So we got the clothes and the special invite. Lined up the cars to drop Dan and I off and pick us up. I have a vague idea how to dance. Got the clip on tie. The old man gives pocket square for my suit jacket.
So we talk it over. What else can make us a real man (when we’re barely teenagers)?
Well, no. In the 60s, the only people with tattoos were motorcycle gang members and maybe their slutty girls. Only a hardened opium fiend who opened beer bottles with his teeth could put up with a needle piercing his flesh. And they didn’t have tats of their mom’s name; pictures of ratfink riding a cycle (not a ‘chopper’, that came later), or a slogan that dared the grim reaper.
TV told us we had to smell good. So many choices: Brut, Aqua Velva (the song ‘My AAAAAA-Qua-Velva Man’ ran every hour), British Sterling (where a stunning girl rode a monster horse sidesaddle to offer cologne on a gleaming silver platter; very realistic), Old Spice, and Aramis, among others. But the only real choice was the green bottle of magic elixor–Hai Karate.
This stuff had nerdy men in thick Elvis Costello specs fighting off blonde and brunette stunners in mini dresses with karate moves to prevent them tearing his garments and taking liberties with his aloof body. A perfect antitoxin for shrunken terrified seventh graders. I can only imagine the local department store selling out suddenly.
Using daddy’s aftershave was NOT cool. We’re the Pepsi Generation, no time for old fogie stuff.
And then your breath. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of 2-inch (pocket-sized, dontcha know) aerosol sprays that gave you a jolt of peppermint or wintergreen. We were astute enough to see that we could not get rid of gum once we were dancing.
Besides, what shapely young rich girl wouldn’t crave a sexy little mint jolt on their shapely tongue?
OK, all bases covered. Now all we had to do was keep cool…………to the thrill of it all.
Meanwhile, in girls’ houses, I’d guess similar angst: