Paula 
Every thing was fuck this, fuck that, fuck them and fuck you!
It took three weeks of pleading, before my mother finally let me cut my long hair into the new hairstyle rage, called the “Bubble.” Along with this cut, came a quick lesson in back-combing, better known as “ratting.” This and a half can of hairspray, made hair huge. Definitely, this look was indicative of the earlier, pre-hippie sixties.
I began bucking the rules of my immediate society. Like our staid dress code at school. Out, with the required saddle shoes and bobby socks and in, with nylons and flats . . . in, with peroxide, in with mascara. At church it was, in with short dresses and lipstick.
It was, in, with ditching church, and out, with feeling guilty. Not going to church however, was a serious, sacrilegious offense, so I ended up in the principal’s office more times, than not. Who cares, I thought each time. She can just go to hell!
I will admit that the ditching church thing had me concerned. After all, It was a mortal sin; the death blow to the soul which carried the punishment of eternal damnation in hell. But, then, so was eating meat on Friday. This was a sketchy, dilemma, at best. I mean, to pop a hot dog into my mouth, forgetting it was Friday and only to remember, as it was sliding down my gullet. What was one to do? Choke to death while trying to hack it up, or pray that death didn’t come before confession. I really never got that rule. To burn, forever in hell, just because of a hot dog.
Meanwhile, I had my standing with the public school kids to consider, for therein lay my future. On Saturdays, after slaving around the house, I was free for the rest of the day. So, Judy and a few other girls would hang outside my house, until I finished my chores. Then, with the fullest of hair, the shortest of shorts, and gum cracking, we’d hit the bus stop, for the heart of Hollywood Blvd, setting our sights on the Grauman’s Chinese, or Pantages theater; anywhere, that featured the best movies for that week. We’d inevitably run in to the guys and pair off. Judy, Bobby, me and David
Right before it was finally time for eight grade graduation, Sister Mary Carol summoned me to her dungeon again. I sat frozen under her stare, her pursed lips fixed upon me as though she just sucked a lemon. I wanted to giggle uncontrollably. She was such a beady-eyed rodent. “Sit down, Paula,” she ordered.
| | BOBBY JAMESON/RPJ  |
| |
| | Paula Paula Servetti |
| |
| | MusicDiva  Music Lover |
| |
| | Paula Paula Servetti |
| |
| | Paula Paula Servetti |
|
No comments:
Post a Comment