“It gets w-w-worse when I’m nervous.”
“Hmmm.” She gives me a hard look before saying, “I think you need to look for a more supportive work environment.”
“I don’t think—”
“But if you don’t want to speak to HR,” she continues briskly. “And you think this makeover will help, then we have some amazing looks for you to try on. And you don’t need to be scared or nervous, because we are going to find a wardrobe you’ll fall in love with and look fabulous in. When we’re done with you, you’re going to slay all day.”
“Between the four of us, we have excellent taste.”
I look over the gaggle of women forming a semicircle around me, each of them with wildly different styles, and each of them stunning or compelling or attractive in their own way. Each of them secure in their image.
A lightbulb clicks on in my mind, illuminating the dots I’ve never even seen before, much less connected. They all have cohesive looks. Reb, with her multicolored hair, vintage tees, and gorgeous collection of artisan jewelry, has set an expectation for everyone who knows her. Thea commands a room the moment she enters—personality dominating, of course—but that personality is in every line of the silk blouse she’s wearing. It has an asymmetrical, oversized collar and artfully drapes wider around her shoulder on one side.
Loretta’s polished sophistication would make presidential wives jealous. That’s when I realize what they all have that I don’t.
Branding.
Hells bells, that’s all clothing and hair and makeup is—it’s your own personalbrand. And I’m a brand expert without giving an ounce of my own sense of self in anything I’m wearing.
“Meg?” Loretta asks, snapping me back to reality. As if my whole perspective of clothing and how I dress wasn’t just turned on its head. “Are you ready, honey?”
Her eyes are so much like Keegan’s Caribbean-blue eyes. Keegan clearly gets his blond hair from his dad, because her hair is a rich sable, smooth and sophisticated, with only a little of the volume Texas hair is known for. She is a stunningly beautiful woman. It’s more than that, though. More than the genetic lottery she clearly won. She’s not just beautiful. She’s stylish and put together.
She looks like a real adult in a way I’ve never quite mastered.
The presentation aside, I want her help. I don’t want to be her. Clearly. That would be creepy.
But I want to borrow a little of her confidence and charm. A little of her polish. So that when I’m at the gala with Keegan on Saturday night, I look like I fit in with his world.
Finally, I blow out a breath.
“Okay. But maybe I should have one of those drinks after all.”
The older woman beams at me as Felicia begins to uncork a bottle of wine. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
It isn’t until I take a sip that I realize she called me honey. And then I realize it didn’t feel contrived.
* * *
Three hours later, I have ten new work outfits picked out. Each has been styled by Loretta and Felicia to include shoes and accessories, so getting dressed in the morning will be no harder than it was when I was wearing nearly identical black shift dresses every day. The new clothes are bagged and ready for me to hand over my credit card. It's more money than I've ever spent on clothes at once. Maybe I should be freaking out. Probably.
On the other hand, Loretta assures me that these new outfits are timeless, quality items I can wear for years. And, after all, they are secondhand. Less than I would pay for retail.
Once all the work clothes are tucked away behind the counter, Felicia leads us to a room in the back with chairs and a pedestal, the kind of room you see in Say Yes to the Dress. I am wrapped in a fluffy robe that Felicia provided, so I wouldn’t have to change in and out of my own clothes every other minute.
An assistant scurries out with yet another bottle of champagne as Felicia claps her hands together and declares, “Now for the fun part!”
Um ... say what now?
This is the fun part?
The part where I'm faced with picking out a dress that will make me look fabulous and like I fit into Keegan’s world?
To me, that seems less fun and more stressful, but I’m willing to give it a try.
“Okay,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “Let me see the options.”
The assistant stops pouring champagne and wheels over a clothing rack with three options. They’re all gorgeous, but I’m immediately drawn to one: a floral silk floor-length dress with tiny straps crisscrossing the back and a slit that would make my legs look even longer.
