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Five things that you’ll understand if you went to an all girls school

I’ve long since held the opinion that women who graduate from an all girls school are slightly deranged.

There must be something about twelve years being saturated with oestrogen, the bulk of your development spent with hundreds of girls and millions of Impulse body spray bottles; that sends you a little loopy.

As you grow into a well-rounded woman with the ability to make sensical conversation with a member of the opposite sex, you’ll realise just how bonkers all-girl schools actually are. You know, that it’s not really kosher to share a used piece of gum, or not quite justified to skip a thirty minute swimming class because of period pain.

So here are our top five findings of what we all learnt as by-products of an all girl school system.

Mascara is not makeup.

“Are you wearing make up? You know there’s detention for makeup.”


“Yes you are – I can see the smudged mascara from here.”

“Mascara isn’t makeup, Miss.”

By mid-way through high school, you would have made the prophetic realisation that you do indeed look better with makeup. Your first foray into foundation, mascara, eyeliner, blush, and bronzer has left you giddy with power – is that me? I look GREAT – and you’re unwilling to let go.

And whilst you have to tone it down for the schoolyard, you can still slick on a wee bit of mascara, right? Mascara isn’t makeup. Fact.

Anything with a penis is terrifying.

A social scientist really needs to investigate the mass hysteria that a single male can cause in an all-girl school. It doesn’t matter if it’s a teacher, a visitor, a parent, a brother, or a wayward schoolboy (they were the most terrifying), anything with a penis was to be approached with caution. And then squealing.

As any good schoolgirl knows, boys serve two purposes: to carry your schoolbag home, and to smell like Lynx Africa. Anything beyond that was enough to send you delirious with panic. God forbid you actually SAW their penis. Terrifying!

School dances are the most important event of the year.

Right, clear the schedule for the two weeks leading into school dance season because GIRL, you have SHOPPING to do. Glossy magazines were dragged into classrooms and pored over on lunch breaks as you all chose your ‘look’ for the dance.

(In hindsight, you can see that all your ‘looks’ were exactly the same, and off the rack from Supre, but who cares?)

The Friday of the dance was spent in a constant state of heightened panic. After planning whose house would be trashed as Ground Zero for getting ready and a few tubes of fake tan later, and you were off. With a stolen flask of vodka stashed in your bag, obviously.

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There is only one way to wear a backpack.

It’s not rocket science: a school backpack worn on both shoulders is completely unacceptable. But a school backpack worn on one shoulder with a hip lean that is definitely going to give you lower-back issues later in life? That’s fine.

*Side note: why are school bags so goddamn enormous these days? I have seen smaller versions in Kathmandu, and they hold a tent, 12 months worth of clothing, several pairs of shoes, a television, a fold out couch, and an infant.

Women are gross.

Don’t get me wrong. I love women. I am a woman. I’m totally into women being the fairer sex. But I can also tell you after living and studying alongside hundreds of girls for my entire schooling, women are seriously gross.

Away from the prying eyes of the male gaze, women unleash their inner feral. Don’t believe me? Go to an all-girl school swimming carnival. It’s a carnage of body odour, clothes from Vinnies and cheering, wet bathers worn all day, and unshaved legs.

Growing girls eat like starved hyenas, sweat through acrylic uniforms by 10am, will leave greasy hair unwashed for as long as possible, and have no qualms about chewing through their fingernails whenever necessary. Girls. Are. Gross.

So raise your Bacardi Breezer to those sepia soaked days of high school, ladies: the last time in your life that you ever felt the need to wear pyjama shorts under a dress, mascara in the pool, or a colourful bra under a Bonds chesty singlet.

Cheers to turning out normal. Well, normal-ish.

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