On Friday evening they called me aside.
“Bimpe, you need to step it up a notch”, they said. “You don’t look like you try hard enough. You should use more makeup and do your nails and wear, like, four inch heels. You’d totally look good in a weave and you could do with a pushup bra. And it’s a sin to hide those legs, girl, please DO get a shorter skirt!”
So off I went, sore at heart that the me I knew wasn’t good enough, but relieved as well that I had finally found the magic formula – if I could just look like them I would finally fit in.
Therefore, on Monday morning I wore red lipstick and painted my nails red, exactly as I’d seen them do. Hair racing for my bum and skirt struggling bravely for the finish line I click-clacked my red soles noisily into the hall exactly as I’d heard them do.
It niggled at me that the girl I saw in the mirror wasn’t someone I knew anymore, but I beamed up my practiced smile and adjusted my supplementary bosom as they called me aside, their acceptance had been a long time coming and I was going to soak it up.
“Bimpe, you need to tone it down a notch”, they said “You look like you’re trying too hard.”