Borrowed!

It may have something to do with hormones. Or 'growing up'. Or 'struggling to create an identity'. Or 'generally being a teenager'. Maybe all of the above. I have never quite understood why my daughter, armed with tax-collector zeal, lays such self-assured claims on all things mine, or meant to be mine at least, while I am not even allowed to touch her things.

It started with my nude, shimmering lip gloss, and mind you, not just any, the best brand I own. It was her first time with make-up and I reasoned, 'Either this or she will pick out some atrocious, not-for-13-year-olds shade of crimson herself', so it really was the lesser of two evils. But I have never seen that lip gloss, or many others after it, that was borrowed 'just to see how it looks'.

Several years, countless articles of clothing, drastically depleting containers of make-up and no sense of shame later, the matter has stretched far above and beyond a dab of lip tint. Because now, all those silly saris that I so lovingly cherished, dry washed and korpur sachet-ed, are suddenly back in fashion. The soft as butter katans, the broad par-ed muslins, the smoother than silk silks -- yes all of them, they must be had. If only silly mother understood these little silly things.
I can make a compromise and I would, if it was just the odd pashmina here and the rare bottle of nail polish there, but the same goes for virtually all my things. From the white-stone studded hairpin from Aarong (why, pray tell, since you sport that unkempt, ear-length feather cut), to the designer bags from trips abroad (of which there is a grand total of two), to my only pair of heels (did she really have to have my slender feet), to the oversized tees I recently bought for my yet-to-attend yoga classes (to be seen sauntering out on her back with chunky belts across the centre).
I have considered saying no, fantasised about it even. But the high-pitched death moan that tells me how this sari, this very sari, and only this sari, is the lone one that might possibly (but of course never adequately) compensate for that half a pimple on her face, forces me to reconsider. Better a half-cranky daughter at a wedding than a plague-is-upon-me-faced one at home all Friday night long.
I am led to believe teenagers are wired differently from the rest of us -- such that they have a very sorry sense of impulse control indeed. Psychologists assert that so complicated is this unfortunate intellectual dysfunction, that if they believe that that pendant which cost me an arm and a leg is necessary to look good at a friend's sister's friend's holud, then they simply cannot fathom not having that pendant.
How traumatic must these few years be, when they have such little sense of perspective? Not.

On the upside, this unfortunate condition is meant to diminish with age. Or so I am promised. But I am not one to buy into false assurances; for I have seen many a friend's child (yes, sons included) grow well out of their teens and still spend half their time at home engaged in this 'harmless' smuggle. So I am yet to comprehend the exact origins of this thought process, yet to accept raging hormones as causes, and most importantly, yet to discover a way of dealing with its effects.

While I venture on in my quest to understand why my possessions must suffer such regular theft under my own roof, I had best get around to bringing home my next lot of saris from my mother before the next working week begins. I know she doesn't mind, after all, I am only borrowing them.