Roadblocks and anxieties piled bouffant high, I managed to pull through an elementary school age dance recital.

“This doesn’t fit!” was my cry of distress at a Hairspray costume that came up to just above my stomach. I was about 11 years old and a big dance recital was just weeks away. My dance class was supposed to be for ages eight to ten, but my hole-in-the-wall dance studio had made some exceptions. I was the oldest and biggest in my class by far, while the youngest was a tiny six-year-old. Yet, for a reason I have yet to figure out, the secretary there had ordered the same size costume for each of us.
The dance studio was able to provide me with a foot or two of the spangled spandex, and after much trial and error, my resourceful mother managed to rework the costume so it (just barely) fit.

The night of the dress rehearsal, my mother briskly bedecked me in my outfit, from my tap shoes to my oversized bouffant wig. When the last touch of eyeliner was applied, I looked in the mirror and felt like vomiting. I thought I looked like some kind of 60’s nightmare. But off we went, because the show must go on!
Upon arrival at the theater, I was brought to backstage, where the air was hot and stuffy and filled with hairspray fumes and the Munchkin-like giggling of the younger dancers. As I sat down, I thought, Tomorrow night I have to spend two hours down here!, and my innards recoiled in horror.

When it was finally our turn to go on stage for practice, I was relieved to get a breath of fresh air for a change. I knew I could do the dance in my sleep, so I wasn’t too worried. But after the first section, we realized something was amiss. We were supposed to be dancing to the Hairspray hits Good Morning Baltimore and You Can’t Stop The Beat. But when burning the CD for the show, the secretary (Again- what was with her?!) had only added the former. But luckily for us, the Baltimore troupe, one of the backstage moms had a Hairspray CD in her car. The rehearsal went smoothly from there.

Backstage the night of the show, as my younger compatriots colored Strawberry Shortcake blue, I sat quietly as stage fright mounted up in my mind. After what seemed like an eternity, I remember somebody calling “Baltimore- you’re up next!” In relief I got up, ready to get the ordeal over with.

The show ended up going perfectly, and now I look back on the experience fondly. In fact, I still have that infamous costume and my wacky wig as something to remember it by.