Carol’s Column

Revolution of the fig leaf generation

THERE is nothing quite like the subject of clothes to rend a family apart.

And it's not something recent.

Take Adam.

Forget the serpent. The true story goes that Adam and Eve fell out over a fig leaf.

Adam complained that the one Eve wore was indecent.

"It's too small," he said. "It's too revealing. Go get a big one — you're making an exhibition of yourself."

"Forget it," said Eve. "If you don't like it — go out and find somebody else."

Which of course, was a problem as you can imagine.

Anyhow — things haven't really improved since then. In fact, if anything — they have deteriorated.

Take one night last week.

"Who's that?" said my husband, his eyebrows disappearing into his receding hairline.

"Where?" I looked up.

OK, so our oldest, unmarried son did look different sporting a T-shirt, harem pants, beads and real-leather-made-in-Taiwan thongs.

"It's your son, heir-number-one," I snickered. "Don't you recognise him — a chip off the old block and all that."

"Recognise him? I thought it was Barbra Streisand in drag, haw, haw, haw," he laughed aloud. And alone.

This in fact, was not such a tactful thing to say to a 16-year-old son who in his flat-footed glory towers above his aged and somewhat decrepit father.

"Is something the matter, Dad?" he said rather coldly I thought.

Pausing to gasp through his laughter, my husband lost his breath and had to be assisted to his seat.

Later, much later, long after Barry had left he asked tentatively: "What was that all about? Where was he going?"

"To a party," answered our second son Ralph.

"To a fancy dress party? Haw, haw, haw."

Ralph was not amused.

"You know, Dad — in the olden days when you were young, people dressed differently. But today things have changed. I mean the safari suit with the comb in the pocket went out with the ark. You've got to get with it!"

Surreptitiously, I noticed my spouse tuck his comb lower into his long-sock. But unrepentant, he replied defensively: "Well, at least when I was young, we looked like men."

Interestingly enough, the New Romantic Look (or that is what my sons tell me it is called) is accompanied by a variety of smells.

Only the other night I took Barry and his mates to a party.

In order not to be asphyxiated, I had to drive all the way with my head out of the window gulping like a drowning goldfish.

The clash of strange-smelling deodorants, body lotions and perfumes was strong indeed.

But we're not the only family in such circumstances.

Oh, no, the other morning at a coffee klatsch with the girls, Marie Pronk announced dramatically she'd lost her son.

"How lucky can you get," murmured Agnes String.

"Yes, he's disappeared behind his hair. When he comes down to breakfast we would not be sure which way he faced were it not for the movement of food towards what surely must be his mouthhole."

She giggled: "Mind you, with kids what they are today, he could be feeding his ear."

We nodded sympathetically.

Griselda van Tonder was more specific. "We might have lost your son," she said, "but most kicked mine. The other day he borrowed my Pascual culottes to wear for a party and spilt his damn hotdog down the front.

"Why can't he wear his own culottes?" she added querulously.

"It's just a stage they're going through," I said soothingly having already banished my own sons from borrowing my takkies, cheesecloth, knickerbockers and Dior beret.

I repeated those words to my husband that night as several of Barry's friends arrived.

There was Guiseppe in virginal white looking like an incipient guru, Jonathon in bright red making like an apprentice fire-engine and last but not least, Barry in midnight blue looking like an elongated inkspot.

In unison they resembled a mobile Union Jack.

Mind you, there are advantages to this new peacock fad.

Clothes no longer have to be marched to the wash bin. Jeans are no longer so stiff and encrusted with grime that they disintegrate on touch. What is more, at least the rainbow colours brighten up a dull day.

And it is catching. Why only this morning as I sat down to half a baked kipper with lemon juice — a stranger pecked me on the cheek as he shot past.

Wearing lemon baggies, my turquoise cheesecloth with the stars and an earring dangling from his left lobe — he vanished out the front door.

"Who was that?" I gasped, stunned.

The children were amused. "Didn't you recognise Daddy?" they said.

Just then, he returned for his spectacles and briefcase he'd forgotten.

"Dammit, I must get some matching contact lenses," he muttered as he groped through the breakfast dishes looking for his glasses.

"Are you mad?" I shrieked. "Are you crazy? Why are you dressed up like a circus? Where's your safari suit?"

He gazed at me.

"Safari suit? Safari suits went out with the Voortrekkers," he said gaily as he blew me another kiss.

"Oh," he added as he poked his head through the door, "please get a quote on repainting my walking stick. I want it to match my new outfits. Go for something gay and swinging."

I've lost my husband and gained a middle-aged rainbow, I thought to myself.

Who else can be so lucky?

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