Costume Party
We all got dressed up and went to a Halloween party last night; Mimi stole the show as the Headless Horseman, complete with bloody vertebrae poking through her severed neck; Jen was resplendent as Tammy Faye Baker, raccoon eyes from tear-streaked mascara and all; I went as a zombie version of Homer Simpson’s neighbor, dubbing myself “Dead” Flanders.
At first, I didn’t have much fun. I forgot that if you choose a boring person to impersonate, then people will be bored by you. Much better to do as I did the year before last and go as a party animal like David Lee Roth.
As dead Ned, my repertoire was pretty limited; all I did was introduce myself, “Hi Dead-ely-o, Zomberino.”
Later, though, when people started trading wigs and apparel, the party kicked into gear. I particularly enjoyed wearing a long red-haired tress and a powder-blue leisure suit jacket. It wasn’t obvious to me what the character I was supposed to be playing at that point was—some sort of bass player for a British prog-rock band—but whoever it was, he was sure a lot more fun than Flanders.
Now, it should be obvious, but this did make me reflect on what a big difference one’s appearance makes—not just to how others see you, but to how we see ourselves.
As Ned, I was all shy and mousey; when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it made me even more so. As prog-rock guy, I couldn’t help but be smarmy and opinionated; I had to live up to my hairdo at the very least.
I’d like to think I’m not so shallow as all this in real life, but to some extent, I’m sure I am. When I’m having a bad hair day—or month, as the current case may be—I feel less lively than when the locks fall across my forehead just so.
Maybe it’s time again to change wigs.
At first, I didn’t have much fun. I forgot that if you choose a boring person to impersonate, then people will be bored by you. Much better to do as I did the year before last and go as a party animal like David Lee Roth.
As dead Ned, my repertoire was pretty limited; all I did was introduce myself, “Hi Dead-ely-o, Zomberino.”
Later, though, when people started trading wigs and apparel, the party kicked into gear. I particularly enjoyed wearing a long red-haired tress and a powder-blue leisure suit jacket. It wasn’t obvious to me what the character I was supposed to be playing at that point was—some sort of bass player for a British prog-rock band—but whoever it was, he was sure a lot more fun than Flanders.
Now, it should be obvious, but this did make me reflect on what a big difference one’s appearance makes—not just to how others see you, but to how we see ourselves.
As Ned, I was all shy and mousey; when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it made me even more so. As prog-rock guy, I couldn’t help but be smarmy and opinionated; I had to live up to my hairdo at the very least.
I’d like to think I’m not so shallow as all this in real life, but to some extent, I’m sure I am. When I’m having a bad hair day—or month, as the current case may be—I feel less lively than when the locks fall across my forehead just so.
Maybe it’s time again to change wigs.
posted by Professor Dave at 11:47 AM
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