Girl Next Door

As I was growing up in the sixties, I had a very well defined idea of how I wanted to look.  My points of reference were pictures and articles in Fifteen or Seventeen magazines and ads for suntan lotion.  Back in those days, the desired look was that of a California blonde surfer girl,  British Carnaby Street model, or the all American girl next door.  I studied pictures of the models for everything from Sun- In to Bass Weejuns, trying valiantly to replicate whatever I could to bring me one inch closer to those ideals.

I had a few challenges along the way.  First of all, I lived in Illinois, so trying to adopt the persona of a sun kissed teenager with long, straight blonde hair and a perpetual tan was almost laughable.  Plus, I had plain old brown hair that had a natural wave and had a tendency to frizz up in the summer humidity. 

I couldn't even remotely mimic the style of the English rose with heavy eye makeup, pale lipstick and mini skirts like Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton.  That was so far off base from my reality that I didn't even try to co-opt that look as my own.

That left all American girl, which was by far the easiest look to emulate.  I stocked my wardrobe with the de rigueur kilts, wool shorts, vee neck sweaters, knee socks and loafers.  Ambush or Heaven Scent were my go-to colognes, dabbed sparingly at my pulse points - all tools to help create the look and aura I was after.  Just one big problem remained.  Thanks to my dad, I had a whole face full of freckles.  Not a cute sprinkling across my nose, mind you - full out freckles everywhere.  Conventional wisdom may have suggested that freckles would work well with the whole girl next door theme, but in my version of that reality, freckles were the biggest obstacle to being cute.  Freckles made me plain and pedestrian and I detested them.

In the back section of one of the magazines, I found an ad for Stillman's Freckle Cream.  The ad  promised that the cream would bleach away the horrid spots and leave my skin creamy and even toned.  It wasn't cheap.  I had to save my allowance for a long time before I could send away for the cream.  I reasoned that two jars would be necessary since I was cursed with such an awful case.  After weeks and weeks of scrimping, I was able to buy the Stillman's.  I can't begin to describe the joy I felt when I saw the package containing miracle creams had arrived.  I was on the cusp of a fresh, freckle-free look, and I could hardly wait.

Every night I faithfully applied the cream, following the directions to the letter.  After the first jar was gone, I thought I saw a minor change and was glad I'd had the foresight to order two jars to get the job completely done.  Again, I diligently rubbed the Stillman's in every night before going to sleep, confident I was just weeks away from a new face.

Those of you who have known me for years know that this experiment failed completely.  At the end of the second jar of Stillman's Freckle Cream, the only thing I'd lost was some of my allowance money.  As time went on I learned that make up could help cover the freckles to a certain extent and the burning urgency to get rid of them faded and eventually moved to the back burner. 

Once I moved into adulthood, something surprising happened.  Summers in the sun made my freckles multiply and get darker and I found myself kind of liking it.  My husband commented on it once, telling me my summer freckle explosion made me look so cute.  Cute!  That was, after all, what I was always after - having a boy that I loved think I was cute.  It was another curious life lesson - realizing that whatever bits and pieces that make up who I am are as much a part of my identity as my finger prints.  To be sure, I'm not a Pollyanna that puts a fake positive spin on   my tendency to flabby upper arms or ugly eyebrows. And I'm pretty sure that ten years from now I won't find those things cute but I try not to get my knickers in a twist over things that are what they are.

Now I live in Florida, where the sun is usually shining.  My freckles are in perpetual bloom, which is something I rather like.  And every once in awhile when I'm looking in the mirror and see them in all their glory, I find myself smiling and think "Huh, who would have thought..."