Halloween has always thrilled and frightened me. But not because of the haunted houses or ghosts or vampires with bloody fangs.
Nope, for me the reason Halloween tends to be scary is because of the costumes. Finding one, that is.
I’ve never had the best of luck with costumes. When I was a kid, I would often get my costume out of a box. Yes, I am one of the survivors of the plastic mask with the eyeholes that affixed itself to your head by the aid of an elastic band—which stretched across the back of your head and often pulled painfully on your hair. But with the slick shiny cheap you-could-read-a-newspaper-through-‘em pants and the elegant tie-on shirt, I’d simply add my plastic Trick-or-Treat pumpkin, and I was ready for a night on the town. Mooching.
Eventually, I got into “making” my costumes. I use that term loosely because, well, putting on old, ripped corduroys, an oversized man’s shirt with the stomach stuffed with newspaper to form a belly, a ratty coat, and drawn-on stubble to create a “hobo,” wouldn’t exactly win me first place in the Suzy Homemaker Costume Contest. But if it got me the free candy, that’s all that mattered.
For a time, my folks jumped onto the “create-me-a-costume” bandwagon. In 1977, when Star Wars was big, I went as R2-D2, the small beeping robot. My dad formed the body out of corrugated cardboard (smooth side out), which he made white and covered with computerish buttons. Mom wrapped my arms and legs in aluminum foil, which crackled when I walked. The finishing touch was the “helmet,” which was actually a silver basket that my mom would serve chips or pretzels in at Christmastime. Wrapped with more aluminum foil and affixed with more buttons, I was a dead-ringer. Well, not really.
By today’s standards, this costume would stink. Back then, though, it was considered pretty cool. But it was hard to walk in, and after wearing the helmet all night, some of my hair got stuck in the basket, making its removal turn into a slight screaming match.
As the years went on, I got more ambitious, and one Halloween, I decided to go as a half-man, half-woman. My mom was not exactly thrilled because this meant that she had to somehow sew together half of a dress with half of a man’s shirt and pants.
(Note to parents—if you’re putting together this kind of costume, never, ever use jeans as the pants of choice. You’ll see why in a minute.)
I was excited about this costume. I got an old man’s hat at a thrift shop and attached half of it to a woman’s floppy hat. I planned to slick half of my hair back, draw on half a moustache, and wear bright harlot-like makeup on the female side to make it stand out.
Sounds great, huh?
It was. Until my mom’s sewing machine broke. On Halloween afternoon.
As my mom was putting the final touches on the bottom of the costume, her machine decided to go to that great sewing room in the sky. It jammed while sewing the jeans and then kicked off. Dead as a doornail. Useless.
And that part that wasn’t finished? The pants and, um, crotch area.
We knew glue wouldn’t work. Nor would tape. It was after school already, and there was no way that she would be able to hand-stitch it in time for me to get out with my friends.
I was in grade school at the time, and this was as close to a major life crisis as kids my age got. I might have to miss “Trick or Treating.” This was akin to missing Christmas or my birthday or the last day of school. My life was over.
Until my mom got a bright idea.
She got out the stapler, and before I could protest, she was finishing my costume.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
“There,” she said when she was done. “Now, you’re all set.”
“Mooooommmmm,” I whined. “There are staples in my pants.”
“It’ll be okay,” she assured me. Then she added, “Just don’t sit down.”
The costume actually worked out fine. My mom’s ingenuity had saved the day, and the staples didn’t bother me a bit. What was more annoying was walking in one sneaker and one high heel.
Step. Clump. Step. Clump. Step. Clump.
Suffice it to say, that was my last year Trick-or-Treating.
Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not trying to throw together a last-minute costume that doesn’t require stapling, writes Wojo’s World™ from Baltimore.