from hippie chick to firefighter girl

I was a bookwormish tomboy growing up. Bonafide, dyed in the wool, jeans, tennies, and t-shirt kind of tomboy. I did have waist length red hair, but always kept it up in two tight pigtails. The dusting of freckles across my nose and deep tan during summertime completed the picture. Granted, the jeans were hand-me-down bell bottoms with flowers embroidered around the bells, but they did have respectably worn knees. I announced to the world (at the tender age of 7) that I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up. Grown ups smiled, and several boys in the neighborhood told me, in no uncertain terms, that I couldn't be a fireman, because I was a girl. Whatever. My mother, to her credit, allowed me my overflowing bookcases, Hot Wheels, cap guns, tree houses, and shunning of the color pink, but insisted that I wear a dress each week on one day in addition to sunday so I wouldn't forget I was a girl.

Ha! As if.

I did like playing dress up, and had a fairly large collection of cast-off makeup from my three older sisters. I never quite got the hang of it, though, and so my essential makeup kit as I went through my teen years consisted of mascara, powder, and lip gloss. Sundays, I wore dresses and flats, but went defiantly bare-legged, which my mother pretended not to notice.

She cringed and almost cried when she saw my first tattoo. I was in no hurry to tell her that I had a couple of others hidden under my clothes. By the time she noticed my pierced tongue, all she could do was cluck hers and shake her head. I think by that time, she realized I probably wasn't going to turn out quite like her other daughters. Late teens and early twenties, I slipped into hippie chick mode; I never did wear patchouli or tie dye, but I was big on the no makeup/no high heels/all cotton wardrobe. At the age of 24, I got a job as co-manager of a clothing store. My parents were ecstatic- Firefighter Girl picks a career! In a female dominated field! Doing girl things! But that only lasted a few months.

After I went through academy and my first year of school, I was still hell-bent on being a paramedic/firefighter. Interestingly enough, the more time I spend in this field, the more girly I get. I now own 5 pink shirts (yes, I do). I have a few pairs of high heels, and as mentioned in a previous post, I can even walk in them. I'm still getting the hang of this whole girl grooming thing, though. I make Miss Diva say the waxing mantra with me in between screams as I peel strips of hair off my legs: "Beauty is Pain! Beauty is Pain!" She laughs at me, but she's girly-girl all the way through- I don't think she has a single shirt in her dresser that isn't pink. She'll be begging for a razor and wax strips by the time she's 10. Heck, she already paints her nails, and it's not really her fault when half the purple nail polish ends up on the carpet. She's only 4, after all.

I think I figured out how to pluck my eyebrows symmetrically. That was a big milestone a couple of years ago. Hair styling beyond shampoo, conditioner, and a sloppy bun still eludes me, which is why I frequently look like an unbraided Pippi Longstocking. My staple cosmetics are still mascara and lip gloss, although for a special occasion (and if I have the time to putz around in front of the bathroom mirror) I'll put on lipstick and foundation, and if I'm feeling really brave, I'll try eyeshadow. Like this morning.

Here's how it went. I got a girl magazine (no, you pervs, not a girl-y magazine-- it was Allure, one of those magazines filled with advice for girly-girls-- makeup, fashion, tricks and tips for everything from faking a fabulous tan to horoscopes for you and your guy). In said girl magazine was this season's hottest new looks for eyes. I spread the magazine on the bathroom counter, prepared my arsenal, and set to work.

I look like I have two black eyes. Seeeeeeexxxxxxxyyyy.