“Everyone thinks of changing the world,
but no one thinks of changing himself.”
Leo Tolstoy
I have a closet full of clothes in all sizes. Some from the largest size I ever wore to a few that have never fit. Those belong in the “someday it will fit” category. Then there are all those clothes in between that do fit, but which bore me to tears. When did I become such a dullard when it came to my clothes? Even the largest I wore are more colorful, more fashionable even. Strangely, not too different in their stylish image from those that are too small.
So today, which just happens to be my birthday, I decided to do something ridiculously nice for myself by getting a total makeover, top to bottom, side to side. I was ready to make the financial sacrifice of a substantial portion of my not-so-substantial savings.
My first stop, naturally, was a high end beauty salon where a flamboyant, heavily tattooed, much pierced, effeminate stylist took me firmly in his hands. He asked me a few questions, pursed his lips, nodded, and assured me that he knew just the thing.
The first half of the afternoon involved an incredibly luxurious scalp and shoulder massage in a warmly aromatic room followed by highlights and low lights applied by a seriously professional color specialist. Afterward I was whisked by my stylist to his chair where he kept up chatty, often catty, observations and commentary on the latest celebrity news, punctuated by the occasional question to help guide him in creating my new 'do. I'm normally quite chatty myself but he relieved me of having to respond very often. I found him disarmingly amusing, to say the least!
From the salon I paid a visit to a fashionable boutique that sold trendy clothes suitable to women of all ages, as well as providing makeup services. Again a helpful professional (this one looking as if she had just walked out of Elizabeth Arden) offered suggestions and critiques of various outfits until we agreed on a gorgeous jumpsuit that fairly sparkled in vibrant jewel tone colors with tasteful sparkly trim. Who knew someone with short legs who didn't reach five-five in height could wear such a work of art?
When the makeup artist (and I do mean “artist!) was finished I couldn't believe what I was looking at when I stood back from the boutique's full length mirror. Wow! I looked fabulous!
I left the boutique, now properly coiffed, dressed, and accessorized, and finished off my day with a sumptuous meal in a 4-star restaurant, complete with vintage wine and a beautiful birthday cake sized for two people with a sparkler instead of a candle sticking up from an icing bouquet of multi-hued roses. A wait-staff quartet sang Happy Birthday to me in perfect harmony upon its presentation, which was followed by applause from other patrons.
Finally, feeling as if I must have been glowing with gorgeousness, I decided to try my luck at a nearby casino. There I took in a show by the current house entertainer before making my way to the casino proper. Feeling adventurous, I approached the blackjack table prepared to lose my seventy-five dollar buy in. When I lost fifty of it I decided to bet the rest on the five dollar slots. Not being stupid, I stood back and watched the various patrons as they mindlessly fed their machines until one that had been playing for a long time wandered off in disgust. I quickly made my way to that machine and began feeding it. Twenty dollars later, the bells went off and the lights started flashing. I had just won twelve hundred dollars!
Over the course of the day and evening, several men had shown their interest at all stages of my miraculous transition. Most weren't in the least bit attractive to me, though a few would have been on any other occasion (and thankfully so!). But on this day I found I was enjoying myself just in being with myself. Without being pompous about it, I had discovered I made a damn fine self-date!
Tonight when I arrived home I regretfully removed the beautiful clothes, pampered my skin with the cleansers, creams and perfumed lotions I had splurged on at the boutique and salon, and donned my usual, much loved, infinitely unromantic nightshirt. Just before I turned out the bathroom light, I took a look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and marveled at what I saw.
Once the finery and artifice was removed I had expected to see the same old me starting back, tired and relaxed but not really changed.. But what I saw was a woman who still glowed with gorgeousness! A woman who had changed in a way that went beyond the outer image. She was beautiful, even with a bare, unmade-up face and wearing a faded, well-loved nightshirt. Where had she come from?
Simple. She had found herself, not by wearing magical clothes and makeup. But by believing she was worth the time and effort to love herself, and proving it.
Like Ed, your story was too perfect to be true. But like all your stories, it has a tendency to end very well. There were interesting parts like the idea that all good makeover people are gay (hence their nickname). And then splurging on a meal for yourself with a cake you couldn't eat. Clothes you couldn't afford from the best shop in town. And then winning the cost all back from a one arm bandit.
What a great anecdotal slice of life, told with flair and panache. Kudos to you. I didn't believe a word of it, but good stories are nothing if not a bit of fun, a little flash, and a lot of fantasy. From my perspective, makeovers consist of switching from dirty loafers to clean Skechers, so I get pumped up quite easily...
