Prom night is held in high esteem all over the world. It is the pitching moment of high school glory for every boy and girl. It is a moment of asserting grace, machism, beauty and a feeling of ownership over the best-looking person of the opposite sex. I know these words, as they were repeated to me day in and day out by everyone. All the madness started when I announced I had better things to do than go to the prom night. Shocked relatives and friends gathered round to exorcise the evil spirit that prompted me to utter such a blasphemy. How could I? - accused me my tearful mother, after all the work and money she spent secretly making me a dress? After going crazy looking for the perfect necklace and the perfect earrings to go with the dress? How could I? - shrieked my best friend, after all her convincing, blackmailing and bribing work, so that I would be elected Prom Queen? How could I? - boomed my grandmamma, after she finally convinced my aunt in Germany to send over her satin Chanel shoes and a matching Chanel no. 5 perfume? How could I, indeed? Truth is, I just felt like going to a pub with all my friends and classmates, down a dozen of beers and raid the streets singing: "We don't need no education/ We don't need no thought control/ No dark sarcasm in the classroom/ Teachers, leave them kids alone." But there, I had to go to a prom night, half stifled in a corset, smiling gracefully to everyone and trying not to look too interested in the Johnnie Walker and Jim Beam bottles, 'cause it's unladylike. Months dragged on, I was dragged to different fitting sessions with the dressmaker, different meetings with hair stylists, while deep inside I was mounting a wall of hatred against the blasted event - the prom night. Months dwindled to weeks, weeks dwindled to days. All was perfect, everyone painted smiles on their faces, and all the girls were in fashionable hysterics as dresses were finished, hairstyle and manicure appointments were established and shopping raids for jewelry were conducted alongside crestfallen fathers with thinning billfolds. All was ready for me, too: emerald green corset dress, Chanel shoes and perfume, fake emeralds for my neck and ears, a sweeping hairdo and a change of colour from my favourite Titian red to raven black. Prom night came, against all my hopes and prayers. Pushed forward by everyone I had to get into the corset, have my hair dyed and coiffed, have the dangling necklace and earrigns affixed and away to the prom night! The angel of insipration came to me and showed me how to have all the tables turned against the conspirators. As it is unfashionable to make an appearance right at the beginning of the prom night, I said, I'd go over to my cousin's and spend and hour or so with him while I gather courage. No one suspected a thing. Only my cousin saw the twinkle of mischef in my eyes and silently agreed to cooperate. We went to his house. I took off all jewelry and went straight to the bathroom. A series of transformations to my look took place and, in an hour, I was back in the car and on the road to the prom night. I went in and enjoyed the shocked looks on everyone's faces. For there I was, in a perfectly fitting tux, perfect bow tie, perfect trousers and perfect shoes. Add a perfect slick-down hairstlye, worthy of Al Pacino in The Godfather and the relaxed Gary Copper-like atttitude and decice whether I wouldn't have deserved the Prom King title. As they say in the good ol' Visa commercial: tux and bow tie - 220 dollars, shoes - 55 dollars, hair pomade - 10 dollars, the look of envy in all the boys' eyes - priceless.