Within twenty minutes after Vicky handed Samantha the first garment, she began to see a completely different version of herself. Stepping back in the large, luxurious dressing room on the third floor, she looked at herself in the perfect-fitting suit by St. John and saw a person she did not recognize: elegant but maybe a little sexy, comfortable but refined, fashionable but classic.
“May I?” Vicky asked as she removed the rubber band from Samantha’s hair and let her blonde hair float about her shoulders.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Samantha remembered that she had started pulling her hair back to get it out of her way when she was working on computers, but she’d also found that she was taken more seriously when she didn’t have a couple of feet of blonde hair falling in her face.
Stepping back in the dressing room, Vicky studied Samantha, looking at her as an artist would look at a painting, first one way then the other. “Could we cut your hair? Perhaps style it and shape it so it falls properly? Would you mind?”
Mind? Samantha thought. It was as though someone was asking her if she’d mind going to heaven. “I think that would be all right,” she said, trying her best not to sound as though, inside, she were jumping up and down and yelling, Yippee!
Vicky smiled graciously, pretending she couldn’t see how Samantha was feeling, but her happiness was infectious. Vicky seldom got to work with a customer who was so purely delighted with things as ordinary as new clothes and a haircut. “Now you must show your suit to Mike.”
Involuntarily, Samantha frowned because she didn’t want to show Mike anything. In fact, she’d just as soon forget that he existed. Vicky had explained that a Saks credit card would be issued in Samantha’s name and that Vicky could arrange for the cost of the clothes to be prorated over months. Samantha would receive the clothes at Vicky’s cost, thereby making her able to afford an entire new wardrobe. If Samantha was paying for them, why did she have to show her clothes to this man?
Seeing Samantha’s reluctance to model for Mike, Vicky didn’t understand it, because when she’d first seen them together, Samantha had been clinging to Mike as though he were a life perserver. “I think he will want to see you in your new clothing,” Vicky urged, feeling a little guilty at the elaborate lie she’d concocted to keep Samantha from knowing Mike was actually paying for the clothes.
Hesitantly, and with more than a little reluctance, Samantha left the dressing room, walking onto the sales floor where Mike was ensconced on a pretty pink sofa with a cup of tea someone had brought him and a newspaper. He was so comfortable that he looked as though he owned the store, looking as at home here among these women and the very feminine clothes as he had looked the first day she’d seen him, when he was wearing cutoffs and a torn shirt.
Remembering too vividly the indifference she had received from her father and her husband when it came to her clothes, Samantha didn’t want to model for him. Her husband had wanted her covered up and looking neat and tidy, but past that he hadn’t cared what she wore. Her father didn’t notice the difference between his daughter in heels and hose and his daughter in jeans and a gardening shirt.
But Mike didn’t ignore Samantha and was far from indifferent to her. When he first saw her walking toward him, he put down his paper, slowly got out of his chair, and went to her. When he reached her, he took her hand, turned her about, and studied her, looking at the fit, cut, and color of the suit. “Yes,” he said after considerable thought. “It shows her off.”
Samantha tried her best to control her enormous grin at his praise. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he paid her the compliment, as though she were beautiful and he was judging whether the clothes were worthy of her. As she turned to follow Vicky back to the dressing room, Mike caught her shoulder.
To her consternation, he leaned forward, put his face in her neck and kissed her ear. “You ever cover up your hair again and you’ll answer to me.”
Samantha moved away from him, but not before goose bumps of pleasure raised on her body.
Within an hour she became used to modeling for Mike. In direct opposition to her first opinion that Mike was oblivious, she found that he was very aware of women’s clothes and she soon learned to trust him. “No, the jacket’s too long for you. Covers up your rear end,” he said in utter seriousness.
“That is not a reason to dislike a garment,” Samantha snapped, but Mike just grunted. Samantha decided to buy the jacket and wear it often, but in the dressing room, when Vicky asked if she would take it, Samantha hesitated. “No,” she said at last.
Samantha soon began saying yes to what Mike liked and no to what he didn’t like.
To bring Samantha garments from floors other than the designer apparel on the third floor, Vicky enlisted the services of two saleswomen, telling them what she wanted and where they were to get it. The women brought armloads of lacy underwear, nightgowns, and even shoes to Samantha, and they brought purses, gloves, hosiery, and costume jewelry from the first floor.
It was when Samantha was trying on a lovely Carolyn Roehme dress, that she realized Mike was also approving or vetoing the underwear that was being presented to her. “That color’s wrong for her,” she heard him say. “No, not black. I want the white nightgown,” she heard him say twice. Samantha felt her face grow red as she remembered what he’d said to her on that first day: that he wouldn’t be able to control himself if she wore something white and lacy.
“Do you have any blue nightgowns?” Samantha asked Vicky.
Vicky smiled and moments later a sedate, blue nightgown appeared. “Mike doesn’t like it,” Vicky said.
“Good,” Samantha answered. “I’ll take two of them.”
Samantha bought many, many items. By four o’clock she had lost count of all the suits, shoes, dresses, and casual clothes she had said yes to, only a few of which were to be charged to her account. “This is going to cost too much,” she said to Vicky. “This must be hundreds of dollars.”
Vicky had her back to Samantha so Samantha couldn’t see Vicky’s raised eyebrows. Hundreds? Vicky thought and realized that Mike had been right. He’d said he doubted if Samantha could even conceive of a single dress costing seven thousand dollars, so all price tags had to be removed before she tried on the clothes. Removing the tags had been a great bother to Vicky and her assistants, but for what Mike was spending, they could afford the bother. And, as Samantha had an unconscious eye for quality, she had spent many thousands. If she were presented with two pairs of shoes, one costing six hundred dollars and the other pair a mere two hundred and fifty, Samantha unerringly chose the more expensive shoes.
Straightening, Vicky looked at Samantha. “They are ready for you now in the hair salon.”
Nodding, Samantha wondered what Mike would have to say about her hair, hoping he wasn’t one of those men who said, “Take off a quarter of an inch and no more.” When it came to feminine hair, her father and her husband had thought that women should have one style: They should be able to sit on their hair.
Preparing herself for the coming disagreement, Samantha thought of arguing that she should be able to choose the way she wanted to wear her hair, but she knew before trying that it would be a useless attempt. Mike walked into the salon, not seeming to be bothered by the sheer femininity of the place—in fact, he even winked at a woman who had her hair covered with folded pieces of aluminum foil. Immediately, he began telling the hairdresser how Samantha’s hair was to be cut. “I want her curls to show,” Mike said. “And I don’t want and style that makes her use hair spray. I can’t stand the stuff, scratches a man’s face.”
“I will wear my hair any way I want to,” Samantha said. Both the hairdresser and Mike turned to her with blank looks on their faces, as though they were surprised and totally unconcerned with her opinion. As they turned back to each other, Samantha looked in the mirror and sighed. That Mike was saying what she herself wanted to say made no difference; it was the principle that mattered.
While her nails were being manicured, the hairdresser cut inches off her hair, cutting it into layers of different lengths. With each inch that fell away, Samantha felt lighter and younger. Even before the dryer was held to her hair, she could see the curls forming about her face. When it was done, she shook her head and laughed.
Mike was beside her, looking in the mirror at her. “I didn’t think you could be prettier, but you are,” he said softly, making Samantha blush.