The makeover on Mulberry Lane

Turn 35 of 44

Ruthie says that her name is now Ruth because Ruthie is too childish. You agree with her as you start Ruth on the foundations, girdle, lingerie, garter belt watching her body reshape to be like yours, Carols, Vivian’s and all the other housewives. You then add the garter belts and stockings on her legs. She looks in the mirror and sees a new skinnier body that looks like yours.

"Oh — and honey, one more thing," Ruth says, before you even touch the girdle. "It's not Ruthie anymore. Ruthie's a child's name. A gal my age wants something a woman can hang her hat on. It's just *Ruth* now."

"Ruth," you agree, warm as a fresh-baked loaf, and the name settles on her like a collar. "Land sakes, that's a good solid name. Ruth and Margaret. We sound like we belong on the same church committee."

She giggles and stands, and you undress her out of the corduroys and flannel like unwrapping a parcel that's been mislabeled for years.

"Arms up, honey. The girdle goes on first — that's how it went for me, and for Carol, and I reckon for every gal on this street." You work the satin up her thighs and cinch it at her waist, and the moment it hooks, the tide comes. You know every beat of it by heart now: her waist drawing in and in, ribs rearranging their opinion of themselves, hips swelling out full and generous, bust rising against the bra as it fastens itself home. Her arms slim to soft white wrists and small neat hands; her feet turn dainty; her skin pales to powder-and-pearl, all that healthy sun-weather flushing away like a stain out of linen. Her graying curls are the last thing left of the old Ruthie, hanging wild over a face that's smoothing itself into something soft and pretty and permanently pleased.

"Oh my *land*," Ruth breathes, hands traveling her own new waist like a stranger's. "Why, I haven't had a waist since Eisenhower."

You sit her down dainty as a doll and fit the garter belt, satin snug, then the stockings one at a time — you teach her to point her toe, to draw the seam up the back of her calf, to tug the nylons home against the little clips. Her legs go smooth and shapely under the whisper of nylon, and you smooth the camisole over the works and turn her by the shoulders to the tri-fold mirror.

There she stands in foundations and stockings, and three Ruths look back at her, and every one of them is nearly there — thin-armed, wasp-waisted, wide-hipped, powder-pale, a dead ringer for the gal who dressed her.

"Well," Ruth says, and her voice has gone properly honeyed at last, "*hello*, gorgeous."