Where the Fuck Is Princess Leia?

Help me, multi-gazillion dollar toy industry, you’re my only hope.

Halloween 1983. Style credits (my mother): My Leia buns were ear muffs wrapped in brown yarn. My dress was an altered sheet. My gold “belt” is the sash from our living room drapes. (That is my sister to your right, in a homemade Ewok costume. The three boys are our next door neighbors. During the following summer we made my sister wear that costume as a promotional gimmick for our lemonade stand. We made seven dollars that summer, which is not bad when you consider we were charging 10 cents a glass. 15 cents if you wanted it delivered directly to your car window.)
I took this picture this morning. They now live in an old shoebox in my extremely small NYC closet. The original Leia lost her cape to our dog. Where the guns went is anyone’s guess; I remain very suspicious of people who were able to keep their guns for more than 24 hrs.
These cards, also in my NYC closet, were only slightly less valuable on my street than hockey trading cards (I grew up in Canada). Suffice to say, I’ve long lost track of those hockey cards.
Halloween 2014. This time my hair hack involved wrapping yarn around Tupperware containers and pinning them to my head. The dress is a vintage Halston caftan I found on Etsy. The children were duly impressed. I plan on one day turning this into a greeting card titled: Yes, you do have to visit me in the nursing home.

Glynnis MacNicol is a writer and author of the memoir NO ONE TELLS YOU THIS (Simon & Schuster, 2018).

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