Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [81]
I already knew Carolyn was on a tight budget; we factored that in each time we chose where to eat or what to visit. And she had talked a bit about taking a job in Florence to supplement her fiancé’s foundation grant. “I’m thinking about teaching English, but I’ll take any job I can find,” she said. “After all, art history majors can’t be choosers.”
By the time our last day together in Milan arrived I knew I wanted to give Carolyn some kind of wedding gift. What exactly, I didn’t know. But since we had reserved the whole day for a tour of one of Europe’s most fashionable shopping streets, Via Monte Napoleone, my plan was to surprise Carolyn with a small gift of her choosing.
By mutual agreement, Carolyn and I dressed more grandly than usual for the deluxe occasion. Which meant a black suit and white silk sweater for me; and for Carolyn, a nicely tailored khaki pantsuit worn with a white linen blouse. We called them our “power shopping clothes.” Of course, once we hit Montenapo—as the locals affectionately call the street—we laughed at our attempts to look like the gran’ signora and signorina.
The Italian women were gorgeous; the young ones as ripe and luscious as peaches, the not-so-young a glorious combination of elegance and mature sensuality. Draped in the latest fashion and wearing astonishing jewelry, they walked along the streets chatting and gesturing, carrying their shopping bags like badges of honor.
“And ye shall know them by their shopping bags,” I said to Carolyn, as we ticked off the famous designer names imprinted on the chic bags: Versace, Pratesi, Fendi, Armani, Valentino, Bulgari, Missoni.
The shops themselves were imposing monuments to the power of achieving status through fashion. The saleswomen inside were no less imposing. As elegantly turned-out as their customers—some more so—each ruled her domain like a queen, favoring this one with a smile and that one with a look that said “tourist sightseer.” It required a whole lot of Attitude just to enter such a shop. But Carolyn and I hit on an approach. Before pushing open a door, we took a minute or two to slip into the right Attitude. Like actors rehearsing for an audition, we practiced being haughty and dismissive. Sometimes it worked. And sometimes it didn’t.
As the day progressed I grew worried about coming up with a wedding gift for Carolyn. She really hadn’t expressed an acquisitive interest in anything and, more practically, nothing we saw was even remotely affordable.
After a late lunch at a café in the Galleria San Babila, we walked to the nearby Piazza San Babila. As we strolled along, we noticed that many of the women passing by had extraordinarily becoming haircuts. “Do you suppose they’re models?” Carolyn whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s mysterious, seeing all these women with great hair walking around this small piazza. It’s like seeing the Stepford Wives in Milan.”
Another half-block, however, and the mystery was solved. From the door of a hair salon exited women with perfect haircuts of every style and length: short and spiky; curly and tousled; blunt-cut bobs; classic pageboys. Carolyn seemed transfixed. She moved to the door and peered inside. The interior was a model of good design; it looked very expensive.
Then, turning to me, she patted her ponytail and said, “Maybe I should get my hair cut. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got to Milan. What do you think?”
What I thought—but didn’t say—was that advising a friend about matters of the hair was fraught with peril. It was something I’d learned the hard way, more than once. The truth was, I thought Carolyn would look great with short hair. But suppose it didn’t suit her or she hated it? She was, after all, getting married in a month. What if it shocked her fiancé? I brought up this last point.
“How do you think Rob would feel if you looked like a totally different person at your wedding?” I asked. “I’ve always thought it was nice