posted by Evi on Dec 7
The first gal was a commuter on my morning train who always rode with at least one or two men. She was just so, so perfect. From her stylishly short but not too, too short hair to the tips of her expensive pumps she was the epitome of a bandbox girl. Her flawlessly made up face was partially hidden by the huge sunglasses she wore every day, shrouding her in mystery. When the weather turned colder and we all wore coats, she always topped hers off with an attractive scarf worn around her neck. This young woman was just so impeccably dressed it was sickening. I was in my very early impressionable 20’s and hoped one day to aspire to such awesomeness. Believe me when I say that never happened, though not for the lack of trying.
She also had a less attractive sister who rode the same morning train who one day shattered my illusions. I overheard her say to a friend (I had never spoken to either of the sisters) that even though her sister looked like she had stepped out of a bandbox, her bedroom was akin to a sty full of pigs mucking about in clothes and makeup strewn all over the place.
The other gal that so impressed me worked in my office at the GAB. She was a stewardess (yes, in those days they were called stewardesses) and worked part time on the days she wasn’t flying about in the air. Disgustingly perfect and extremely attractive, she wore her black shoulder length hair in a sculptured flip – a popular hairstyle of those long gone days – with not one hair daring to stray out of place. Her porcelain skin was enhanced by perfectly applied makeup; her dresses the height of style, without being faddish. She was a nice but fairly quiet person and was friendly with one other gal in the office who was also close to being a bandbox girl. (That gal left GAB to become a showroom model.)
During my years working in the city I strived like hell to attain what I considered “bandbox” looks but had too much going against me. For one thing, I still had braces on my teeth. My hair, though a shiny brunette, was definately not my crowning glory, it being so fine it never held a set. By the time I got to the office it was perfect alright; perfectly flat. After a while I just let it grow out and wore it long and straight. My nail polish, whenever I went to the trouble of applying it, was always chipping; my lipstick stayed on my coffee cup and not my lips. I had an extensive wardrobe since I spent entire but meager paychecks and most of my lunch hours in some of NYC’s finer department stores. I was cute and slim, but much too short (5’ 1”) to ever be considered striking.
And so it goes. I never managed to step out of the bandbox, but now at my age, who the hell cares? According to my husband, I’ve still got it.
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