Column

After a day spent at a shop that sells jeans and other trendy wear for teens, I have come to the conclusion that I just don’t understand sixteen-year-olds.

There I am being asked to choose between two pairs of what look like identical jeans. I try hard to spot some difference but no, nyet, nada — the same tear down the knee cap, the same marks down the thigh, the same fraying at the seams and the same being four sizes too big.

Instead of saying “But what’s there to choose?” I take a deep breath and pick one, any one. My sixteen-year-old seems satisfied with my choice. In his eyes I’ve definitely chosen a vastly superior pair, because unlike me he sees two different options which he can identify a mile away.

Or take the business of hair. In this city there’s a sub culture of hairstylists on the hot list for teens. They charge a minor fortune for cuts, they use products like wax and gels, and serum and protein; they spend two hours trimming and styling and shaping — and you know what? At the end of it, your teen’shair looks like he’s just emerged after sleeping in a washing machine filled with baking powder!

And then there’s that whole thing with IT.

They spend hours on MSN, with more people popping up than you and I could ever know in our lives, and you know what all that energy and time and communication is spent on. “Wassup?” Says one and “Sup” comes the reply instantly. Or if one of them’s feeling garrulous — it may just be “Yo. Wassup?”. And then they move on, satisfied that a sparkling conversation has just been concluded.

But as little as they say on MSN, they make up on sms. Have you watched them punch out messages the size of legal documents before you and I could wink? Obviously the thumbs of sixteen-year-olds are wired directly to a part of their brains that controls language. Whole letters with full stops, capitals, question marks and quote, marks come pouring out from their cells before you’ve barely finished messaging them. I could go on, but any one who’s had even a passing acquaintance with a sixteen-year-old will know what I’m talking about.

There’s the being interested in fashion, which means such an inversion of fashion as we know it that it’s indefinable, (I mean what’s this about wearing pants so low that your underwear becomes the focal point of your sartorial existence?)

There’s the listening to music so loud that your heart thumps with every beat, which is a good thing because at least the adults around them know it’s not stopped. There’s the hanging out at the city’s cafes in groups with nothing between but a lot of laughter and one coke to share.

And lastly of course, there’s that endearing, enduring passion to be individualistic, unique and original — that ironically makes them all dress talk and behave alike. No sir, I just don’t understand sixteen-year-olds, but that does not stop me from adoring them just the same!

s_malavika@dnaindia.net