Recently, my Auntie B (my most conservative relative) presented me with a gift. “I’m told these are fashionable,” she enthused, as I unfolded the paper to reveal a racy negligee. This from a woman who can’t watch television without declaring it pornography. (“EastEnders? A dirty show with dirty ideas! David Attenborough’s new project? You cannot deny it is suggestive.”) It seemed like a miracle.
But it was the work of the nieces. They’re teens, and the embodiment of today’s internet culture: fragile, brimming with potential, while also terrifying and dictatorial. If I thought I moved the dial in challenging family norms on, say, clothing, they ate the dial for breakfast.
They’ve been great to have on side – this side being us homogenous “younger ones”; the British-born or unmarried ones; and we cousins who back each other up. Until the conversation turns to makeup.
My nieces wear a lot of makeup. “You sound just like Mum!” they’ll say when I mention clogged pores, which is my main concern, not modesty. OK, fine, I care about the pressures of beauty standards, too. Also, constant sexualisation – at which point they roll their eyes and say it’s funny the way I think I’m so different from Auntie B yet somehow so much the same.
They are sharp. So when they asked if I liked the negligee, I spoke honestly. I adhere to the slobwear school of PJs, I said, and found it too cold, too itchy – and isn’t it a bit grownup for them? (“It’s fashion,” they said.) I told them my theory, that all this (the makeup, the PJs) stems from a lack of personal privacy; the need to be Insta-ready.
It’s fine for them to disagree, but what came next was out of order. “That’s interesting,” said one. “Will have a think, Auntie C.” Kids can be so cruel.
