|Maypole Dance, California, 1900s|
The boys and I walked with Sophie up to our nearby Yogurtland. While standing in line, balancing Sophie and enduring the stares, I overheard two little girls talking to each other. No more than three or four years old, they had just gotten out of a nearby dance studio and were dressed in tutus and tights. The dark-haired girl had a frilly red gauze skirt that looked like a cross between Black Swan and Carmen Miranda. The blonde was dressed in a traditional pink ballet tutu. The mother of the blonde was your typical harried Los Angeles mother -- I conjectured that this was her only child, and her nanny hadn't shown up that day at work. The dark-haired girl was squired by a very handsome metro-sexual who looked faintly European. I conjectured that he was a screenwriter from Brazil, married to a studio executive.
Dark-haired girl: Hi! Did you just get out of dance class?
Blonde girl: Yes! Hip-hop?
Dark-haired girl: Yes, hip-hop! What's your name?
Blonde: Gemma. What's your name?
Dark-haired girl: Amaranth
Take this exchange wherever you want.