And just like that, I'm in good hands.
“Here,” she says, leading me toward the back. “I'm going to set you up in a private dressing room. Much better than that madness out there.” She casts her eyes toward the communal changing area, then leans in conspiratorially. “Word around town is you're engaged toCavinMcCarthy.” She grins wide. “This is brilliant. Let me help you find something that'll make him forget his own name.” She gives me a thorough once-over. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Marilyn Monroe with that platinum-blonde hair? You’regorgeous,Erin.”
She disappears into the back and returns with an armful of options, laying them across the velvet settee in the private room.
“Right, so.” She holds up the first one—a sleek black number. “This is elegant, classic, and will make your hairglow.High neck, but the back is completely open. Hits mid-thigh.” She sets it aside. “Safe choice.”
Then she pulls out a gorgeous turquoise dress, the fabric catching the light like water. “This one's got a cowl neck that drapes just so.” She demonstrates with her hands. “Long sleeves, but the skirt's got a slit up to here.” She gestures to her upper thigh. “Sexy but you can still move in it, and it makes your eyespop.”
“And this,” she says, her grin widening as she holds up an ivory silk dress, “is the one I'd pick if I wanted to make a man lose his fucking mind.” The neckline plunges in a deep V, the fabric so fine it would cling to every curve. “Spaghetti straps, backless, and the skirt skims your hips and arse like it was painted on. You'll need the right knickers for this one—or none at all.” She winks. “It's the kind of dress that says you know exactly what you're doing to him.”
“What? Right,” I say, forcing on a fake smile. I’ve never been one to fabricate anything. How does it feel like every interaction with every human needs to be plastered on?
“Alright, okay,” she says. “First of all, there are two main important things you need to know when you want to dress your best.”
“Comfort and longevity,” I mutter under my breath. “Will this last me long enough so I don’t have to go back in the store? And are there any scratchy tags or materials I don’t like?”
Bridget giggles. “You’d think she’s joking,” she says to Colleen.
“Of course I don’t,” she says. “Honestly, those would be my two choices too, but these are the two things we need to look for. Number one, what body type you have. Number two, what is your color profile? Okay?”
She’s now officially speaking Greek. I have some vague idea of what color palettes are, but only because my mother’s mentioned them in the past.
“Okay, so, I don’t know the answer to either one of those things,” I say to her, suddenly feeling like someone’s just thrown me in the deep end, and I don’t know how to swim. But Colleen comes in and hands me a flotation device.
“Excellent. Lucky for you, these are two things that I’ve studied. Alright, the first thing we need to know is that you have an hourglassfigure.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Hourglass, like those things that you tip upside down and they show you how you’re running out of time?” Sounds anxiety-inducing to me.
“Yes, hourglass. Do you remember how they’re shaped?” she says gently.
I nod and shrug. “I guess so, like wider at the top, narrow at the waist, wider at the bottom.”
“Exactly,” she says. “It means that your bust and hip proportions are larger than your waist. This is excellent. We all want hourglass figures, Erin.”
“Okay.”
Bridget giggles again. “You wouldn’t know it, hiding it under those hoodies, but she’s got great titties.”
What? Why are we talking about titties with a perfect stranger?
“Oh, I believe it,” Colleen says. “Alright, so we need something that shows off your cleavage and your tiny little waist. Perfect. Next, color profile.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Show me your wrists.”
My wrists?
Then she grabs my wrists and turns them over. “Ah, see, the veins right here. They're green.”
“Aren't… everybody's?”
“No, they're not. If you had cool tones, your skin color would make this look blue instead of green, but you have warm undertones.” She peers into my eyes. “Mmm. Brown. Oh mygod, your eyes are gorgeous. And with that platinum-blonde hair and porcelain skin, you're a true spring.”
“A true spring? Okay…”
“This is your color profile,” she says as she walks up to the front desk, opens a drawer, and takes out a little index card that's hard and shaped like a credit card.
“Slide this into your wallet. These are the colors that look good on you. Okay? Now, these are the colors thatdon'tlook good on you. Flip it over.”
I flip it over and look. Dusty colors, muted tones, black.
