A little girl learns the power of simple transformation and the importance of approval

Suggested Listening

Pink Bullets | The Shins

On the elementary school bus, riding home with the chilly fall air slipping through the barely cracked windows. We’re moving so fast the leaves outside are a blur of red, orange, and yellow. The air is permeated, suddenly, by the sharp scent of manure. The farmers are fertilizing their freshly turned fields. A fifth grader sat in front of me, across from me, our feet in the isle, chucks firmly planted on the corrugated rubber. Smaller children, first graders and maybe some kindergartners, kneeled on the bus seats surrounding us, securing themselves with their skinny arms hooked over the back of the shiny plastic seats. Their eyes were open and yearning, hair mussed from recess.

With great ceremony the fifth grader presented a rainbow container and raised it above her head, shaking it. “Close your eyes”. I pressed them tightly and without realizing, held my breath also. The fifth grader sprayed my face, neck, and the top of my school uniform with Britney Spears body glitter. It was iridescent, sparkling, and smelled like jasmine and black cherry and vanilla. I opened my eyes seductively. I was renewed, grown up, beautiful. The body glitter caught in my eyelashes, sealing some together. “This is beauty”, I thought. Then, “beauty is pain”. I remembered that from one of my mother’s Shape magazines. The smaller girls fawned, touching my face, and begging the fifth grader to spray them as well. But they were too young and wouldn’t appreciate it. Besides, the body glitter cost 6.99 at the store and she didn’t want to waste it. The smaller children nodded knowingly, then retreated to their conversations, clutching their toys.

I walked off the bus slowly, feeling more beautiful than I’d ever felt before. Without effort I held my head high and elongated my neck to show off as much of the glitter as possible. Our dusty driveway was ill behaved on such a blustery fall day, and I could feel some of the dirt sticking to my neck. No matter, my confidence was not dented. I walked inside and gingerly set down my backpack, took off my shoes, and smoothed my hair, the tendrils crunchy from the glitter and dirt. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, shirt off, glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, paying bills. I sat two chairs down from him, so that he could fully appreciate my transformation. He glanced up and studied me for a minute, then back down to his bills. “Go wash up for dinner” he said, “you look dirty”. Defeated.