01/23/98

Glamorous Women Have It All, Don't They?

Glamor has its drawbacks. Diane knows because she depends on it to make a living. Not that she ever minds turning a head or two. After all, that's part of the fun.

She told me about getting dressed for work one morning in a chic brown suit and ruffled white blouse. The short cut of the skirt accentuated her long legs. A splash of Chanel, gold earrings, and leather pumps set it off. She felt terrific.

Over her lunch hour she walked past a construction site on her way to a corner café. As she walked by, one of the workmen whistled appreciatively. "Look at that chocolate sundae. M-m-m-m, would I like a taste of that!" She admits that his comments made her feel sassy and sexy. Outwardly she ignored him, but she was smiling inside.

Diane and her partner Melanie, co-founders of Melanie Designs, design, manufacture and sell boutiquewear in and around Boston. Life in the fashion business, or so-called "rag trade," involves lots of glamor. Weekly photo shoots, runway modeling, parades, nightclub openings, and show-off parties are standard fare.

They do outrageous things at parties for publicity. Once after a highly publicized F.Scott Fitzgerald birthday bash, a picture of Diane, dancing on the piano with pink flapper fringe flying, appeared on the cover of the Sunday magazine section. What a coup!

But on glamor's fringes lurk wannabes and perverts. Melanie and Diane attract beautiful moths to the flame, but creepy bugs swarm around it, too.

One night, en route to a suburban party in her yellow sports car, Diane noticed some headlights close behind her. With quickening pulse she made the turns into ever-darkening streets and pulled up in front of her friends' house. The shadow pulled up behind her, turned off the lights, and got out of the car. She slammed on the accelerator and took off as fast as she could. He jumped back in his car in pursuit, but she had enough of a headstart to lose him. She convinced herself that it was an isolated incident and meant nothing.

Another evening, after making a few sales calls, she was walking down a side street toward her parked car, when she had an uneasy feeling someone was following her. She hurried ahead, keys in hand, to unlock the car and drive away. She had just opened the door and sat down in the driver's seat when she felt a hand on her leg. A scream of terror froze in her throat as the man bent toward her, gazed at her face, and laughed before he turned and walked away. His laughter haunted her for weeks.

The proverbial straw broke during rush hour on the New York City subway. People were packed into the car so tightly no one could move. Diane was holding the overhead strap with one hand and her bag with the other, when she felt someone pressing his fingers against her crotch. She twisted violently sideways in unspeakable disgust and rage. How dare he. How dare anyone violate another person like that.

It infuriated and saddened her to realize that a woman's looks could actually endanger her, something a man does not experience. But her turbulent feelings gradually gave way to cool appraisal of the situation. She was an attractive woman in a highly visible business which thrives on outward appearances. That meant she had to do something to stop attracting those creepy bugs. Finally the perfect solution dawned on her. All she had to do was douse the flame.

So, she replaced her contact lenses with coke bottle glasses, shed form-fitting styles for the "tent" look, kicked off the strap sandals and tied on crepe-soled clunkers, stored the fur wrap and donned a trench coat, and carried a can of mace in her pocket. Thus transformed from watched to watcher, she manipulated her image to fit the circumstances.

It worked like a charm. No more stalkers or perverts. No more whistlers either. She misses that sassy feeling; but she doesn't miss the fear. To preserve her freedom and to guarantee her safety, she gave up the glamor. In the larger scheme of things, it's a small price to pay ..... isn't it?

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.