“I told you I was a disaster,” said Abby. “Where do we begin?”
“We begin at Colors,” said Lydia. “I set up an appointment for you.”
“Colors?” said Abby.
Lydia explained the concept of the four seasons. Every person ‘belonged’ to one of those seasons and had a set of colors to match. “I’ll bet you’re a summer,” said Lydia.
“What does that mean?” asked Abby.
“No orange,” said Jan, casting a glance at the pile of discarded clothing, “or olive or beige.”
“Okay, lead on,” said Abby.
They took a cab to a small shop in Yorkville, the trendy shopping district for the rich. A blue awning hung over the door and said simply, Colors. Inside, Abby was divested of her long, shapeless sweater and placed in a chair in front of a mirror. Jan and Lydia talked to the color woman, Theresa, like Abby wasn’t even there. They explained that they were giving Abby a complete shopping experience and makeover.
“What have you done so far?”
“Nothing. We came here first.”
“You are going to do something about the hair!?” Theresa figured that had to be the next stop.
“We’re only hired for shopping.”
Three pairs of eyes looked into the mirror at Abby.
“Yes,” she said, “we’re going to do something about the hair.”
Lydia pulled out her cell phone and wandered over to the far corner of the shop. Theresa explained the procedure. First she had to decide if Abby was summer/winter or spring/fall. She did this by draping a piece of material under her neck, first pink and then orange.
“Omigod,” said Abby. The difference was incredible. The pink sheet made her glow; the orange one made her look sallow and every flaw in her skin stood out. “Take it away!” she laughed.
“Definitely summer/winter,” said Theresa, putting the pink sheet back. “Yes, that’s it.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Abby.
“Winter is the one most people think they are. It’s the bright colors…cherry red, emerald green, snow white, black. Summer is more muted, secondary colors…burgundy for red, navy instead of black, taupe instead of grey, off-white…” Theresa pulled a bunch of material squares out of a drawer and started draping them over Abby’s shoulders…the winter colors on the left and the summer ones on the right.
“I was right,” said Lydia. “I told you she’d be a summer.”
They all nodded in agreement. Theresa gave Abby a small leather folder. Abby opened it and a plastic card holder cascaded down. In each slot was a small square of material. “This is your palette,” said Theresa. “Keep this in your purse. When you go shopping, if you’re not sure, check the material against the palette.”
Abby said that she would and placed the folder in her purse.
“Do you have much in those colors?” asked Theresa.
“A blouse and a hat,” laughed Abby. “And a few other things that are the right color and the wrong style.” She caught Theresa’s glance at Lydia and Jan in the mirror. “Oh yeah,” she admitted, “I’m a train wreck.”
“Well, at least you’re doing something about it,” said Jan. “Any particular reason?” she added, with arched eyebrows. They were all thinking the same thing. It had to be a man.
Abby tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. She nodded shyly but said nothing.
“Well, thank you again,” she said to Theresa, sitting forward in the chair.
“You’re not going anywhere yet,” answered Theresa. “There’s a makeup session included in the price.”
She proceeded to apply makeup to Abby’s face, showing her the colors she needed to use. It would never have occurred to Abby that she should be wearing navy blue mascara. She wasn’t used to wearing makeup at all. She thought that making up her plain face would be like putting a skirt on an onion. No point to it really, it would still stink.
“Close your eyes,” muttered Theresa at one point. Abby leaned back against the head rest and did as she was told. “Pucker…okay, smack your lips on this tissue…good. Okay, you’re done. Take a look.”
Abby opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. “Who’s that?” she asked, after a moment.
Jan and Lydia stood off to the side, their hands pressed together in front of them, their faces smiling like they’d just found Brad Pitt in their Christmas stocking…or Nick Carter, thought Abby, turning back to the mirror.
Theresa grabbed Abby’s hair and pulled it off her face. She slid an elastic band around it. “Keep it in a pony tail until you get to the salon,” she ordered. “Keep it off your face.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Abby meekly.
She paid for the session and purchased one of every item of makeup that Theresa had used on her.
Lydia had made a hair appointment for three o’clock. That gave them lots of time to shop. And they made the most of it. Jan and Lydia were even surprised about how much they knew about fabric and style. Their house-party clothing line was based on ensembles, taking a few basic pieces and mixing and matching to produce many outfits. They applied the same theory here. And before long, Abby had any number of different looks, but it would still all fit into her suitcase.
They dropped Abby off at the hairdresser and apologized that they couldn’t stay for the whole thing. They had kids to pick up from school. They would see her tomorrow. What time?
“Noon,” said Abby. “I’ve got a convention thing in the morning. What are we doing tomorrow?”
Jan’s eyes lit up. “Shoes,” she said with glee.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~“There, what do you think?” The hairdresser held a mirror up so that Abby could see the back.
“I think you’re a genius, Pierre,” she said.
“Yes, I believe I am,” he laughed. “You’re a work of art.”
“I was always a work of art,” said Abby. “It was just that I was a Picasso.”
Pierre laughed heartily. He liked this girl. When she had first come into the shop, he had blinked twice. She had a great makeup job and the worst haircut he’d ever seen. She told him that she wanted to change her look. He got out his books and made suggestions and talked about face shape. Maybe we could do something like this, he said. How about this look?
Finally, Abby stopped him. “Do you know what would look best on me?”
Pierre nodded.
“Then do it,” said Abby. “Because I don’t have a clue what to tell you.”
“But…”
“Listen to me, Pierre. Here are my instructions. I want to go out of here looking better than when I came in. And I would prefer that my hair not be green, but even that’s negotiable.”
Pierre laughed and picked up the scissors. He cut and styled, talking nonstop. By the end, Abby had a new haircut and a pretty good insight into Pierre’s personal relationships. Finally, Pierre told her to shake her head. When she did, the hair swooshed back and forth and then fell into place. Even though she had had a lot of hair cut off, it seemed like she had more than when she came in.
“It’s great,” she said, but Pierre cut her off.
“No, it needs something. Highlights.”
“You’re going to put blond in my hair?”
“No,” said Pierre. “Highlights aren’t always blond. Your hair is too dark for that. I was thinking more of a plum.”
“Plum? That’s purple, right?” Abby wasn’t sure about this.
“Trust me, it won’t look purple.”
Abby sighed. “Well, as long as it’s not green…or orange…No orange!”
“No orange,” said Pierre, and got busy with powders and foil strips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Abby gave the mirror one final glance. She was ready. Tonight was the main dinner of the convention. Everyone would be there. Fine, she thought, might as well have the big unveiling in front of two hundred witnesses. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress, a taupe jersey with a wide belt and a soft cowl neck. She cupped her new bra with her hands and turned sideways. It was good. It changed her shape and accented what little she had, but it didn’t look like she’d stuffed her chest. She slipped on the pair of shoes she’d brought with her for the occasion. The color was a little off, but she hoped no one would notice. She’d get a new pair tomorrow.
My Lord, Abby, she said to herself. Who would ever have thought you would be looking forward to shopping! She tossed her hair, watching it fall into place. Okay, Daddy, here I come!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The executives and their wives were having a private cocktail party in one of the meeting rooms before joining the rank and file in the main dining room. Abby took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said. “I hope I’m not too late. I was at the hairdresser.”
“That’s okay, Honey,” said John Fremont. “Not every one is here…” His voice trailed off as he turned to look at his daughter. His eyes traveled down her face, past the dress to the legs and then back up again. “You look nice. Wow! Your hair looks great. I like it off your face like that.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I like it too. Okay, let’s get to work. You take the husbands. I’ll take the wives.”
And the Fremonts, pere et fille, set out to work the room.
