends showered me with compliments. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” said one, “but you look different, cooler.” Girls laughed harder at my jokes. I received more co-ed football invitations. I was practically invincible, like a modern day Samson. Not even the damage of putting on a pair of guy Daisy Dukes could hinder me — though I dared not try it.

Shortly thereafter, the day came when I knew I had finally arrived. I was hanging out with a group of buddies, when I saw a highbrow acquaintance of mine from the suburbs of Cleveland coming toward us. He wore a navy button down with a thin red checkered pattern that looked oddly familiar to me.

“Hey,” I said to him, “Nice shirt…I have a pair of boxers that look just like it.” And, the truth is, I did.  

I let out a good hard, freeing laugh. My buddies laughed with me. I can’t remember what the guy with the shirt did. He probably just thought I was a jerk. And, at that moment, I was. But I could afford to be, because I was wearing a deadly combination of cargo pants and Birkenstocks.    

Categories: Culture, Fashion
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