Debutante Fiddlehead Fern Hangover

The challenge: write a nonfiction piece using each of the words
debutante, fiddlehead fern, and hangover.

I've never been pegged as a debutante.  While I was born south of the Mason-Dixon line so I’m technically a Southerner, there was no cotillion in my farmland-filled County.  We did, however, have a Snow Ball.  I’m still not sure where the name Snow Ball originated. The dress code included a pure white ballroom gown with a crinoline hoop slip underneath, white satin gloves, and updos. We all looked like Scarlett O’Hara on her wedding day or snowballs rolling down a catwalk.  

The quartet played for the 24 Snow Belle procession. The cellist drew slowly on his bow, carrying a baseline. The violist held the middle notes. A violin with delicate carvings, which made it look more like a fiddlehead fern than a fiddle, led the trio through a melody that matched the pace of our undyed satin pumps.  

As we presented ourselves to society at the end of the platform, guests oohed and aahed. It wasn’t for the 300 hours of community service we had finished as Candy Stripers at the sponsoring hospital, but for our cake topper looks.

The greatest compliment I received that night was from a lady bussing tables, who told me, “You looked by far the classiest, hunny.” 

I thanked her profusely and explained, “My dress is actually a wedding dress with its train cut off,” and gave her a wink.  She giggled through her smoker's voice and returned to the tables to pick up empty martini glasses from a mother who had a pink, shiny face and would no doubt wake up tomorrow with a hangover.

All this was made possible by a score from the sales rack of a local bridal salon and the cutting and reattaching of lace appliqué by my friend’s mom, who was a seamstress by night and a pig farmer’s wife by day.

After I came out, my blonde mom, my father from India, my penguin-suit-wearing date, and I returned to our hotel room, overlooking the dance floor. It smelled like chlorine and had a balcony covered with fake cascading plants. As I stepped out of my uniform and let my hair fall, I peeked down at the dwindling crowd of black and white and thought how good it felt to be me again.