Oh Chaka. I was hesitant about bringing you to the Big Girl blog after I snarked on you at Ayyyy! because I figured, how much can one clearly frazzled woman endure? Then I realized a) this could be a learning experience for my fellow big girls and b) my soul is made of eels.
We’re gonna leave the hair alone, that’s her signature and if she wants to look like she’s spent the past five presidential administrations combing her hair with a dead seagull let her.
What we’re not going to leave alone is this tragifying pre-Raphaelite Swamp Thing disaster. I don’t know what it is about Big Girls, but have you noticed we tend to favor the flowy, Stevie Nicks, ren-fest stuff? And yet the vast majority of it looks TERRIBLE.
Plus it sends a social message. That message is “Hello, I spent my formative years smoking pot/rolling 12-sided dice/writing LOTR fanfic/reading historical romance/writing bad poetry because Emily Dickinson is SO DEEP and as such cannot deal with being a grown up. Would you like to meet my cat/see my roomful of stuffed unicorns/marry me/ have awkward fishbelly group sex?”
This is not the message we want to send, Chaka, so leave the crocheted sleeves, the random ejaculations of chiffon and the jagged mermaid hems at home, grow the heck up and put on a freakin’ ball gown.