a minx in the making
the domestic minx
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If an oak tree from a tiny acorn grows, then perhaps it was not entirely inconceivable that the small, skinny and profoundly unfashionable girl that I once was would, one day, arrive at some small measure of credibility and become A Minx.
Perhaps even a Domestic Minx...
It was late in the sixties and my father, indelibly English but harbouring discontent with the Land of Hope & Glory, decided to uproot the family and deliver them across the seas to the convict outpost of Australia.
After fearful dreams of loin-clothed natives arriving in the night to spirit me from my mud hut I arrived on the shores of my new home to find not a horde of marauding Aboriginal warriors but a party of mocking and scornful first grade children.
Dropping me off at the school-gate the implausible attire of my father had stopped the small children in their tracks.
One glance at my father's version of Australian Casual: short sleeved shirt and tie worn with snug shorts, long white walk socks and tan sandals, had suspended all play.
The Morecombe and Wise, National Health black rimmed reading glasses while shocking and ludicrous were a potent and preposterous giveaway.
I was a Pom.
"You're a Pom, aren't ya!" ventured one of the gasping horde.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I heard ya talk funny so ya must be one."
Yes. I'm afraid my Pommieness was as pronounced as it was unpopular.
Armed with a quaint Enid Blyton accent, skinny white legs, a penchant for poetry and all things nerdy with the added shame of horrific horn-rimmed glasses for reading the blackboard, my violation of the primary school fashion code in late 60's Australia was reprehensible.
But there was room for improvement.
My Mother understood it well.
My limp hair needed body.
And her introduction of The Ringlets made all the difference.
Misguided and seriously mis-timed visions of Shirley Temple can be held responsible for the ringletted abomination that was to become my hair.
Had there been more of them, had the follicular construction been more substantial, perhaps
her fancy may have worked, but there were only two.
Two ringlets.
Sad, limp and lonely, they dangled like a pair of lower intestines on either side of my pasty face.
For years.
In my short and shabby history of fashion faux pas the ringlets quickly assumed
The Crowning Glory of Gauche.
It was only a matter of time before I became known as That Weird Little Pommie Girl With Those Things On Her Head.
Inevitably, sporting a pair of withered, whorling sausages became part of my identity and upon the pioneering of the pathetic and grossly inelegant Robin Rabbit Club in the early 70's they became my ears.
(We will speak not of the Robin Rabbit Club here, dear readers, enough to say that crouching and hopping about behaviour while twitching one's nose and licking one's paws proved to be a deeply undignified primary school preoccupation. Despite handstitching personal kerchieves for all Rabbits, membership dropped abysmally and predictably towards the end of primary school, paving the way for imminent and timely pubescence.)
And with Pubescence came Hormones.
And Hormones, thankfully, delivered a grim determination to rise from the ashes of the ringletted rabbit horror and seek out My Muse.
She was decadent, darling and delicious, dear reader.
But she was a nightmare.
She was a Minx!
Brash, cheeky and very, very naughty, by the age of 15 I had assumed the devilish and mischievous persona of Belle of St Trinians.
With Catholic schoolgirl uniform hitched up just shy of my pert and improper arse, bleached blonde hair and smart mouth working some hardcore chewing gum action, I was a new force to be reckoned with.
Years of ringlets, rabbits and repression had provided my minx with Issues and the Sisters of Mercy were first to feel the full brunt of such pent-up indignation, properly fuelled through the writing and circulation of all manner of subversive texts, insolent and audacious acts of insurrection and the brazen lobbing of rotten vegetable matter on one teacher's car.
By the time I was 17 I had made my point, was promptly expelled and found myself sporting a notorious yet gloriously unabashed Minx status.
The rest is history.
Yes, dear readers, I still enjoy thumbing my nose at authority, my insolence and audacity has become legendary (well, somewhat..Ok, just a bit) but quietly, I am still a bit of a nerd.
shhh, our secret...
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Reader Comments (14)
If a picture is worth a thousand words...the one I shall send you via email will knock your socks off, Minxy! Hee.
Inside of every minx is a bit of a dorky schoolgirl. The cool girls didn't cultivate interesting personalities or naughty thoughts. They didn't have to. Yay for hormones! Yay for saucy, naughty minxes!
xox,
The Duchess of Dorkdom
I am laughing out loud writing this, because I simply cannot wait to see this photo!!!
If it is true (and we know it is) that the dorky schoolgirls result in an end product more interesting, naughty and full of Minx, then your school girl evidence will be a cracker!!!
You are a veritable fountain of the above and that can only mean one thing....a horrendous school photo!!!
With potentially ludicrous hair!!
I am hysterical at the thought!!!
Hurry up and send it before I wet my pants - or so I can wet my pants!!
You are hilariously wonderful!!
xox
She of the Rude and Regrettable Ringlets
And what a fabulous, darling Minx you are!
One's metamorphosis is exciting to look back on - I recently found a photo of myself at a black tie party running amok wearing only cowboy boots. I was 8, and like any 8-year-old would have ... decided to liven things up a little bit.
Looking back, I may not have foreseen the fantastic effect my stunt had on my parents (I still get teased about it on occasion), but god those boots were sexy.
I pwomise I won't tell on you, pwomise! There is power in being more than what you seem ;) For those who take the time to see, it is pure joy. Always a pleasure to read your blog.
Meow!
The very thought of running through a black tie event wearing only cowboy boots is - exhilarating!!
I'm sure my parents would have been emotionally scarred...
What a stunt!! It has obviously sown some seeds, Kitty... a penchant for boots, obviously...but perhaps more - is there a lurking desire to run about sans clothes at sensible events?
Ooh, I hope so - it is always more fun like that!!
Jafabrit,
I think we are all a little like one of your creations. Layer upon layer of different textures and mediums, thoughtfully applied, often casually placed, sometimes painfully ruined with disproportionate time spent rectifying the blunder, until eventually there is something that we can look at and say:
"Yeah, I like it. I might change it a little bit but I'm happy with the way it"s heading."
The most interesting works are those with their many layers, their sub text, their story hidden, just a little, so that when you look - Ahhh, there's so much more...
Thanks for taking the time to look x
(it's all tweet bloody tweet!!!)
Oh Duchess of Dorkdom...
I have seen the photos - yes, two of them - and I have had to cross my legs.
It appears you too have fallen victim to the ringletted horror...the diabolical state of the dangling lower intestines... followed by what can only be considered as Excessive Force - your poor hair butchered beyond redemption...
What a fascinating and exemplary creature you have become despite, perhaps because, of this poor chapter.
I think we are/become, defined in some part by our hair experiences, the Good,the Bad and the Ugly.
Thank you for sharing.
It's so good that we can laugh now at those violations and not be seeking therapy!!
xox
It's only hair afterall...which is why they invented the wig. THANK GODDESS! Also, thank goddess for the dazzling drag queens who showed me how to be a girlie girl in spite of my considerable issues. YAY!
xox, DOD
Oh how I love the wig!!
I pray for costume parties so I can cover my limp locks with something bold and fabulous.
Party anyone?
Where would we be without drag queens. I love them!
Glamour, darling, glamour!
There were a surprising number of banci boys in West Papua - they put a lot of the girls to shame...
SORRxox
I won't tell, I promise. When I was younger I was a quiet little bookworm. Now I'm sure the quiet little bookworm is still there somewhere but she's been overpowered by a hyperactive, talkative, loopy lass.
Austalia is no place for sissies! You're lucky they didn't cart you off to the factory and shave your head. It's a tough proving ground but look what it produces - the finest Minx's known to man
I love releasing my inner nerd when I'm taking a break from my hectic other life.
She likes to read and contemplate the universe, Stephen Hawking style...
I think we can and should be every facet of ourselves. I am all sorts of people in here, rebel, fashionista, spelling nazi, mother, wife, lover, writer, reader, teacher, artist, bad singer, theatrical performer, nerd and most importantly Minx.
It is obvious that you're a right minx, Lola.
And loving it!!!
You are so right Thinista.
Although they should have taken those ringlets straight away!!
Australia is no place for sissies! I discovered that very early on and my school of hard knocks produced a steely resolve and one helluva Minx!
Much like yourself Thinista!!!
You are so right Minx - our outsides might be all treacle and gooey marshmallow, but underneath it all.......we're as hard as granite (in the nicest possible way of course)