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August 18, 2009

STEPHANIE SALTER: Here’s looking at you, kid — and that is really you, right?

By Stephanie Salter

TERRE HAUTE — Not long ago, I wore a red, beaded, form-fitting silk gown for six hours and ended up remembering why I’m glad I don’t make my living in the movies.

Despite rumor to the contrary, I am no stranger to high heels and girly-girl clothes. My bathroom cabinet is stocked with the usual female cosmetics, including several working mascaras and lipstick the color of fresh blood.

My love for grand opera and the symphony, in fact, has resulted in an above-average collection of special-occasion ensembles: long black dresses, velvet pants, satin jackets and one actual ball gown. (That all were bought on sale or second-hand is what will keep me playing forever in the farm league of serious fashion.)

The beaded gown I mentioned earlier was a second-hand purchase. I found it at Nancy’s Downtown Mall on Poplar Street, where I usually buy used furniture, gently worn old linens and the occasional antique.

I’d gone to Nancy’s looking for a cocktail hat because I wanted to work in retro-style as a volunteer at the Claude Thornhill Big Band Blast. The Aug. 10 Harmony Hall event, a nod to what would have been Thornhill’s 101st birthday, was a fundraiser for several entities, including the 12 Points Greater Northside Association.

As most of my friends know, I would do almost anything to help 12 Points, including dress to the nines and pour wine for big band patrons on one of the hottest, steamiest nights of the summer.

Nancy’s had plenty of cocktail hats, but as I rounded the northeast corner of the store, my eyes were grabbed by the vintage, halter-style red gown. Covered in sequins and beads, it was beautiful — in a kind of Motown girl-group way. It was also about one-tenth of its original price and fit like the proverbial glove.

But the gown was heavy and very long so, naturally, I had to find shoes that would lift my hem high enough to keep me from tripping. For 10 bucks, PayLess came through with a pair of 4-inch black ankle-strap jobs that I told myself I could endure for a few hours. After all, it was for 12 Points.

Chris Barberry, my sister wine pourer, also wore a beautiful long gown of sequins and beads. Hers was more ’30s glam, like Hedy Lamarr, black and gold with serious shoulder pads. She, too, had to wear cruel (but sexy) high-heels to properly present the dress.

Like me, Chris had spent the hours leading up to the big band concert, not lounging in a bubble bath, but working at her day job and hauling hors d’oeuvres she had made to Harmony Hall for the pre-show social hour. At my house, the clock ticking down, we touched up our makeup and hair, squished our sweating bodies into our respective gowns and helped each other zip up.

I kept waiting to cool down, but it never happened. Throughout the concert, the intermission and the myriad mini-crises we had to solve (never put boxed wine in ice to chill), I could not stop perspiring. Even the artificial flower in my hair seemed to produce heat.

The thing is, no one noticed. They were too dazzled.

My own mother kept repeating, “That is such a beautiful dress.” People I never met stopped dead in their tracks and gushed. People I know well, especially men people — Did I mention the dress has a slit up one side to above the knee? — stared as if I were Sophia Loren.

Lots of people wanted to take photos of Chris and me, telling us, “You just look so pretty.” After the show ended and folks were filing out of the theater, men and women actually thanked us for getting all dolled up.

When I got home, I hobbled into the house — I’d already pried off the heels — and nearly ripped the dress off my back. It was like a wetsuit with sparkles. I took a long shower and put ice packs on my ankles when I got out.

It was many days later, after a male pal I’ve known since childhood launched into a glowing description of me in the red dress, that I started thinking about a movie star I got to know a little when I lived in California.

A fine actress, she nevertheless is best-known as a cinema sex symbol. Watching people ogle and flutter and melt around her, I often thought how hard it must be to maintain the physical image that is her bread and butter; what a double-edged sword it is to be an object of desire.

Hardly a woman in the world does not look in the mirror and wince at the creeping signs of imperfection and age. When your face and body on a wide screen are your living, every half-pound, freckle and microscopic crow’s foot become your merciless enemy. Botox and plastic surgery can buy time but, sooner or later, they literally let you down.

Even minus the hot weather, I know how much work it took for me to pull off wearing the beaded, red silk dress and the killer high heels. While the compliments and attention were great, there is no way I would repeat that kind of effort on a regular basis — not even for 12 Points.

When I was a little girl, playing dress-up was one of my favorite pastimes. Every now and then, I still like to play. The wonderful thing is, I know it’s just dress-up. I never forget what I look like in shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops and no makeup. Best of all, I also know that I am free to go out in public like that and not end up on the cover of the National Enquirer.



Stephanie Salter can be reached at (812) 231-4229 or stephanie.salter@tribstar.com.

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