My souvenir

One day, I was sorting some old photo albums, and there appeared a right blast from my past, a souvenir. It was a ticket to my first ever dance, a Term One Social. Due to my early promotion upwards in the academic world, I was at that stage not even a teenager. Still, it was 1967. My Form 3 (now Year Nine) classmates and I had to be introduced to adult social niceties. The social evening was held in a long gone timber church hall, in the neighbourhood.

For this supposedly magical occasion, the preparations seemed endless. Firstly, at home, mother took one look in despair at my chubby physique and lank straight hair. I was not quite ready for all this, but my hair was forcibly washed. My mum tried to achieve a miracle by inserting large rollers in my hair, piercing my scone with metal clips. Then I had to sit for what seemed like an hour under an antique bonnet with hot air blowing my hair dry. Being a bookworm, I sat there reading for ages.

Following this new way of torture, I was sprayed with hair spray, so my hair would be curly. Lucille Ball I was not! The minute I brushed my hair, inhaling these fumes of VO5, aroma of the day, my tresses resumed their normal, rebellious natural state.

Mother carted my sisters and I off to gaze a frock patterns. My older sister chose lime green, I was undecided, so I was allocated bright orange for a dress fabric. Life got worse, I had to learn to walk and dance in lowly but high orange sling back shoes. This was one aspect to maturing. Evening dance sessions ensued at home, where my sister instructed me in writhing appropriately to some of her platters, such as the Twist.

Meanwhile, at secondary school, all students at our level had compulsory dancing lessons. Girls were in their gingham frocks, some lads still in shorts, one of those golden Autumns. The old music teacher played her trusty piano, some discs were heard. The younger teachers were soon forcing us to dance the Progressive Barn Dance, and the Waltz.

The swoonworthy male Maths teacher asked us to dance, so the acne boys in our form knew how to ask us to dance, showing respect for such females. Our young girly hearts held crushes on this Maths teacher, but he was engaged by the end of term, so we all got over it. All that preparation for this big Social evening was beyond gross, whatever words issued then from our girlish giggles. Being forced to dance with acne as our new shoes were trampled did not really appeal. Tickets, such as my souvenir, were bought. Mine said ‘no plate’, as Mother did not compete in cake contests. I do understand.

Newly mature, supposedly, my first dance was nearly as bad as I had forecast. The girls in the loo spent most of the night plastering banned make-up and hair spray on themselves, hoping for some swain to kiss off their lipstick. That was their story. Most gals sat on the seats, boys were doomed by the male teachers to invite the wallflowers so we would get up and dance. Mostly the girls danced with each other, I got through the Twist, with no mishap. Supper was demolished, the band played on, as my hair do rapidly lost any pretence of curl, and my orange lipstick still tasted funny.

That was in the olden days, how we were now getting ready to be adults and be social. We were nearly grown up, if any boomer ever really grew up. What for, buttercup? I guess now, it was a great way to mature, full of fun laughs.