Saving Fashionable Face: The Walk of Shame

          I spent a good bit of my adolescence living vicariously through my sister. She's seven years older than me, so at the gawky age of twelve, there's no one whom I wanted to be more than Jess. She was in high school, and a beast in the marching band's color guard. She had a serious boyfriend, and quickly became a talented part of the art department (which led her to become an even more talented architect). More importantly, she knew about things. She had already experienced the crazy changes I was going through. She had fallen in love, been depressed, went to school dances, and was an expert on all things Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I wanted to be as wise and beautiful and gifted and interesting as she was (and still is), so I started my own intensive study of The Average American Teen. I listened to Jewel and Meredith Brooks through the wall between my sister's room and my own. I watched 90's cinema gold ad nauseum: 10 Things I Hate About You, Clueless, Titanic, Teen Witch, and Coyote Ugly. I read a lot of Seventeen, YM, Elle Girl, and Cosmopolitan, probably more than any twelve year old should be reading.
          It was through all of these movies, magazines, and music that I learned about sex. While I normally was shunned into the kitchen when sex scenes showed up in movies at home, the things watched at sleepovers with friends were another story. Not only would we gape over these scenes with pure curiosity, we would also discuss what had just happened, like scientists dissecting an alien species. Is that what sex is really like? How long does it last, because the play timer said it only took three minutes, flirty banter to finish? Will my hair flow out all Ariel-like onto silk pillows like that? Will he really paint a watercolor of me afterward? As Catholic school girls, the only sex talks we got were of a Mean Girls vein: if you have sex, you will get pregnant and you will die. No one was giving us the facts, let alone talking about the feelings and taboos in between the physical logistics. We were forced to seek out (mostly glamorized) answers on our own.
          One of the many delusions Hollywood introduced to my middle school self was the morning-after image. Obviously having a fulfilling sexual experience transforms you into a goddess overnight. Post-coital bliss spills out of every pore like you're some sexual luminary. Your hair should be featured in a shampoo commercial. Your makeup is, in fact, airbrushed while you sleep. Any clothes you borrow from your late night lover will fit you perfectly in that slouchy oh-look-at-me-I'm-a-seductive-cheetah way and will be completely unsoiled. As you leave his high rise apartment, you'll laugh and toss your hair back, unfazed by a throbbing hangover or worries about STDs. In short, you'll be Julia Roberts.
          Wrong, bitches. 
          The Walk of Shame is called such for a reason, and I was knocked out of my naivete through my own experience. The night before said Walk, I was looking pretty foxy fine. My hair fell in mermaid curls, my smoky eyes would put a Victoria's Secret model to shame, and my pencil-skirt-sheer-blouse-combo was the perfect cocktail of demure and dangerous. Beyonce became my spirit animal guide, whispering how girls run the world into my ear the entire night.
          Unfortunately, I should have remembered the wisdom of Bright Eyes when they crooned, "what was simple in the moonlight, in the morning never is." My mass of hair took on a gravitational pull of its own during the night, sticking up at obtuse angles, with the texture of Marley dreadlocks. My angel eyes were more Jenny Humphrey at that hour, and once I found my clothes in the dim pink glow of Christmas lights (the home decor choice of college students everywhere), I also found they were wrinkled beyond explanation and smelled of sweat, my date's cologne, and the good intentions I once had of spending the night alone. Luckily, I only lived in the next apartment building over, and hoped I could just sneak in unnoticed. I had no such luck; moments after seeing me, my roommate pointed out that my shirt was inside out and I reeked of spilled martini. In the words of Desi Arnaz, I had a lot of 'splainin' to do.
          Personally, I think these morning walks home have been wrongly named. Co-ed sleepovers are nothing to be ashamed of, especially if you're romping around with someone you really like/care about/respect. Mornings-after in my current relationship take a troll-doll-hair-don't-care theme. I rock the bedhead far further than I should, but whatever. Bitches be jealous. However, there are ways to disguise the morning mess if the occasion calls for it, you just have to adhere to the old adage of checking yo'self before you wreck yo'self:
          1.) Pack your sack wisely. I know that evening clutches don't allow much room for extras but you'll be thankful in the morning for thinking ahead and cramming it all in. Advil or any other painkiller is a must; you can't put your blind trust in a guy's medicine cabinet when you really need it. Go to Sephora and get a free atomizer of your favorite perfume to stave off any stale odors in the morning. Bring those baby toothbrushes with the built in toothpaste to freshen your smile, and a hair tie (or four, in my case) to wrangle the bird's nest built overnight. And, for all that is good and holy, pack a pair of clean underwear. Nothing makes you feel like you're maintaining a sliver of dignity more than a fresh pair of boy shorts.
           2.) Choose your date night attire wisely. A smokey eye can be just as expertly executed with brown, taupe, and gold without the raccoon-esque consequences. Try a hairstyle that reigns your locks in before the running of the bulls begins. A ponytail, top knot, french twist, or fishtail braid are classic looks that will go with any outfit, hold up while sleeping (or, not sleeping) and show off that wonderful, expansive neck that's just asking to be kissed. As for clothing, try and pick a material that doesn't wrinkly easily, such as rayon or poly/cotton blends. However, I wouldn't stress out too much because you can always...
          3.) Steal. The Boyfriend Look was made for a reason. T-shirts are always a good choice; they dress down a date skirt and maintain that favorite boy scent well past the first wash. Jeans are a little trickier but have a major casual payoff. Pair with a belt or tie and you could rock a seriously chic paper bag waist for the walk home. Flannels are another workable item, especially if they're long enough to wear as a tunic with your leggings from the night before.
          4.) Take a shower. Whether it's three minutes or a luxurious half-hour, a little fresh water makes one appear bright eyed and bushy tailed. Plus, boys normally don't own hair dryers so your wet mane might convince onlookers that you bathed in the comfort of your own Hello Kitty themed shower. Maybe.
          5.) Downplay the Donna Summers. Take off any item that screams disco queen. Stash all jewelry in pockets. Pull your hair into a low ponytail that any door-to-door Bible saleswoman would be proud of. Steal a sweater to wear instead of your dressy peacoat. Pack the fishnets into your purse. If at all possible, pick up a coffee on the way home. You want it to appear that you rise with the sun and have no room for late night encounters in your life, so pick up a fresh croissant while you're at it. And last but certainly not least...
          6.) Smile. If they're going to talk, let them. You know what you're doing and you are in control of your life.  If you're happy, be happy. Ain't no shame, lady. Do your thang.