Dress - Courtesy of ClubCouture, Cardigan - Vintage, Jewelry - Flea Market + DIY + Konstantino, Shoes - Wholesale-Dress.Net
When I was a little girl, my mother used to playfully ask me, "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" I never knew how to respond. I was extremely self-concious as a child (see post #5 where I talk about the ways in which fashion magazines probably saved my life), and the ways in which I felt this question simultaneously put me on the spot and forced me to be very self-aware were overwhelming. I would have near panic attack in that moment. I suppose it never occurred to me to reply, "I'm not a witch at all!" or something equally childlike and silly. Instead, I would concentrate very hard, then raise an eyebrow and respond, "A good witch?" Crisis averted.
I was not like other children, and my parents were not like other parents. My father is large, well over six feet tall (as a child, I would hide behind his legs when people at the supermarket tried to talk to me -- I did not like the way strangers condescended to me). He wears thick black horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and is covered in tattoos. His knuckles quite literally read "GAME OVER", which is funny because they are probably the last thing you see if he is ejecting you from a bar on a night when you have perhaps had too much to drink and think yourself invincible. He looks big and mean and scary, but the second you plop a puppy or a child in front of him, you see that he is a just a big ol' sweetheart. As a child, I would sleep in his old punk tee shirts. The hemlines would drag on the floor, and I would ask my father who The Descendents were. Some nights, we would listen to The Clash in our apartment, him showing me how to play with electronic drums while I clipped my favorite bows and barrettes into his hair. Others, we would play Nintendo and draw pictures together. When I reached the fifth grade, he began taking me to concerts. The first one that I remember really well was No Doubt, with The Vandals as the opening act. No Doubt was a ska band back then.
My mother is still young, petite, and beautiful. When I was a little girl in the '90s, she was in her twenties, and she would embarrass me by wearing flowery summer dresses with her Doc Martens. Sometimes, she would wear sweaters as skirts. She would just step into the neckline, pull it up around her waist, then tie the arms around the front into a bow, pairing it with a pair of beaded slippers. Her hair was short then, a black jaw-length bob with little bangs. On her wedding day, though, in the '80s, she looked just like Madonna, wearing a lace tea-length dress with her then-blonde hair curled up high in a pile, topped with one solitary earring. She sang The Cure to me and took me to thrift stores.
I have always thought that my personal style was a representation of my parents, equally. My mother has become an adult now (terrifying!) and works in an office, but she always wears a little something that is a tell-tale sign that she is still wonderfully wacky. Sometimes, she will wear appropriate attractive work attire from head to toe, then add one quarter-marchine ring, the kind that children get at supermarkets, all plastic and bizarre. My father has stayed true to his roots and will probably always be the hippest person I know.
I guess the whole point of this is that yesterday I was a bad witch, today I am a good witch, and every day I am my parents' daughter.