I think she can hang. As long as she doesn't mind being the butt of degrading age-related comments like "Give us a call when your balls drop. Till then, get back in the kiddie pool."
Maybe that was just me.
However, I do have a clothes-related story to share. We were in Denver early for a gig on Saturday because we had to provide the backline for the evening (speakers, etc.) I realized that I had forgotten to bring my "rock" clothes, so we went downtown to find a t-shirt or something that looked more clubby. Normally I don't care, but this was kind of an event, and the rest of the band was going to be decked out.
Mike recommended some trendy little back-alley boutique and a goth/metal everything-in-black-with-skulls place that were next door to each other. I wasn't in a wannabe vampiric kind of mood, so we went into the trendy place. The 20-year-old bouncy salesgirls descended like the plague (you can always tell the commissioned workers), holding things up to me, commenting on my nice skin tone and other fashionista bullshit.
Did you know that you can purchase jeans that are "oil-washed?" You've seen the type before, on Cooter from the Dukes of Hazzard, or anyone who spends time around heavy machinery. But rather than having to actually
work to get your jeans that nasty, you can buy em already messed up. And they only cost twice as much as regular jeans. I mentioned this to the fresh-faced youngster, and she looked at me like I just stepped off the bus from Mars. I don't think it had occurred to her that people usually throw out clothes that look like that. Oh well.
You can also buy t-shirts that are made from organic cotton, and button-up shirts like your grandpa wore, only tailored to fit underwear models. There was pinko commie propoganda on most of the t-shirts, the rest were Sex Pistols. Pfft. Finally found one that was cool and not too college-student-with-a-cause. I kind of dug the grandpa shirt, even though I had to suck in mah belly. Couldn't do much about the man boobies, but the t-shirt underneath disguised them as muscle.
Right.
Grand total for 1 pair of fucked up jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a grandpa button-up shirt in the Ashton Kutcher cut: $170.
Despite my lack of sales resistance (and the fact that now I can't buy my car tags for another 2 weeks), it worked. We went to a little Italian joint to eat pre-show, and the cool old Brooklyn-accented lady at the door flirted with me.
I can't believe I spent almost $200 on one set of clothing that looked like it had been removed from someone who died in a refrigerator box under a railroad trestle. I think I must have had a midlife crisis when the 20-year-olds started in with the skin tone spiel.