A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of taking three teenage girls shopping. It was a pleasure I would like to repeat.

One of the girls had a father serving in the wars overseas. Another lost her mother to cancer in the last year. The third was my daughter who has to put up with me. With every reason in the world to be weighed down with grief and worry, these three girls set out to have a good time. We went to two Goodwill stores, a second-hand record store, a second-hand book store and one full-price clothing store which shall remain nameless.They walked into the full-price store, took one look around, and walked right out again.

“Do people really have enough money to pay those prices?”

“Yes,” answered my daughter. “They do. Scary, isn’t it?”

We spent more money than we should have in the book store, and contemplated the real old-fashioned records in the record store. I think we bought a CD. Then we went on to the real order of business: finding formals for the spring dance. In the Goodwill on Lighthouse, they piled into the dressing room and tried on other people?s prom dresses.

Giggles. A few swear words. More giggles.

They came out and modeled for me. They were so beautiful with their sixteen-year-old elegance,prom dresses and converse sneakers. Fresh faces and old eyes. My girls were a combination of chic and na’ve, of ignorance and knowledge. They are so powerful at that age,and so clueless.

We searched the racks. I tried to figure out what each of them was looking for. I handed dresses over the door of the fitting rooms. We checked out the shoes to see if any of them matched. Each had their own ideas of what would work and what wouldn’t. Outfits were assembled and rejected. I found a black velvet dress with sparkly things. It was perfect. One down, two to go.

At the Seaside Goodwill, we found a gold 1950s style, strapless dress with a billowing skirt. Were there shoes to match? No, but we’ll find some somewhere else. A long contemplation in the mirror. “Does it really look okay?” We assured her she looked beautiful.

“Wouldn’t it look better if I put my hair up?” I held her hair up so she could contemplate the effect. There was a moment. A decided nod at the figure in the mirror. It was okay. She liked who she would be when wearing this dress. Two down, one to go.

“I don’t like formal gowns,” says my daughter. Okay. “What do you like?”

“Simple. Anything else itches.”

We all began to search. We found a simple black sheath dress. She didn?t like the feel of the fabric. We found another one in a different fabric. Nope. It just didn?t feel right.

“Hey, look at this!” She pulled out a simple brown wool skirt. We were confused.

“I know, but I like it.”

I shook my head. “It isn’t a formal.”

She gave me that look that all daughters give their mothers when the daughters are sixteen and the mothers just don’t get it. Then she said one of those things that only the daughter of a devout second-hand shopper could come up with.

“It is if I want it to be.”

Right.

I remembered my mother explaining to me the rules of fashion. She told me about wearing a girdle, and gloves and a hat. She told me about dressing up to go shopping in a real department store in a real downtown. White shoes in summer. Long dresses for evening parties. Suits for day wear. My mother lived her young life according to the rules of being fashionably correct. It was a harsh tyranny, and she did her best to free her two daughters from it. As a result, my daughter lives in a different world.

My daughter lives in the world of the second-hand shopper, where you create your dreams based on what you find to work with and what pleases you. If my daughter says that a brown tweed skirt is a formal, I am sure that by the time she wears it to the formal dance, it will be a formal. I don’t know what it will take to transform the skirt, but my daughter and her friends know how to dream. More importantly, they know how to turn dreams into reality and celebrate the result. It is a skill that gets them through the hard times that have been handed to them. I figure that if they can do it in a second-hand clothing store, they can apply it to their lives.

They are strong young women who can grieve and worry, and laugh and cry. And they can outfit all three of themselves for a formal dance for less than fifty dollars.
What more could a mother ask for?

About the Author:
Megan Havens is the chief administrator of Nestucca Bay Waldorf School, which exists in blog space, and is the school she wishes she could teach at. She has too many children and step-children, but no grandchildren. Her youngest son says that her short height matches her short temper. She says that 5′6″ isn’t short.