Every Monday morning, she would greet us, walking fast and out of breath, her soft, Gucci leather carry-on swinging from her shoulder, her long, perfect hair swaying back and forth, and her designer outfits perfectly accessorized. As she gracefully glided past us and flashed her “million-dollar” smile, we would all take a deep breath in unison and inhale her expensive perfume.
We were fresh out of high school, still carrying the baby fat that once made us cute, and now awkwardly settling in as college freshmen in New York City, hanging on to the promise that one day we would be career women.
It was rumored that she would fly in on her older boyfriend’s jet each Monday. She was an ex-Ford model (are you ever really an ex-Ford model?) who was hired to mold us into confident, well-dressed women of the world. I wondered if she realized what a challenge she had in front of her.
We were given an appointment time, and one by one, we would meet with her for a private consultation. We all nervously sat in the waiting room when the door burst open and Callie, a beautiful blonde student from Texas, dramatically announced to us that it was suggested she trade in her white mink coat, knee socks, and plaid skirts for a whole new business wardrobe. In her Southern drawl, she said she had to call her Daddy immediately to tell him that an allowance increase was necessary.
It was my turn. My stomach churned as I shut the door, smiled faintly, and sat across from her. She greeted me and started right in, suggesting makeup products that were soon to be introduced (what other insider information were former Ford models privy to?) and what styles and colors to wear. She showed me how to pull my long hair back into a bun and suggested I buy a braid that matched my hair color and wrap it around the bun for a more polished look. She stifled a laugh when she tactfully suggested some exercises for me to do, and I naively replied, “Do them now?” Yes, I was her style-starved puppet and would have dropped down and “given her 50” in a heartbeat.
One by one, we were all transfixed by her and happily settled into our new existences, leaving telltale signs all around us. To the dismay of the posh deli owner down the street, we bid farewell to his famous roast beef sandwiches for lunch and instead feasted on her favorite brand of yogurt. We all ate with demitasse spoons and cocktail forks (hers were sterling silver), her secret for eating more slowly. We stayed up late to re-polish our nails, so we were perfectly color coordinated the next day. We took extra time to dress and apply our makeup. We learned how to walk and carry ourselves properly. We were invited to attend social functions to practice the art of small talk and learn how to be a good listener. We were taught the social graces and the importance of manners.
It turned out that finishing school instruction was just as important as our formal education. When do you get the opportunity to stand there and be constructively critiqued from head to toe? Just as in the military, it was a form of breaking us down and rebuilding us from the bottom up, to make us the best we could be.
I still think about her. I wonder if she knew just how important she was to the lives of the young women she helped form. She taught us that if you look the part, you are the part. She transformed us from insecure, “plain Janes” to confident, chic women. She was an important role model in my life, and all these years later, after I carefully dress and check my nail polish, I raise my cocktail fork to her and say a silent “thank you” from the bottom of my style-conscious heart.
Author’s Note:
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to like it and share it. Don’t forget to go to the Home Page to follow me and receive posts via email.
A Moxie Girl 