So, there I was, waiting for the Keelhauler to get his hair cut, reading the November issue of Vogue, when I came upon an article about personal style. The author, whose name I have forgotten (i.e., never noticed due to the glossiness of the pictures accompanying the text), told the story of her first days at Yale, when she realized that her California wardrobe fell short of the East Coast prep style. The girl cutting the Keelhauler's hair was having a really bad day, and took about an hour, which is good, because it gave me ample time to re-read the article and absorb its knowledge. I think. Let me impart its central message here for you:

One of the signs of being a grown-up is the development of a personal style.

I can't argue with that. Wait, can I? I can probably argue with that, but that is not the point. What is the point? Let me read back a paragraph or two and remind myself, as I am unsure.

Ah, yes. One of the signs of being a grown-up is the development of a personal style.

The author details her unsuccessful attempts to dress like the prep school crowd, and as I read her description, I felt uncomfortably familiar with the concept. I grew up in New England, but there is nothing remotely preppy about me or any member of my family. Well... maybe my mother, but it's largely because she has good teeth and wears a lot of Shetland sweaters. Nevertheless, the preppy aesthetic was shoved down my throat, and I did my best to comply: Izod shirts, striped Brooks Brothers oxford cloth button-downs, Fair Isle sweaters, and boat shoes. BOAT shoes, I am humiliated to write that down even though I now live on a boat. No: I am MORE humiliated to write it, because living on a boat and sailing, I've realized how strikingly inadequate boat shoes are for wear on boats. And that is strictly outside the hideousness factor. I'm getting bogged down, but the main thing is, this Vogue article brought back floods of memories of misguided and unsuccessful attempts to pass off my borderline white-trash self as someone who summered at The Vineyard and attended Choate.

Besides the fact that I have hips and breasts--which automatically disqualifies me as anything near a prep (except for that special category of field-hockey-playing, Dutch-bob-wearing future closet dykes of America style of prep, which is much "stockier" than me anyway), there is nothing that should have led me to think that faux-prep would be a successful look for me. I have curly hair, a penchant for high heels and dark lipstick, and a love of extremely unsuitable garage-band style boyfriends. Probably, I should have grown up in Detroit, or New York, somewhere with access to Doc Martens and fishnets. But I did not, and so, in my naive, sheltered manner--and thoroughly encouraged by my mother, who hoped my Shetland sweaters would give a false prep positive and attract "an engineer with an interest in the arts," as she put it--I went full-on faux-prep. It was a disaster that ensured that I would never fit in, no matter where I went, and my personal style has never developed correctly as a result. But still, I look back on it and laugh at myself, thinking, Well, i was a kid--my style was still developing. I didn't know any better.

So... as the Keelhauler was getting his hair cut and I was contemplating my own hair cut, I read over the article again. noting with interest the photo featured on the first page. It showed a smiling blonde model, ca. 1957, wearing two Shetland sweaters, a plaid kilt, a heavy gold bracelet, and penny loafers. Her hair was cut into a flip and held back on one side with a barrette. She looked gorgeous. She looked WASPy and slender and, essentially, nothing at all like me.

The hair stylist twirled the Keelhauler in the chair, and as he climbed out, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and grinning, she motioned me over. I held up the Vogue magazine and, gesturing to the blonde WASP model, smiling with her penny loafers and perfect manicure, said, "I want this haircut."

Star of the day. . .Jim White