Amy Rosenquist is doing quite fine in terms of dressing like the organic urbanite authority-on-all-things she’s always been, here in the minimalist confines of Chicago’s organic urbanite Harold Washington College. You should see her ratings. Students love her because she makes them feel as if they’ve just asked the most brilliant question in the world and then proceeds to explain some basic rule of grammar as if, like, “I respect that serial commas cramp your style, I really do, but we’re in this together and if you’ll trust me I will make it worthwhile that you dangerously escaped gang membership to come to city college this morning.” Her hair is eternally naturally blonde and I don’t know how it’s so healthy because we have identical thyroid problems.
When I say she’s always been like this, I’m serious. Look how confident she is explaining the nutritional properties of cotton candy. Look how conceding I am there in the stroller.
Amy is also a singer and a writer with significant powers to pierce and haunt. Which is where I think her potential lies, in the haunting. What I like best about Amy as we get older, besides the bossy benevolence and the hair, is that our shared preoccupation with death, and how to do it with style, seems more reasonable. I mean, more reasonable than thirty years ago when we had the same conversations we do now (“Can I borrow that cardigan for my funeral?” “No.” “But it looks so good on me.” “No.”), but without benefit of thyroid issues or other reminders of our mortality. So Amy, now that you have your city artsy smarty look locked in, let’s get you ready for the next big thing.
Have you thought about how to take your general silhouette and reinterpret it as a translucent shroud? That would look so good against the atmosphere-colored pillars of an astral classroom. You would still want a podium but probably a gilded one. There’s probably more budget for that kind of thing there, compared to what’s in the city college system. You would need to bring more of a Catholic statuary aesthetic to your hair and garments, generally, if you’re going to have the same levels of likability and authority with the student population. I mean talk about diversity. I think the only thing that’s going to make you as popular there as you’ve been here is to take your usual deal and ramp it up in equal parts Minerva, Our Lady of Mount Carmel and Michelle Pfeiffer. Also, have you thought about me as a decorative element?
I mean, not long ago, you said:
And we didn’t really pick that up and map out a plan, but I’m thinking, isn’t that how it worked with pharaohs? If you tote me around as a backdrop or some type of accessory, constantly, starting now, then I’ll carry over with you and it’ll be an easy thing for us to stay in touch. I would just lean over from the depths of the valley of the shadows of whatever and say hey, could I get that cardigan? And you’ll be like, oh Ann, that’s the most brilliant question in the world. Let me beam you some spiritual cotton candy.
And I would notice that you hadn’t given me the cardigan.
P.S. My mom made those matching outfits in the 1970 shot. Amazing.
P.P.S. While I had nothing on Ms. Sunglasses in 1980, I did have a strong signature look:
Next makeover: Homeschooling worship-leading inked/pierced mother of four Julie Fee got some NEW BANGS.