This story was first published on Oct. 28, 2017. We are bringing it back for homecoming season.
I’m surrounded by feather boas and cowbells and teddy bears.
Moms and daughters fuss over racks of ribbons, trying to find just the right combination in time for the big day.
I’m 27. I’m in a homecoming mum shop. I’m lost.
If you grew up in Texas, you know this predicament.
Every homecoming, teens exchange massive mums and garters. The largest ones look like bulky aprons, complete with lights and speakers and moving parts.
Decorated with sparkles and school spirit, they’re customized for each date. Is he in the band? Add some music notes. Is she an athlete? Add a soccer ball.
At Texas high school stadiums, not wearing a mum to homecoming is an instant sign that you didn’t have a date.
In her four years at Amarillo High, Hanna never got one.
* * *
Long after high school, Hanna and I met on Bumble, the dating app. She lived in Fort Worth. I lived in Dallas. Our first date was at Trinity Groves. Our second was at Sundance Square. We spent our weekends driving between the two cities before moving into a north Oak Cliff apartment last year.
I love taking her two-stepping, even if it’s just a few spins along the sidewalk. I love how we argue over whether the chip dip is called salsa or hot sauce. I love going on long car rides with her through West Texas, or into the Hill Country.
We are both grad students at Southern Methodist University. Next spring, we’ll don graduation robes and receive our master's degrees: hers in engineering management, mine in American studies.
At some point, she told me she never had a date to homecoming. She mentioned it off-hand, like it was no big deal, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Nobody had given this clever, beautiful girl a homecoming mum. What a travesty.
This fall, Hanna and I decided to go to SMU’s homecoming game on Nov. 4. We’d watch the parade, tailgate in the afternoon, get good seats for the game, and take a good dose of pony up pride.
Just one more thing would make it special.
* * *
I’ve been mum shopping before. I was 18 and awkward, trying to stay under budget but not skimp. The last thing I wanted was to give my date a cheap-looking mum.
I was rushed from crowded aisle to crowded aisle. Sweaty and nervous, I felt swindled when the mum moms rang up an order that nearly drained the allowance funds I’d saved.
I was determined not to be swindled again.
So a few weeks ago when Earlane Hendrix, a saleswoman at Plano’s The Mum Shop on Parker Road, asked how much I wanted to spend on the mum, I suggested trying to keep it in the neighborhood of $45.
Earlane looked up at me over the rim of her glasses with an expression somewhere between, “is this a joke” and “bless your heart.” Some couples spend hundreds on gargantuan mums every year.
The basic mum — one flower, one bear, a few solid-color ribbons dangling below — starts at $32, but that price doesn’t include some of the standard bells and whistles — literally.
She showed me ribbons with polka dots and paw prints. Mascot icons and cheerleader silhouettes. Braided ribbons. Charity ribbons. Metallic ribbons. Fancy ribbons.
There was a whole aisle of trinkets and charms to be hot-glued onto the mum. Small jingle bells and heavy cowbells. Buttons to support Hurricane Harvey relief or Habitat for Humanity.
After going through each option, we stopped to look at the order form.
“What do you think?” I asked Earlane.
“I think it’ll be adorable,” she said.
I took the form to the front to check out. Just $53.70, with tax. Over budget, but still not breaking the bank.
* * *
I picked up the finished product a few weeks later.
Honestly, the mum was smaller than I expected. It’s simple. The silver ribbons catch your eye. There’s a single ribbon with her high school colors, black and gold. The little blue Texas chip, just above a red bow, is nice. But $54?
Part of me felt like I had in high school — swindled.
Years ago, I bought a mum for my homecoming date, because that's what you're supposed to do as a teenager in Texas. But this was different.
As I was leaving, the cashier asked who this was for.
I told her about Hanna, the girl who played cello at Amarillo High, who’s about to get her masters from SMU, who should've gotten a mum years ago. The cashier grinned.
“Every girl,” she said, “deserves a mum.”
