At the time, Audrey was simply an aspiring actress, auditioning for a director she didn’t know. I had even seen her screen test for Roman Holiday on YouTube. It showed a subdued, dignified Audrey performing an audition scene until the director yelled cut. Luckily the cameraman left the camera rolling and captured Audrey’s real personality as she chatted away about the war and ballet dancing to benefit the Resistance during World War II. Film historians have said that the candid footage won her the role.
The most marvelous part of the movie, as far as I was concerned, was the haircut scene. In that scene, before your very eyes, she was transformed from the typically stuffy, boring Hollywood princess to a newly minted screen persona that redefined glamour. As each lock of hair fell to the floor, Audrey’s eyes grew round with delight, and her charm, innocence, and waiflike features were revealed. When the barber was finished, Audrey was liberated, and the starlet we’ve come to know was born.
I didn’t have such lofty goals for my haircut. I just felt it was time for me to shed my good-girl image and become something more.
Jess was circling back to shape and refine my hair, completely absorbed in the process. She didn’t do anything halfway. She moved around me, nipping with her scissors like a sculptor, forming my hair closely to the shape of my head. Each tiny cut created movement upward, off my neck, and forward, to frame my face.
Through my bangs I could see the open closet where the dresses were hung. There were still dresses of Nan’s I hadn’t worn. Modified Chanel, Lilli Ann, Chez Ninon, and others. I figured I’d take those with me to the Hamptons.
Alongside Nan’s dresses were Designer X’s masterpieces. The closet burst with dresses made of sheer materials, like one chiffon dress I could see with a lace underlay. There were lots of floral detailing, ruffles, even sequins. Embroidered full-length gowns were interwoven with delicate knee-length tulle frocks. The dresses were starkly accented here and there with a studded belt or a biker jacket.
I couldn’t believe how many dresses she had already finished. I wondered if she ever slept.
“Isak won’t stop bothering me about you,” I said through the falling hair. I wanted to draw her out on how she felt about her show. “I don’t see how I can keep him away. He’s even demanding it on my blog. I mean, I don’t see why you won’t meet him now.”
“I’m just not ready,” she said.
“And when will you be ready?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Maybe when it’s perfect. Depends on how the show goes, I guess.”
“You’re crazy. He has to see your show.”
“Lisbeth, you don’t understand. You only have one chance, and if you’re not ready when they see you, they’ll never come back,” Jess said. “It’s like a dress—it’s all first impression. If you have depth and talent and skill after that, great, but if the first impression fails, you’ve failed.”
“I’m sure you’ll be ready.”
“We’ll see. Now shut up for a minute while I try to finish your hair.”
She cut the sides up around my ears, which was weird because I hadn’t felt my ears free of hair for longer than I could remember. The final strokes took away sections from my cherished bangs so they were lighter and shorter. There certainly was no going back now. I admired her work in the mirror: ultrashort, feminine, with a feathery touch.
“This will be great in the Hamptons,” I said.
“What?” Jess practically dropped her scissors.
“The Hamptons,” I said. “Tabitha invited me for a few days.”
“But the show…” she trailed off. She seemed tired. “You’re going to miss my show.” She had the sound of inevitability in her voice.
“No, I’ll be back in time,” I insisted. “It’s not like I’m going to another country.” I hadn’t expected her reaction.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“But you don’t have a date yet or the space?”
“Not yet, but when we do it will be sudden. It will all happen at once.”
“And I’ll be there,” I added. “Besides, I’m doing all my posting and promotion online. I might make more connections this way. Donna Karan is out there, and everyone else.”
“Lisbeth, what’s happening? You’re not becoming one of them, are you?” she asked, a sad glint in her eye. “You’re actually summering in the Hamptons. You’ll just get swept away with all of their million-dollar houses, their lives.”
“No, I’ve handled it so far,” I said, wondering myself if it sounded true.
“Listen, we’ll have to do it like a pop-up show anyway, don’t you think? We’ll get more attention that way,” I added.
“Oh, I don’t know that kind of thing; you’re the queen of promotion. All I know is that I have two more dresses to finish. I have models to find and audition. I have to do fittings. All before Fashion Week starts. It’s too much.” She sounded hopeless.
Walking over to the closet, I lifted a few dresses to see how she was doing.
“These are amazing,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself, Jess.” Each and every dress bore her trademark—the lines of her journal sewn into the hems of her designs.
“You’ve created an entire vision. Oh my god, this one…” I picked up a soft orange chiffon dress with the tight blush silk skirt. Like the first patterned black one with the snowflakes, this was a dual dress—fairy-tale chiffon on the outside and sexy satin underneath. The asymmetric hem was gone, and the new color concept was eye-popping.
“This is your signature dress,” I said, almost breathlessly. “I’ve never seen anything like this. You could do this in a thousand different colors and it would work. Isak will love it. Everyone will.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she said, plopping down on the bed, sounding like she was in too much pain to think about it.
Kicking off my shoes, I stripped down to my underwear. I had to see if it felt the way it looked. I slipped on the tight satin underskirt. It felt sculpted, almost the way Audrey’s Givenchy felt that first time. Pulling up the overskirt and blouse, I felt the intimacy of its illusion—body-shaping underneath but a freedom of movement—an absolute perfect construction.
The dress combined two contradictory spirits—floaty and loose on the outside and tight and form-fitting underneath. It exuded sexuality and confidence, beauty and power, simplicity adapted to fabric. I couldn’t help wondering why no one else had ever designed such a dress. Its wearability, even with the tight satin skirt underneath, could only have been designed by a woman.
A little smile crossed Jess’s face as I twirled before the mirror, but I could see she was fading on me—I had to do something immediately.
“Okay, measurements. Fittings. Plans. I’ll stay tonight and try on everything. We’ll get a head start right now,” I said. “I’ll work on the marketing and planning in the Hamptons over the next few days. You’ll just have to mend fences with Sarrah enough to get her to wrangle up nine or ten really distinctive models from the school.”
“Ugh, God save me,” Jess moaned.
“Then I’ll come back a few days before and we’ll get everything set and make sure my blog followers and Isak are there.” She gave me a sideways glance, trying to decide if I was for real.
“Come on, lazy bones, let’s do it,” I said, walking over to the bed and dragging her up on her feet. Then I went to the stove to make coffee.
That night I tried on everything. One after the other, each dress was spectacular. It was like living a fairy tale or playing princess when we were kids. Everything was cool, feminine, and dazzling.
Jess took notes on adjustments.
We designed the order of the show with the orange chiffon the last, and I put together my first thoughts on a guest list.