25 December 2010 (Christmas!)

INSTIGATORS: Mona Lisa Smile, School Ties, Dead Poet's Society, The Emperor's Club

SYMPTOMS: sinful quantities of red lipstick, vintage cardigans, hair ribbons, records, and attempts at coy fliratation

I have always been a sucker for the classic, fifties-era boarding school/college film. There is something immensely appealing about the pure wholesomeness and the good ol'fashioned values that go along with the land of rigid academia. I will admit however that the majority of the appeal does not seem to be generated by the few cursory minutes the students spend packed into the chapel for initiation or the few shots of them pouring over musty old schoolbooks. Rather, it is the hours full of close-ups of the gamine girls and roguish boys racing off with rosy cheeks, loosened ties, and bouncing curls to sneak in their evenings of rock n' roll and elicit cigarettes that keeps me coming back for more. 

Maybe it is my nostalgia over choosing Barnard and an urban campus over the charming, rural East Coast women's schools with their traditions of may pole dancing, white-dress-wearing, and quaint ties with brother schools. Anyway, this is one way I could account for my new attempts at becoming a more well-read, coy-er classic fifties girl, whom I have dubbed Joan Brandon (Joan, as that is the same of the lovely Julia Stiles character in Mona Lisa Smile, who is, to me, more appealing the shrewish Kirsten Dusnst or the slightly too virtuous and high-horsey Julia Roberts; Brandon simply because it sounds tres sophis and full of old money). Joan is a somewhat difficult lady to manage- she wears perfectly applied red lipstick all-day, everyday, has a tiny wasp waist, and is extremely charming and sociable. 

To be honest, I have struggled a bit in making Joan a reality, my red lipstick is not nearly as impeccable as Joan would like; it is generally flaking by midday, making an attractive sort of Queen Amidala look wherein about half my lip retains bright red pigments and the other half is left in alien nakedness. Also, my waist is not at the trim twenty inches Joan would ideally require and thus I often am forced to give up on the attractive hourglass silhouette in favor of freeing my midriff of strangulation and settling on something a bit less attractive but with a bit more elastic. The biggest problem of all, however, has been that I have found that strangers are often put off by my attempts at witty repartee, probably sensing something amiss in my wide, flaky red smiles and sad, half-hearted attempts at conversation. On the plus side, I did recently get a rather fetching retro hairdo at a curly hair salon in the city. My friends alternately describe it ias bar dancer from Spanish Harlem and forties movie star, and, for Joan's benefit, I have packed away my castanets and Lycra and tried to keep my curls looking classy. When my locks are freshly washed and amply doused with the twenty-five dollar salt water they talked me into buying, I can start, in some small way, to do the enchanting Joan justice.