Mrs. Nang’s. The half-inch she adds to my nail length makes me look more feminine.
Reluctantly, I take my mother with me to Sophisticated Clothing. The two owners soon have me trying on cashmeres and wool crepes. “Thank God,” my mother says when she sees me in the new clothes. You’re finally showing off your looks a little. Maybe not looking like a professor will actually make you look smarter.”
Sure I may have bad taste, but being broke hadn’t helped my fashion situation either. Mom used to tell me that even a thin wallet could purchase flattering clothing. It just requires patience and persistence. But not all of us are consignment store gifted.
Now that I’m making good money, my mother’s really on my case to buy nice clothing. I concede that I have enough to pay both of my school loans, my rent, and my credit card bills. I buy some garments at Sophisticated Clothing and am relieved when my mother tells me she has to leave to meet a friend. I can now shop in peace.
I go over to my shoe store client who hasn’t yet moved out. I figure since they were also a client of mine they won’t let me screw up too bad. I pick various styles and the manager smiles at me every time I pick well. Black heels, three inches high, are now mine. My mother will be overjoyed. I’m happy, too. I have purchased shoes and sexiness.
Looking feminine should be as plausible for me as growing another arm. Yet here I am, not looking too bad. Straddling two worlds, I do the only thing I can do to entrench me solidly in one: I go to the most expensive hair salon in the mall. They proceed to undo my ponytail, the only hairstyle I’ve ever known.
Two hours later, a soft chestnut brown replaces my mousy coloring. They also give me something else unrecognizable—style. I’ve had enough for this afternoon. Transformation is hard work. At home I pass out.
When I wake up from my nap, I fire up my computer. And after watching a dozen “How to apply makeup” videos on YouTube, I brave a trip to Sephora.
On Monday morning I set aside an extra hour to get myself ready for work. I put on the makeup I purchased, and apply it as light-handedly as I can from the bags strewn around my room. I choose a flattering V-neck coral sweater with gray slacks and black heels. A coral and silver necklace with matching earrings complements the outfit. I brush out my hair, leaving it down. I’m ready to go.
Driving to work, I wonder how I will be received. I want everyone to gaze at me, prostrate themselves at my feet and exclaim “Forgive us, Sue, we didn’t realize how beautiful and sophisticated you are!” I know this isn’t going to happen any place outside my head. One of the times I got all dolled up in an attempt to impress was when I was in junior high. A classmate had persuaded me to go to the mall with her. We had a cosmetics salesclerk apply our makeup and bought new tops, which we immediately put on. We thought we’d gone from gawky to gorgeous. But when boys saw us, they laughed. I guess the cosmetics clerk’s hand was as heavy as mine. I hope I’ve finally mastered a more natural-looking technique. Or what will I be walking into now?
I walk into Jordan’s office to ask his opinion about a problematic lease clause. When he sees me, he asks me to step inside and close the door behind me. Then he asks me for a date.
“Umm. What?” I ask. My eyebrows and vocal pitch are raised high.
“A date. Tonight.”
“What?”
“We just went through this, Sue. A date. With me. Tonight.”
“Umm, I . . .” I trail off.
“Sue, your attire has improved. Your conversation has not.”
My face goes hot. My temper as explosive as Java Lava’s mural. “Neither have your manners. So, no, I’m not interested. That should be articulate enough.” I reach for the doorknob.
“You can’t be serious,” he exclaims.
“Why can’t I be serious? Because you’re too powerful and too handsome for me to say no?” Is this guy for
Reluctantly, I take my mother with me to Sophisticated Clothing. The two owners soon have me trying on cashmeres and wool crepes. “Thank God,” my mother says when she sees me in the new clothes. You’re finally showing off your looks a little. Maybe not looking like a professor will actually make you look smarter.”
Sure I may have bad taste, but being broke hadn’t helped my fashion situation either. Mom used to tell me that even a thin wallet could purchase flattering clothing. It just requires patience and persistence. But not all of us are consignment store gifted.
Now that I’m making good money, my mother’s really on my case to buy nice clothing. I concede that I have enough to pay both of my school loans, my rent, and my credit card bills. I buy some garments at Sophisticated Clothing and am relieved when my mother tells me she has to leave to meet a friend. I can now shop in peace.
I go over to my shoe store client who hasn’t yet moved out. I figure since they were also a client of mine they won’t let me screw up too bad. I pick various styles and the manager smiles at me every time I pick well. Black heels, three inches high, are now mine. My mother will be overjoyed. I’m happy, too. I have purchased shoes and sexiness.
Looking feminine should be as plausible for me as growing another arm. Yet here I am, not looking too bad. Straddling two worlds, I do the only thing I can do to entrench me solidly in one: I go to the most expensive hair salon in the mall. They proceed to undo my ponytail, the only hairstyle I’ve ever known.
Two hours later, a soft chestnut brown replaces my mousy coloring. They also give me something else unrecognizable—style. I’ve had enough for this afternoon. Transformation is hard work. At home I pass out.
When I wake up from my nap, I fire up my computer. And after watching a dozen “How to apply makeup” videos on YouTube, I brave a trip to Sephora.
On Monday morning I set aside an extra hour to get myself ready for work. I put on the makeup I purchased, and apply it as light-handedly as I can from the bags strewn around my room. I choose a flattering V-neck coral sweater with gray slacks and black heels. A coral and silver necklace with matching earrings complements the outfit. I brush out my hair, leaving it down. I’m ready to go.
Driving to work, I wonder how I will be received. I want everyone to gaze at me, prostrate themselves at my feet and exclaim “Forgive us, Sue, we didn’t realize how beautiful and sophisticated you are!” I know this isn’t going to happen any place outside my head. One of the times I got all dolled up in an attempt to impress was when I was in junior high. A classmate had persuaded me to go to the mall with her. We had a cosmetics salesclerk apply our makeup and bought new tops, which we immediately put on. We thought we’d gone from gawky to gorgeous. But when boys saw us, they laughed. I guess the cosmetics clerk’s hand was as heavy as mine. I hope I’ve finally mastered a more natural-looking technique. Or what will I be walking into now?
I walk into Jordan’s office to ask his opinion about a problematic lease clause. When he sees me, he asks me to step inside and close the door behind me. Then he asks me for a date.
“Umm. What?” I ask. My eyebrows and vocal pitch are raised high.
“A date. Tonight.”
“What?”
“We just went through this, Sue. A date. With me. Tonight.”
“Umm, I . . .” I trail off.
“Sue, your attire has improved. Your conversation has not.”
My face goes hot. My temper as explosive as Java Lava’s mural. “Neither have your manners. So, no, I’m not interested. That should be articulate enough.” I reach for the doorknob.
“You can’t be serious,” he exclaims.
“Why can’t I be serious? Because you’re too powerful and too handsome for me to say no?” Is this guy for
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