Turn 9 of 44

You take the items from her and put them on. The dress first and then the heels. You then put 3 petticoats under your dress, the same amount as any 50s housewife. You look in the mirror and see your beautiful dress with the petticoats. You almost fully look like Vivian and the stereotypical 1950s housewife. You don’t care as you say 50s slang about your look. Vivian says the same 50s slang.

You take the sailor dress from her hanger and it's cool and crisp in your small hands, smelling of cedar and something like new paper. The skirt swallows you sweetly, the bodice settles over your satin foundations, and the buttons — little brass anchors — seem to find their buttonholes before your fingers even finish the motion. You add the petticoats, three of them, one over the other, because three is what a gal wears, you know that now the way you know your own name, and the skirt blooms out around you like a white flower.

Last come the red heels. Your dainty feet slide in as if they'd been measured for them at birth, and standing is effortless, natural, balanced. You step to the tri-fold mirror and there she is: a woman in a sailor dress, seams straight, scarf bright, three petticoats whispering with every breath. You look like Vivian's sister. You look like the cover of a magazine that stopped publishing in 1958.

"Well, aren't I just the cat's pajamas?" you say to your reflection, and giggle at how right it sounds coming out of you.

"Nautical but nice! Fred's gonna flip his lid when he sees a doll dressed like this walking down Mulberry Lane." Vivian claps her orange-tipped hands, delighted.

"Oh honey, you're the berries! Why, you look like you stepped right out of a picture show." She circles you once, adjusting the collar, smoothing a petticoat.

"A regular keen dish. The other gals on this street won't know what hit 'em." "Knock 'em dead," you agree, twirling once so the skirt flares. The petticoats swish — you can hear them, feel them, and it's the best sound you've ever made.

"Though," Vivian says, tilting her head at you in the mirror, kind as a nurse, "a look this swell isn't finished till the hair and face are, am I right? A gal can't go out with her hair looking like the last day of school." Your dark curls, still pulled back and unstyled, do look — unfinished. Waiting.

"Sit right back down on that stool, sugar," she says, opening a little case on the vanity that you don't remember being there. "Let's do it up proper."