In a room that looks like a pink paint bomb has exploded, four girls sit in a circle, heads together in a secret conference. Surrounding them is… chaos. It is a valid assumption to make that, if one were to peel back the layers of fuzzy pens, glittery tops, and assorted stuffed animals, one would find a bed, and perhaps a desk. On one side there is a slight dimple, indicating a closet. In fact, the only characteristic that separates the feminine forms from the rest of the room is the conspicuous lack of pink pigment. But it matters not the interior decorator’s monochromatic obsession, the girls are the ones we are concerned with.

“Soooooo guys,” Katie gushed to her three best friends: Mackenzie, Ruth, and Chen Li. “I’ve called you to my house for a reason.” She paused to insure they were listening. “How were your weekends? Anything? Nothing? Okay, then, I guess I’ll go. I-”

“I have something, actually,” Mackenzie volunteered. “I had the worst weekend. My mom took me bra shopping...”

It is a coming of age ritual, an ancient tradition that stretches back centuries. It marks the passage from child to adult, tween to teen: a girl getting her first bra. Within this critical stage of development, distinct personality traits begin to appear and can be separated into four general categories.

The Denier

A sweat suit-clad mother, overflowing with pride, clutches her daughter’s hand and tugs her into the Nordstrom bra section. “It’s my Mackenzie’s first bra!” she announces loudly. Mackenzie eyes the frilly lingerie around her like they are flaming torches or perhaps giant mosquitoes carrying some kind of exotic, lethal virus.

“Mom,” she protests. “I don’t need a bra.”

“Nonsense,” her mom says. “Your little boobies are growin’ quite big, and you need to have something to carry them.” All around, teenagers snicker into their designer handbags while the few male shoppers turn various shades of plum.

Oblivious to the spectacle her mother has just created, Mackenzie argues, “I’m fine with a cami, Mom! I don’t need a bra.”

“Of course you do,” her mother retorts. “You don’t want to be all jiggly, do you?”

“Mom,” Mackenzie says. “I don’t need one. Bras are for teens. I’m not a teen.”

“Ah, won’t this look nice to complete the ensemble?” Mackenzie’s mother absentmindedly strokes a red, silk thong while reminiscing of her “glory days” in college. “When I had my first bra, all the boys went wild.” She is caressing it like it is fuzzy animal, perhaps a capybara. “I wore one just like this one to the Sigma Chi Halloween partay in 1987 under my leopard print jumpsuit...”

Annoyed that the spotlight had been stolen, Katie cleared her throat. “That’s great, Mackenzie, but I have an announcement to make.” She smiled and fanned herself. “I’m now a B cup!” she squealed.

The Cup Plusser


Amidst stores selling scented candles and dupioni silk pillows, there is a fabled place of mystery and intrigue. A place where light turns to darkness, and normal air is weighed down by musky scents. A place where walls are intentionally defaced with images of the scantily clad. A place where animal prints are worn as symbols of glory, but are measured by the square inch. Victoria’s Secret.

Brimming with self-esteem, Katie saunters over to an employee of Victoria’s Secret and, shoving her chest outward, says with a practiced familiarity, “Hi, can you direct me to the B cup section? My boobs are growing so fast that I’ll probably be a C by next month.”

SYDNEY, as her nametag reads in bold capitals, lets her eyes glide up and down the girl’s double A figure and snorts. “Right this way.”

Katie beams, unable to conceal her exhilaration, and skips after the polo-clad employee before reaching several racks of flimsy camisoles. Dimples fading, Katie rolls her eyes, flips her hair, and pivots towards Sydney, hand on hip. “Um, didn’t I request the B section?”

Sydney smirks. “I took you to the training bra section, where the first time bra wearers go.”

“Th-this isn’t my first time,” stutters Katie.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.”

Lifting her chin, Katie says self-righteously, “How do you know?”

“Apart from your column figure,” Sydney replies smugly, “bras are organized by maker, not size.” She waves her fingers and turns away. “Have fun, kiddo.”

Katie stands there for a while, mouth agape. After about five minutes, she shakes herself. “Well, I’m certainly going to file a complaint,” she harrumphs. “And she’s one to talk,” she adds. “She’s hardly breaking the B barrier.” Turning her nose to the ceiling, she marches confidently towards a padded, magenta and black, zebra print monstrosity.

Katie looked expectantly at her friends, her toothy grin dissipating. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”

“Only that you so don’t need the bra.” Chen said nonchalantly.

“Oh, you’re just jealous you don’t wear panties,” Katie said derisively.

Chen raised her eyebrow. “Panties?”

“Yes,” said Katie triumphantly. “Because mine are from Victoria’s Secret. You wear underwear,” she finished in a ‘haha’ tone.

“Whatever,” Chen said, rolling her eyes. “The most important thing here is your bra issues.” Smirking, Chen gestured towards Ruth. “I mean, look at Ruth here. There’s no way you’re the same size as her.” She pursed her lips playfully, head cocked to the right, and remarked, “Not that she’s voluptuous, but she can make the shapeless PE shirts look good.”

Ruth, who had up to this point been engrossed in her fingernails, snapped out of it at the mention of her own name. “Who?”

“Chen just said that you have bigger boobs than me,” sniffed Katie, clearly still slighted.

“Wait, what!” Ruth’s head snapped back towards Chen.

“It’s true,” said Chen Li, shrugging non-apologetically.

“The word ‘voluptuous’ was used,” added Mackenzie.

Ruth’s face began to turn red, then purple, finally fading back to normal after a few shaky breaths. “Please,” she said to Chen Li, teeth clenched, “NEVER say that word.”

Boobaphobia

Guys always seem to think that the girls’ locker room is some kind of perfumed, pink paradise. In reality, it stinks. Stinks of old socks, forgotten shirts, raw sweat, and a very funky stench that implies bad plumbing. But for reasons unknown, teachers choose to make Maturation A, an already awkward subject, plain uncomfortable by conducting it in a room with enough dust on the lockers to trigger rapid-fire sneezes in a girl with even the most pristine sinuses.

“Hi, y’all,” says Ruth shyly. “Is this,” she checks her schedule. “Maturation A?”

“Yep,” her teacher says with a nod. “You’re the last one. Sit down over there.”

After seating herself on a bench near the front, notebook and pen in hand, Ruth looks eagerly towards her teacher.

“Today, students, we will be doing some diagrams. You will need to locate the breasts and nipples and explain their functions.” She unveils the whiteboard, where a woman’s torso is displayed. “This is you kids in a couple of years.” She winks. “Except for you, Ruth. You’re already there.”

In rooms all down the hall, students and teachers alike turn their heads towards the shrill scream emanating from room 15. Later, they would hear that Ruth Johnson had just gone crazy, covering her eyes and shrieking. After several heated debates over the phone and the threat of a lawsuit, Ruth’s conservative parents had her pulled out of Maturation and moved to Study Hall. And so it was that Ruth lived a sheltered life of innocence and chastity…until she met Chen Li Zhang.

“Which word?” inquired Chen. “Boobs or voluptuous? Both apply to you.”

Curling into a fetal position, Ruth rocked back and forth and began to moan.

“Well, it’s better than the hyperventilation fits she used to have talking to me,” Chen said cheerfully. “So I say it’s progress.”

The Progressive

After Ruth has been escorted to the nurse’s office, Chen turns to the rest of the room, frowning. “She can’t just live sheltered like that. I bet I could teach her a thing or two.”

“Be my guest,” the PE teacher says wearily. “Now everyone, please turn your eyes towards the screen. We will be watching a short video-“

“Excuse me?” Chen Li asks. “Will this video be covering Pre-Menstrual Syndrome and menopause or just the basics of puberty and genital hair growth?”

The whole class is silenced. “Well?” Chen asks, seemingly oblivious. “Will they be covered or not?”

“What’s Pre-Menstrual Syndrome?” a girl asks in a meek voice.

“Well,” Chen Li says, “If a person is having-“

“Okay!” The teacher, whose jugular vein has been throbbing spasmodically for the last minute, finally interrupts. “Chen, why don’t you go down to the library and spend the rest of class there.” She laughs nervously. “It’s obvious you don’t need this course. Or the others that come after. Okay? Okay.” She ushers the confused girl out of the room.

“But I didn’t finish explaining,” she calls as she is pulled away. “I’ll tell you later!”

“You’ve really got to watch what you say around her,” chastised Katie.

“Why?” Chen Li reclines on the fuzzy, pink cushion behind her. “I’m doing the poor girl a favor.”

“What about her innocence?” asked Mackenzie. “Not all of us have gynecologist parents.”

“Pfft.” Chen Li waved the question away. “Innocence? I haven’t been innocent since Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.”

“Fun,” muttered Mackenzie.

“What?” Chen Li said blissfully. “I had The Talk at five. Can you think of anything awesomer?”

“Well,” began Mackenzie, raising her hand, but she was quickly silenced by Katie.

“Look people, she’s coming out of it.”

All three crowded around Ruth as she blinked and looked around blearily. “What were we talking about?”

Chen waved her arm around frantically. “We were talking about boo- MMPH!” She wriggled and tried to talk through Mackenzie’s hand clamped over her mouth.

“Spinach-infused risotto,” said Katie.

Every girl comes to terms with bra use, whether it takes them minutes or months. Societal cues can make many girls use cup size as a measure of their self-worth and the value of others, a notion for some that lasts into their twenties. While a cadre of girls is uncomfortable talking about lingerie far into adulthood, others work it into as many conversations as possible, in hopes of imparting an air of sophistication and maturity. Whatever the classification, everyone has her own bra quirks, queries, and occasional queasiness. At some point, the age varying with each person, the buzz over bras and bustlines lulls. But when these same girls have daughters, the vicious cycle of growing up, both physically and mentally, starts once more.