The Fashion Chameleon
It was a time of transformation. Like the caterpillar emerges from its cocoon as a butterfly, like the ugly duckling becomes the swan, and like the chameleon changes colors, she wanted to undergo a metamorphosis. She couldn't be entirely different outside without feeling different (at least a little) inside.
She had always been the silent wallflower, in her summer dresses and gingham skirts and khaki pants. She wore solid-color pumps and light makeup. Her hair was always neatly coiffed into simple waves. She spoke softly and was always very proper around others, always knowing the right thing to say and do. She carried the same bag for years - a buttery soft camel-colored bag that hung from her elbow and held her entire life. But THIS, this was a chance for her to reinvent herself.
The first step of her journey was into a store she had passed many times. No, it was not the kind of store no respectable woman would be seen in. But it was the kind of store the neighborhood ladies gossiped about, discussing the new outrageous thing they had glanced askance in the window. It was a place that sold short skirts and skintight pants in vinyl and leather. Everything came in three styles: black, red, and animal print. Not a trace of lace or white anywhere.
She bought a pair of black gloves with synthetic leopard cuffs. And she hid them in a box under her bed. On Fridays, she went driving around town in the evening just after dinner, wearing her black gloves.
Three months later, Friday nights she could be seen at the bowling alley. She wore a black miniskirt and red zippered jacket, knee high boots, and fingerless gloves, which replaced the leopard ones. She flirted and laughed loudly, drank beer and burped, and bowled with a ferocity never seen before. Her friends, if they had seen her, would have called her names without recognizing her. On other days, she was back to her usual quiet self.
On Sundays, she went to see her family, three hours away. Together, they were relaxed. She wore jeans and tshirts, her dad's sweatshirts, sneakers and shorts, and pulled her hair into a ponytail, wore no makeup. She giggled and chatted amiably, teased her brother, and played touch football on the lawn.
Saturdays were spent with friends. She wore frilly skirts and sexy blouses, gold jewelry, shiny lipstick, and high heels. They gossiped and laughed, drank cocktails and cranberry juice, and smiled shyly at handsome men.
On Tuesday and Thursday nights, she studied for her law degree. She wore slacks and sweaters to class, twisted her hair into a bun, and donned her reading glasses. She paid attention in class, asked questions, and studied diligently.
On weekdays during the day, she worked at a law office as a legal assistant. She followed the dress code: tweed suits and trousers and blouses, a big business bag, and sleek hair. She filed and typed, read and proofread, and smiled a lipsticked hello at her boss.
One Sunday night on her drive back home, she blew a tire. She reached into the glove compartment and found - to her surprise - her old black gloves with the leopard cuffs. As she waited for help, in her jeans and tshirt and sneakers, she pulled on her animal print gloves, a fashion anomaly. The man who stopped to help was friendly and changed her tire to the spare. He complimented her gloves.
Not too long after, on Monday night, she was serving the man dinner in her gingham skirt and cardigan. Tomorrow would be her last day of class, and two weeks later she would be working in a law firm as an apprentice lawyer. But on that Monday night, they sat together in front of the tv watching an old movie. He admired her eyes and her cooking. She admired his smile and his kindness. Neither of them said anything, but she realized she had, indeed, reinvented herself.
The chameleon continued to change colors everyday, for every occasion. But on those nights, she just blended into the woodwork, snuggled closer, and became invisible.