Arts & Entertainment

Trifles of the Human Experience

Scholastic Award Winner Alexis Wilkinson shares the piece that won her the American Voices Award.

  • Editor's Note: Alexis Wilkinson won the American Vision Award for writing the piece below. and has earned Wilkinson a trip to Carnegie Hall in New York for the ceremony.

The Mustache

The mustache has got to be one of the most astounding achievements ever concocted by a face and perfected by human ingenuity. It comes in so many different colors and styles, truly a sight to behold. The mustache can turn a stuffy man into a rugged one, can make a hobo slightly more sophisticated, and can turn a boy into a man, or at least a teen-type humanoid. But, let’s get one thing straight; the mustache is a great achievement, but one decidedly male. And so it should stay.

Women with mustaches, frankly, really freak me out.

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For example, one day I was in a department store. I was doing my usual thing, pretending I had money, touching expensive items, and telling people I’d “buy it online”. After I ravaged through the Bobbi Brown make-up counter, a very precocious young “make-up technician” (Make-up technician? Really now? What a title!) bounced up to me, brush in hand, and asked if she could help me.

“No,” I responded, “Just browsing.” I flashed my best innocent-but-rich shopper smile.

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“Well, I’m here to help,” she sang back with buckets of perkiness.

I thought that was it. So, I went on, playing with mascara wands and poking new eye shadow colors absent-mindedly. But, when I looked up, there she was again, this time less than a foot away from me. And that’s when I saw it.

Sweet-baby-Jesus-in-the-Manger, it was the most unruly girlstache I had ever seen.

It curled about her mouth like a coffee stain. I immediately noticed the stark contrast between her bottle-blonde hair and this dirt-colored caterpillar in front of me.  The hairs stuck out at obtuse angles and seemed to leer right off of her otherwise normal face.

I was mesmerized, and not in the fireworks-at-Disneyland way. It was as though I was watching someone dislocate both shoulder blades. Or that crazy Wild Man eating a live fish as pink guts came spilling out of its squirming body.

She said something. All I saw was that mustache waving at me, like a siren leading me to a furry doom. She led me to a chair. Next thing I knew I had two coats of “Fervently Flushed” blush on and the online product number for a vibrating mascara wand.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve known girls with mustaches, even friends. And maybe I was just jealous that day. A woman like that must take pride in her mustache. That’s brave. It was not covered, clipped, or shaved. No, it stood there in proud, hairy glory proclaiming to the world, “Either I don’t care that my lip has its own personality or none of my friends has the cajones to tell me I have a bushy orphan living on my face.” Because she worked in the beauty department, her ‘stache was well…ironic. Surrounded by glossy, idealized women, and peddling blush, she retained her hairy individuality.

Touché, Janet the make-up technician. Touché.

The Aisle Seat

The ordeal began with a clunk and a shooting pain. Snatching my injured elbow from the aisle, I let out a whimper quickly devoured by the incessant hum of the plane. As the snack cart rumbled on, I sighed heavily and sank down into the polyester of seat 15D, the aisle seat. Entering last on the flight, I had been relegated to the outskirts of the row, like a leper. My head hanging low from exhaustion, I glanced warily at the chatty couple sitting to my right. This would be a long flight. I shifted in the seat and covered myself in my small, violently red blanket. Minutes later, a tap on the shoulder. Could Chatty Husband get by to use the restroom? I, a red haze, shifted into the aisle; Chatty Husband passed. The crimson lump slumped back into the seat. Minutes passed. Another tapping on the shoulder. The red blob slid into the aisle; Chatty Husband sat back down. Later, two more tapping hands prodded me from my slumber; Chatty Wife also needed to relieve herself. I, a blood red monster, growled in seat 15D, the aisle seat, before falling into a fitful sleep.

I hate the aisle seat. Unless you have a baby, a bladder infection, or an obsession with the snack cart, there is absolutely NO REASON any sane or tired passenger would want to be in the aisle seat. Sitting there turns you into a second-class citizen. No longer do you have the right to pursue an armrest, or to sleep in peace. No, if it’s not your neighbor in the row, it’s the godforsaken flight attendant who cannot manage to avoid bothering you every time she flounces down the aisle. Would you like a beverage? Would you like a cookie-type-product? NO. I WOULD LIKE TO SLEEP. THANK YOU. How about a pillow? That’d be great, IF I COULD SLEEP ON IT WITHOUT BEING BOTHERED BY YOU. FAT CHANCE OF THAT.

My favorite is when I sit next to someone who is so concerned for MY well-being that he must constantly wake me up.

HAPPY WINDOW SEAT PERSON: Hey neighbor! Wake up! Snack cart’s coming!

ME:...Thanks!

HAPPY WINDOW SEAT PERSON: Hey! Wake up! Your headphones are on and we’re about to land!

ME:…Ok, thanks!

HAPPY WINDOW SEAT PERSON: Wake up! The captain’s making some unimportant announcement!

ME:…Thanks again! (Passive Aggressive Subtext: I WILL KILL YOU.)

Seriously. Bottom-line: no more aisle seats. Someone should work on that.

Autumn

It seems like everyone loves autumn. The cool weather! School is back! The leaves! Oh look, little Timmy is sitting next to a pumpkin! How adorable! YOU MUST TAKE A PICTURE!

Well, I am not a fan. Especially not today. In fact, the only good thing I can think about autumn is that McDonald’s starts serving little, hydrogenated pumpkin pies at two for a dollar. Only benefit of the season, if you ask me.

The trees are stupid, pink, blushing ladies today. Changing their petticoats on the side of an open road, they are just… immodest. Their garments fall in fits of giggles and breeze. At least the emerald matrons further into the wood have some decorum about it. They just drop the needles; that is all. But not these ladies. These ladies put on a display. A rippling of colors, fifteen different dresses. Making a spectacle of themselves in the autumn sun.  I am not in the mood for such an exhibition.

No, I am not in the mood for blushing ladies or playful squirrels. The squirrels dart around trees, simultaneously avoiding and following me. Fits of fur and cuteness. I will not play with you today, you ridiculous little beasts. I have human problems to attend to. Obviously.

I have no time for the butter dollop of the sun, melting into the skyline with a smile. Good riddance, I say.  Good riddance.

Why does it seem as if the world is enjoying itself far too much today? Why is that? Whose fault is that? The pink ladies wave their fingers, gloved in gold, in the wind. Pointing. They are pointing at me.


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