Sixty years ago, when I was a seventeen-year-old Toronto schoolgirl, I was selected to be the representative for Humberside Collegiate on Eaton’s Junior Council. At that time Eaton’s had in place a highly effective marketing tool in the form of this Junior Council. Every Saturday morning during the school year kids from each high school in the city, a boys’ group and a girls’ group, congregated in Eaton’s downtown business offices for meetings. We were paid ten dollars to attend each meeting, were provided personally-fitted, Council-crest-emblazoned navy blazers, which we wore with pride. Under the guidance of an expert communications facilitator we shared ideas on subjects introduced, provided feedback to Eaton’s from our particular perspectives. We also participated in the Santa Claus Parade, among other activities. I tell you all this because of one such participation.
We Junior Council members acted as models in a fashion show during afternoon tea in the seventh floor Round Room Restaurant of Eaton’s College Street store.
During an intermission in the runway presentation, a film of hats was displayed. Five of us girls at a time were filmed seated at a curved soda fountain, heads forward but down, each in a beautiful hat, sipping sodas from straws. As the camera panned the group, we were instructed to one at a time raise our head, smile at the camera, move our head slowly from one side to the other and back again before lowering our gaze to our soda once again, all the better for the viewer to see the particular hat each of us wore to its full advantage. Sound easy? Yes.
The first good belly laugh I ever remember having at myself was after we had viewed the film. The other girls were poised and gracious in their actions. Me? My face appeared from beneath the brim of the hat looking like the stage-frightened mouse that I was. A quick grimace came and went with remarkable rapidity before stony countenance turned left to right to left, grimaced once more and disappeared beneath the brim.
A twenty-three year old blogger on this cancer blogspot earlier wrote that she had learned not to compare herself or her situation to others. She expressed truth. I did not laugh aloud when with the other girls watching the film, but I certainly did after getting off the street car and walking on the Toronto sidewalk to my home. It was early evening by that time. I walked alone and laughed out loud. A couple going the opposite direction on the other side of the street looked at this strange girl as if she’d lost her mind. Of course, that made me laugh even harder.
My favourite look, would you believe, is bald. Bald is not my out-of-home look. It is my at-home look, but only when we have no visitors. My husband likes it, too, but mostly, I suspect, because it is most comfortable for me. I stroke my bald head and smile. He strokes my bald head and smiles too. The smile is not a laugh-at smile; it is an appreciative smile. The bald head states that I am in good care. That look is the outward symbol of the inner healing taking place. Why would it not make us smile? It is warm today, but when the cooler weather arrives I may very well prefer the Wee-Willie-Winkie look on a regular basis.
Yours truly,
Nancy
P.S. Web cam and I couldn’t resist a photo shoot … reminiscent of Eaton’s Round Room circa 1950 … although the face certainly has changed.
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