Miley Cyrus: The Imperfection of Teenage Stardom.

by Meredith O'Brien

 

My 12-year-old daughter gestured to the March issue of Marie Claire that was sitting on my desk.

 

“Have you looked through that? Looked at the pictures?” she asked.

 

“No, not yet,” I said, eyeing Miley Cyrus on the cover next to the headline, “I’m sorry. I never, ever said I was perfect.”

 

She flipped open to the cover story about Cyrus, someone who my daughter used to adore, whose 3-D movie we saw in a packed theater after having arrived an hour early and bought advanced tickets, whose life’s story my daughter knew by heart, whose music my daughter used to download onto her iPod. In Marie Claire were photos of the 18-year-old wearing sophisticated duds, including a dress which revealed ample side cleavage and another skin-bearing black, lace-up dress that looked as though the back had been unzipped. My daughter wrinkled her nose. She no longer watches Hannah Montana, preferring instead iCarly on TV and Taylor Swift on her iPod. In fact Swift posters have replaced Cyrus ones in her room.

 

And in that moment, when my daughter left my office, disappointed in her idol, I felt badly, for my daughter and, believe it or not, for Cyrus as well.