the preparation
So last Friday, my boyfriend and I prepared to get into character -- he as highly-decorated Air Force Major/astronaut wanna-be Juan Stepford Mann (more wordplay, ha!) and me as Jamaica Bomblast (right, you get the picture), hippie party girl and (it would later be revealed) voodoo queen extraordinaire. We rummaged around the thrift shops, we scoured the vintage boutiques, we hit the army/navy surplus store, and even went to a place that bills itself as a thrift department store (think Salvation Army meets K-Mart -- it's a very strange place indeed).  It took awhile, but we finally managed to scrounge up what we needed for our costumes. 

The invitation had suggested dreadlocks for my character but, given that it would have required an act of God to get my stick-straight Asian hair to conform to that particular hairstyle, I decided to go with a headful of tiny little braids instead. But when quarter of seven rolled around and I had still only managed to do about half of my hair (it may be straight, but there’s a lot more of it than I’d realized), I quickly piled the remainder on top of my head, secured it in a bun, and resigned myself to a ‘do that more alluded to Rastafarian party girl than actually achieved it. I was, however, very happy with my tie-dye halter top, which made me feel authentically hippie-chick hip, although it did reveal a rather alarming amount of belly. My boyfriend, meanwhile, stood preening in front of the mirror, back frighteningly ramrod straight as he gleefully saluted his reflection and admired himself in uniform. He’d even managed to dig up some pins and medals (upon closer inspection, these turned out to include a National Honor Society pin, various National History Day pins and a Phi Beta Kappa key … who the hell actually saves those things?). We were loving our new threads, and ready to get groovy …