stunning dresses for ugly reasons
Working in that clothes shop, i saw peoples' best and worst sides.
The blind woman who ran her hands through the farbrics, picking one out every now and then asking her companion, "but is it pretty?"
There was the young woman, brown wavy bob, soft eyes, who found the one dress in the shop that had stayed there for months, coveted by those who wanted to wear it but couldnt afford it, too small for those middle aged women who could afford it.
A dress of the most beautiful grey satin, sparkling from the bodice, with a simple large brooch-like centre, skimming down over the hips and swirling around the ankles. It was the kind of clothing that makes a person. It was the kind of dress that lights the wearer's eyes up, makes them feel like the most stunning woman alive.
The girl took it into the changeroom, quickly, noncommitally. She walked out, the dress fitting her like melted silver, bringing her alive, resting low on her back.
She turned in front of the mirror, unsure, hesitant. I tried to tell her that it was her dress, that she needed it, if not for a purpose then to be able to have in her cupboard, silently glowing in amongst her everyday clothes, tried on every few months to remember its perfection.
She said she had to go to a dinner tomorrow night, with a guy she didnt really know. It was a last minute buy. She doubted herself in the mirror, went back in and changed, left looking a little sad and lonely.
The next day she came back, smiling shyly, a wad of cash in her small hands to exchange for the dress. The boss was in the shop this time, critical eyes scrutinizing the girl's every move, silently dissaproving the amount of cash. I felt glad for the girl, that the dress was still hanging, waiting for her. She paid the hundreds of dollars for the dress, carried it out gingerly.
The lady who owned the shop turned to me, snorted, and said that the girl was an escort, a slut, who always came with her friends to find dresses for events.
She hinted that the girl didn't deserve that dress, that it would have been better bought by an anorexic middle aged bored housewife who would wear the dress like a shroud, gaping around her bony hips and suggesting her hollow life.
I thought of the young woman, full of life, excited, matching the luxurious silkiness of that dress, all male eyes on her, desiring her, needing her. Somehow, the dress was right for the girl. It seemed to validate her vibrance. It was a good thing.