The Cloning of Teens
by Jan Anderson

Humorous observation about the apparent lack of individuality of dress sense in today's teenagers

Last September, prior to the new school-term commencing, my 12 year old son, Carsten, emerged from his bedroom dressed for school, with his backpack fastened securely and the straps pulled up to maximum tightness. His shirt, buttoned up to the neck, was tucked neatly into his trousers. My daughter, Anneliese, now in her third year at senior school the same school to which Carsten would be going - cast a critical eye over her brother and let out an exasperated puff.

Carsten! she shrieked. If you go to Bradon dressed like that, you'll get beaten up!  Carsten s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened quizzically as his sister dragged his backpack from his shoulders and instructed, Look! This is how you do it. She manipulated the straps until they had reached maximum looseness, unfastened the catch and slung one strap casually over her left shoulder, leaving the bag trailing on the floor. She then proceeded to unbutton the top of his shirt, pull it out of his trousers in a puffball fashion and ruffle up his hair. There, that s better. If you don t look the same as everyone else, you re dead.

Teenage individuality apparently died at some undetermined point during the last decade, along with anything remotely resembling a recognisable state school uniform.

My daughter has a 20-year-old attitude inside a 13-year-old head and a body far more mature than her years to match. At the same age, I was still wearing a buff vest and regulation navy blue apple catcher knickers beneath a knee length skirt and stark white blouse, with white socks encased within sensible, low-heeled shoes.

Nevertheless, in the Seventies when I grew up, there were also a lot more non-conformists and the youngsters of that era were far less afraid of expressing their individuality or daring to be different. However, 13 year olds were 13 year olds mentally and their individuality was expressed within the confines of that age group. 13 year olds didn t look 20. Most didn t wear make up or try to gain access to over 18 discos.

It takes my daughter precisely two hours each morning to perform the preparing for school ritual, before she teeters serenely down the road to catch the school bus at 8.05am.

Now, after two hours, you would expect to see an outstandingly presented child, with impeccably pressed clothes and not a thread nor hair out of place. The reality is somewhat different.  Following half an hour in the bathroom and a further hour and a half buried in her bedroom, with the door closed and No Entry sign displayed on the exterior, she re-surfaces, sporting a fetching ensemble as follows: Semi-creased, hanging out shirt, enhanced by two-inch width and length of tie draped loosely around an open-necked collar, a skirt that could double as a belt and three-inch high, cork-coloured wedged shoes, bearing a striking resemblance to blocks of masonry strapped to her feet. Her hair is generally teased into some bizarre, futuristic coiffure, which will encourage her friends to tell her that she looks cool and she is inevitably wearing far too much makeup.

She pouts glossed lips at my partner, Mike and me, before tilting her nose in the her, casting a So-what s-ya-problem? type glance in our direction, tossing her tortured mane of blond hair over her shoulder and strutting out of the front door.  Apparently it takes time to perfect the just-been-dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards style. 

One morning, when I asked her why it took her so long to get ready, she snapped, It takes half an hour to do my mascara, you know!
Half an hour? I said, failing to conceal the incredulous tone of my voice. How can something that takes most women 5 minutes to apply, take you half an hour?  Well, this side here, she began, running the tip of her index finger along the underside of the eyelashes on her right eye, goes on really well, but this side always goes all clumpy, she whined, running her same finger across the lashes on her left eye. So, she continued, I have to go and wash it off and start again. Or, if I don t have time, I have to make the right side look clumpy too and that takes ages.

They look like spider's legs, chortled Carsten, before ducking to avoid his sister s arm moving at great velocity through the air towards his head.  So! came the indignant reply, as Anneliese strutted back into her room and slammed the door.  I was barely allowed to wear makeup even when I was sixteen, but when I remind Anneliese of this, she retorts, Muuuummm! (don't-you-know-anything?) All the girls at school wear makeup and most of them have got their belly buttons pierced!

Any expression of distaste on my part to her ensemble is greeted with, Don t you know anything about fashion mum? accompanied by exaggerated skyward rolling of her eyes.  What it all boils down to is wanting to fit in with the crowd, wanting to be the same as everyone else and not wanting to be singled out as different . It's about the fear of expressing any trait of individuality, lest she is subjected to ridicule.

Out of school, Anneliese has to wear Adidas or Ellesse sports trousers and sweatshirts, even in 90 heat and some equally trendy trainers displaying a brand name of equal status in teenage eyes. No frilly frocks or cute sandals, only androgynous attire.  A few months ago, I made the fatal mistake of purchasing, what she would consider to be, a dorkish pair of trainers at a discounted price. She didn't actually express her dissatisfaction verbally, but when she forced out an, Oh, they're ..nice , her body language betrayed her true feelings.

A few days later, I noticed her skulk out of the house still wearing her old trainers, two sizes too small, frayed laces and a bulge at the top end where her poor tortured toes were crushed against the leather. At that moment, I realised that I would soon be arranging an appointment with my bank manager in order to finance the designer tastes of my children.

Last week, I discovered that this cloning extends to the parents. Anneliese strutted in from school, looking even more untamed than she had in the morning and announced, My friends said that they wished their mums were just like you. I reacted to this veiled compliment with an incredulous stare as I tied up my chain store trainers and slipped on an outdated top.
E-mail: anneliese928@yahoo.co.uk
Author's URL: http://www.my.treeway.com/allwrite

Related Articles:

When Mealtime is the Dreaded Time of Day
Mealtime was the one time everyday when we came together  as a family and discussed our day. Some of my fondest memories are of dinnertime, when, at least once a week, my brother would spit milk across the table because he burst out laughing at my other brother over something silly that he did.

Parenting the Sibling Rivals
With so many books on the market that address parenting and children, written by both experts and non-experts, you may notice that many of them suggest various degrees of spacing in terms of how many years should be between your children.

Discipline is Not a Dirty Word
Discipline does not automatically mean punishment. Oftentimes, it involves disciplining ourselves first, before we expect trained behavior to appear in our children.

The Meanest Mother
We had the meanest mother in the whole world!