Personal Appearance

Graduates guide novices and, along with current classmates, share language not found in any catalog or rule book. Live in Callaway. It has history. Served as a hospital during the war. We know which war. It need not be named. Conveniently unshared is the fact that the residence isn't fire safe and any electrical appliance with a heating element must be used in one special designated room on each floor. No hair drying in one's room, no popcorn wafting through the halls. There's a lady who walks the halls every night, alert to any signs of smoke. We wonder what she'd do if any were detected? Fortunatly, we never learn the answer.

Select early morning classes. Why? Isn't an essential part of this new life the luxury of sleeping longer? It takes only one session to learn the wisdom of adjusting the schedule forward into the day.

If nothing else is learned, schedule swimming just prior to P.A. Finally, something that actually has merit. All of us must conquer the water as part of graduation requirements. There are no hand-held dryers. They've yet to be invented, marketed, embraced, considered essential. Only their stationary sisters have been brought from home. There are two basic types. One features a huge hard plastic hood under which you bake. The other allows for a bit more flexibility with its thin plastic bonnet and
cylindrical tubing. The latter is perfect for perching on the bed, perhaps having a snooze while beauty is created. Each apparatus must be plugged in to operate and the process requires between 20 and 30 minutes for completion. Nobody would think of dragging one of these awkward contraptions to class.

Swimmers are handed thin cotton suits in various colors which relate to bra size, not body style. Cringe. No thought is given to the fragile egos of class members. Thankfully only our gender is represented so absolute humiliation is avoided. The enclosed space reeks of super chlorination and wet bodies. When class time has expired, a very quick dry prepares us for the real torture. Try pulling a minute full girdle up over still somewhat damp thighs. Hair continues to drip as hose are affixed to garters and proper clothes are buttoned and zipped. Slip into two-inch spike heels with pointy toes. Wobble your way to the next class.

Maybe it's topic is even more life-saving. We're being taught all the refinements of ladyhood, Southern style. No real crinolines and hoopskirts, but they're there, invisible and inviolate.

Arrive at the classroom where a set of steps anchors the middle section. Its purpose is to teach young ladies the proper way to ascend and descend and how to stand with grace and aplomb. Clusters of desks accommodate girls prepared to be molded. Most of them are totally dry, unlike me.




Leading us to perfection is someone, maybe several someones, whose beauty, poise and sheer genteelness most of us likely will never attain. Even worse, all the assistants are members of the Modeling Squad. Each and every one of these pluperfect women could be runway models or grace the cover of multiple magazines. Such a collection of blondes or striking brunettes who are lean without being emaciated, tall without towering, possessing flawless skin to which just the right amount of discreet unnoticable make-up has been applied. They brandish smiles from lips an actress would envy. These are the people who walk unerringly around the classroom, clipboards in hand, grading each student. They're dressed always in basic black which only serves to enhance their inherent impeccability. Not one of them has recently emerged from the swimming pool. Certainly a fashion photographer could fill a portfolio with candid shots merely by attending one class session.



We're here to learn, many of us reluctant, a few enthused. It's a legacy from generation to generation. Produce the 'W' girl. The one each young woman yearns to be. Well, I'm not so sure. I think I'm not good material for this distinction. Lessons start with basic hygiene. Here's how you take a bath--the proper way. Showers are never mentioned. I suppose they do not conjure up the right image at all. For young women whose fate is steeped in the traditional roles, it is incongrous that there'd ever be time enough for a bath. Yet that's the skill we're learning. Never mind reality. We're creating an ambience, an ideal.

Soaps are discussed at length as is deoderant. We're taught how to sit. Never, never, never cross your legs. Very unappealing. Instead, cross you ankles and then turn your whole body ever so slightly. A beautiful body line is thus created.

What do you do with your hands? Don't fidgit. A lady never would do so. Place both hands in your lap utilizing a gentle motion. Open the palms. Lay one hand atop the other casually. So chic. Are you comfortable with your crossed ankles, tilted body, clasped hands? Well, no, but that's not important. You'll look terrific! That's what really matters. People will notice. Think you're a lady.

It's critical that you learn the appropriate way to enter and exit a vehicle. Don't just plop. Lower yourself to the seat of the car in one fluid action. Keep your knees together at all times and then swing your legs into the vehicle. Repeat this motion when you reach your destination. Clean lines. Perfection achieved.

Try not to concentrate on the Modeling Squad members who've spent part of the summer touring Paris fashion shows. Forget that several of them have been named 'Most Stylish'




or, gulp, 'Most Beautiful.'



Remember that each student is provided with an individual hair and make-up strategy session. Maybe there's hope for you, too. Maybe all these beauties have been transformed by this very class. Maybe you're dreaming.

I arrive hesitantly at the appointed time. I sense immediately that my mentor believes my hair isn't worthy of discussion. Long, dark, somewhat thin, it just "is." There's nothing special, no remarkable quality. I pull it back into a ponytail. Sometimes perched high and saucy. Other days, close to my neck and rather lank. Servicable, sensible. I suspect that many of the ideal women do the same but I don't share these thoughts.

We concentrate on my face. Lots of questions. "What foundations do you use?" Answer, "I don't own any." Grimace, ever so slight.

"OK, how about mascera? eyeliner? eye shadow? blush?"

Again, the "none" response.

Grimace is growing, barely contained.

"Well, what shades of lipstick do you prefer?"

I realize immediately that this model is desparate. She's absolutely sure that there is not one young woman at this institution who is lacking lipstick. Multiple tubes, various shades. She is wrong about me.

I'm almost afraid to answer this latest inquiry, but I do. "I have no favorites and only wear lipstick on very special occasions." I dare not mention that generally I borrow somebody else's tube.

I can feel the thud. I know she thinks I am hopeless. This interview will affect my grade. It'll be on my transcript, permanently. Will I be mortified? Can you fail this class and have to repeat it? An ignoble event. Branded for life.

Have I just failed Personal Appearance? Is that possible? I'm not sure. I'm only seventeen, no lady yet. Maybe never.

There's silence. She's considering me and finally she shares perhaps fatal words. I wait anxiously and then I hear, "You have beautiful skin and really don't need make-up."

My heart starts again. I breathe and maybe I glow just a little, without the assistance of any blusher. It's then that I know I'll pass. Not as a model, but as me. That's more than good enough.




Nearly five decades later, I recently checked my transcript. There it was, indelibly typed. My Personal Appearance grade. I got a 'B.' Definitely good enough.