All I’ve ever felt when looking through a fashion magazine is that the walls and ceiling must be caving in. It was a feeling I had been denying for a long time in favor of self-improvement. When I was just growing into my teen years reading these magazines was like a rite of passage into womanhood. All of the girls I knew in church were reading them and one of them was even in one. So I rushed out to the grocery store as soon as I could to buy a copy and there was her tiny postage stamp-sized picture in an ad for hair products. This girl was the height of the feminine ideal in my eyes and everyone else’s in the little world that I knew, so I figured this is what I would need to break out of my then very inhibited and unfeminine nature and finally turn into that swan all girls are supposed to become. One just wasn’t enough though. Soon I found myself hunting for more of these monthly advice-wielding picture books. Then subscriptions followed. The bright, smiling covers were like candy inviting you with enormous multi-colored text and exclamation points into a land where everything is solved for a growing woman, from what color eye shadow you should be wearing to how to train that boyfriend you imagined you would be having soon. Before I knew it, I had amassed hundreds of them.
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