When I was in the 7th grade, SlackMom took me to have my colors done.
We drove from one white middle-class suburb to another white middle-class suburb, where rows upon rows of beige houses were set back onto green lawns in a never-ending maze of cul-de-sacs. I sat someone's kitchen table while she explained that I was a "winter."
Yes, I know that there's been a horrific earthquake in Haiti (Partners in Health is an organization that has been successfully working in Haiti under impoverished conditions for years and are putting up medical tents to deal with injured survivors) and children don't have clean drinking water all over the globe, but this was the suburbs in 1983. Your colors (and your perm and who was going to ask you "out" even though my parents strictly forbade any type of dating in Junior High) were LANDMARK ISSUES.
I can't find a scanned photo of me in junior high, so imagine this photo, but, y'know, LESS COOL.
It's this sort of early childhood education that puts me ahead of the rest of my class, because now I don't have to ask what color labial lipstick Genital Cosmetic Colorant to purchase. I'm clearly a Bettie!
Dear Women,
Your vadge is fine. No, really. Have you ever seen a flaccid penis? I mean, C'MON.
Love,
the slackmistress
(Please print out and place on your mirror if needed.)