I had forgotten, really, that I was a 1970s version of a hippie when I was younger.
Once I discovered blue jeans and got away from my mother's version of what a girl should look like, I became the epitome of a young woman who lived in blue jeans and T-shirts. Or blue jeans and blouses.
And hats.
I wore lots of hats.
My brother reminded me of this Christmas Eve, when he presented me with this photo from my past:
That's my brother, my mother, and me.
My father must have taken this shot. According to my brother, it had 1976 on the back, so I would have been 13 years old, and my brother 10. He looks very much like he belongs in The Brady Bunch in this picture.
I, on the other hand, look like a hippie from the far hills, with my jeans, oversized coat, dark glasses, and hat.
We apparently were on a hike. My mother has a walking stick leaning against her, and I have one in my hand. My brother has a knife at his side, perhaps to kill saber toothed tigers with, or some such.
I have no memory of this picture, the hat, or the coat. The glasses, I think, were the kind that darkened in sunlight.
Dressing like that, though, brings back some flimsy memories. Memories of my mother fretting because I refused to dress up anymore. She hated my hats.
I hated dressing up more than she hated my hats and blue jeans, I guess. Or maybe she didn't think my wardrobe was worth fighting over after a while.
Now I dress like a frumpy old woman. I think it's time to go back to being a hippie. I shall have to look for hippie clothes for large women.
Mamma Cass pulled it off back in the 1960s, right?
I should be able to figure this out for 2022.
So long as I'm wearing pants. Ain't no way I'm going back to wearing a dress.