The Day I First Became an Olive Girl

When I was digging through used books and found a 90s issue of "Olive," just flipping through the pages made my heart race.

To my teenage self, it was my very identity.
That's because it reminded me of that.

Back then, I had subscriptions to "Olive," "Mc sister," and "non-no." I wasn't a purebred, but in my heart, I was an Olive girl.

I would read even the advertisements as if I were licking them, and I bought Shiseido basic skincare products in a full line. Before sales, I would flip back and forth through the pages, obsessively simulating which clothes I should buy.

I would clutch my New Year's money and go to the New Year's sale with my friends.
"I hope that skirt is there."
"I hope it's half price."

Once I entered the store, my eyes would wander, and I would hold clothes up to my body in front of the mirror. Even though I wasn't an Olive girl at all, I wanted them so badly.

Middle and high school students in the countryside rarely have the chance to wear their own clothes.
Cram school and McDonald's were all in uniforms.
At most, it was only when I went out to Daiei with my parents.

That's why I put so much effort into my hairstyle even just to go to the supermarket. The big ribbon on the top of my head stood out like an antenna.

Even if I wore worn-out T-shirts and shorts at home, I couldn't let my guard down outside because I wanted my classmates to think I was "cute." But those were the second-string clothes in my closet.

I rarely had the chance to wear my real best outfit, so I was satisfied just by looking at it.

It was the summer of my second year of high school.
I found a beige dress on my way home from school and was instantly captivated.
I didn't have the money, so I went back to the store alone the next day to check. I wanted it so much it appeared in my dreams.

When I was encouraged to try it on and slipped my arms through, I had the illusion that it had been tailored just for me. If I paired it with the straw hat and bag I already owned, I was no different from an "Olive" model.

When I told my grandmother at home, she gave me some pocket money.
Three days after meeting that dress, I became the Olive girl I had longed to be.

The scent of 8x4 citrus wafted gently in the lukewarm breeze on my way home from club activities. I don't think my feet were touching the ground as I walked home, burying my face in the dress.

I wore the petit-price perfume I saw in "Olive" and was thrilled to wear this outfit to visit the graves during Obon. In the countryside, that's about the only place you can go dressed up. That's fine, as long as I can be an Olive girl.

When I open a used copy of "Olive," the me from that day appears. Fashion is fine as self-satisfaction. I am the subject.

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