on vanity & on being a woman... disheveled elegance

photocredit: sadi ranson-polizzotti "the oncoming storm"

I hate to admit to being vain at all because it has so many and only negative qualities that one thinks of that song by Carly Simon, supposedly about Warren Beatty but hey, ancient history and water under the bridge and so on. The song that, whenever it came on over the radio my mother would turn the volume way up and say, "Listen to the words, Sarah. This song is about your father."

Do I need to say they were, by then, divorced? And so I listened carefully to every word and thought of my father off "cavorting" and Lear jets and hair (or is it hat?) that "strategically dips below one eye" as, by chance, his did. That even I, now, can see that the song could so easily fit my father that it’s amusing. He did always have one eye covered by a thatch of beige/blonde hair. That he did seem to “cavort” with women, not just be, but be in a way that was different. And women too, likewise, would flock to him. He had that “thing” that people say I inherited from him. This thing that defies definition but when I look at my father I see exactly what it is and in his case, it is pure charisma and that slow, easy charm of his.

Was the hair contrived to fall over one eye? I doubt it. I think it was naturally floppy that way. But did he do other things to make himself appealing – in his studied “disheveled elegance’ as I call it, with his clothes on looking ‘as if they didn’t care,’ his ratty old belt buckle scratched and faded but still somehow sexy but on him. On anyone else it would look foolish. I could see why so many women fell for my father, and I felt for them too because I knew that they were, each of them, just one of many. That he would never settle for one. That much as he may have wanted to settle down, it just wasn’t in his make-up. If he had been American he’d have been a Woody Guthrie type figure hopping’ freight trains and breaking’ hearts at every stop. No doubt, my father lead a life that, from my nine year old point of view, seemed charmed and romantic, and really, truth to tell, I didn’t mind that he changed girlfriends so regularly.

For one, it meant that I was the one permanent in his life, which as a child is a good feeling, and secondly, it was interesting to see who he chose. What they looked like, how they were. I remember one in particular whose name, let’s call her Sue, said all the time, “Really, that’s soooo interesting” with this god-awful snotty Kensington accent. She had wavy blonde hair (contrived on both counts; even hen I had an eye for fashion), and dressed in gypsy skirts and semi-sheer gypsy blouses and the like. She also spent a lot of time applying lipstick, which was fine because no doubt father was off somewhere fixing the flop of his hair.

Is it so awful to care about the way we look? I don't mean obsessively - that does strike me as "vain" or too self-preoccupied in the least, but to care about how and who you are can only be good things.
Recently, a friend of mine had an aunt pass away who had left her all of her clothes, jewelry, and more. Since I am the right size, I was kindly invited to have my pick of the clothes that fit me. I found clothes that had never been worn from the forties, fifties, sixties. A black silk and lace slip; several pair of split slips in silk - blue and peach. Several white slips and so many lovely clothes, including beautiful black, crushed velvet dress and as I dry-cleaned and spruced up each one, I felt myself becoming more womanly with each. I felt better than I did or do in jeans. I felt more like myself and wondered when I had become this person who wears pants every day when I used to wear a skirt and stockings no matter what. Was all of this going to lead to some inevitable affair that my husband would have? Some suburban domestic drama that just bores me to tears by now.

It could I suppose. How you look is important to your partner. You can't just say, Well, I'm home so I can just let it all hang out. There is a fine line between relaxing fully and being a complete sloth and not taking care of your looks. I wear perfume every day, even on weekends, regardless of whether I am going to see anybody on that day. I wear perfume to bed, as did Marilyn Monroe (who wore Chanel No 5 to bed every night). I myself wear Penhaligon's Castile but to each her own. Taste and scent are so subjective but I cannot imagine a day in my life without fragrance and god help us, it just so happens that I have expensive tastes (I never tried: it just happens that I am drawn to higher end scents and those have higher natural oil concentrations and so are more expensive. The higher oil concentration means that they will last longer too so that's good, but the money bit we could do without.

Being a woman is about so much more than just wearing a genuine forties slip and Penhaligon perfume. It is about, as with me, intelligence, analytic abilities, ability to maneuver about and succeed to best effect in any given situation no matter what. When we say, Do the best you can do, this is essentially what we are saying. No two people will have exactly the same ability level but you can do certain things to increase your odds. First, and don't go yelling at me for this, recognize that there are just things that men are better at and things we are better at. I wouldn't give up being a woman for all the tea in China, but that's me. Some people want total equality which I agree with but I would hate total sameness which I hope is a different thing.

I don't want to dress like a man and hide my feminine figure. I don't want to open my own doors if a man is gracious enough to open it. I want to know that should I need to I can fix the toilet, open my door, level and hang my artwork, paint or stain heavy bookcases, carry a hundred pound air-conditioner up a flight of stairs, paint the apartment by myself, bathe the cat when she walks in the paint and drive a stick shift if I need to and an automatic with variable because I like it. I want to fix my own car, put air in my own tires, own my own pressure gauge, my own ratchet set and toolbox, and I want to be able to change the ugly showerhead to one of those big silver sunflower ones that spray the shower water everywhere.

The best part is, I can do all of these things because I had no choice but to learn. In actuality, whether you have to learn or not I recommend learning all of these things for some of them were great experiences, even if they didn't feel it at the time. Even if at the time they felt nerve-wracking, they were good things.

Sure, yes, I'll wear Crazy Aunt I's old clothes that are still new. I'll wear all those things she bought on anxious or heartbreaking shopping sprees when she was seeking something she never could find (peace of mind?, I can't say...) What I can say is this: I will wear them like a lady and am ever-grateful for the reminder, the winter wake-up shot in the arm that reminds me that women are all tits and hips and curves and softness and great smells and that none of that detracts from my daily (and highly unsexy) job as a technical writer for a software firm and an editor of a Russian book on children's literature. But if I must do these things, then I can at least so with grace - for grace and charm are always in style.

Thanks for reading,

sadi ranson-polizzotti