Being Audrey Hepburn

“You just happen to have Jackie’s tiara hanging around in a drawer?” I was shocked.

“Nah, it’s a repro. We have like six of them back there. We use them for private events when the dresses are on display.” Jess grabbed a comb and a few clips out of her bag.

“Stop fidgeting and hold still; we might as well do this right.” She dragged a stepladder from the side closet to where I stood and carefully placed a polyethylene sheet over my shoulders to protect the dress and began cutting. Though she didn’t act like it, I knew she loved digging into my hair, pulling and teasing it into an updo.

“Ouch!” I yelped as she yanked an unmanageable chunk into submission.

“Shhh!”

I wanted to tell her that trying on the dress was enough, that she didn’t have to do this, but I didn’t think she’d stop anyway.

Jess is the queen of updos, mostly because her mom owns a beauty salon. Every Saturday morning since the time she was eight, her mom would drag her to the beauty shop to crank out hair helmets and elaborate chignons and poufs for the never-ending procession of brides, bridesmaids, mothers of the bride, and various Garden State big-hair fanatics. But I never knew how torturous it could be.

“Does it have to hurt so much?” I pleaded.

Jess pi

“Come on, Jess, now you’re getting carried away.”

Crap. My last bangs disaster took seven months to grow out to any degree of normalcy. I’d been stuck in the dreaded barrette stage for three months. She made cut after cut.

“Ha! I’ve been dying to do this for years,” she said, clipping maniacally.

Helplessly, I watched five-inch clumps of my agonizingly slow-growing hair float past my eyes and settle on the floor.

She stopped and searched through her giant bag; I stole a quick glance at myself in the mirror—it was flawless.

“Close your eyes. Just one more thing—don’t peek.”

I obliged, despite the fact that not seeing the dress every possible second was driving me insane. Did she have to stand in front of the mirror the whole time? Jess sprayed my hair with something, most likely the same stuff she uses to keep her own hair defying gravity for fourteen hours a day. It smelled citrusy, like tangerine. I tried to peak around her, but she smacked me on the side of my head like a child.

“Eyes closed—I’m not done yet.” I felt her applying eyeliner to my lids, powder to my cheeks, and a gloss to my lips.

“Okay, you can see now,” she said as I felt the plastic covering slip away.

I opened my eyes and a wonderful stranger smiled back at me from the mirror. She was beautiful and elegant. The kind of girl I wished I could be. Jess had performed a miracle. My normally mousy-brown hair was transformed; the tiny tiara gave just the right touch of sparkle to the clean and simple yet sky-high updo. My eyes were lined dramatically but delicately with smoky black eyeliner; my cheeks had just a faint blush, my lips a tender gloss.

Enthralled, I couldn’t stop gazing at this incredible creature. If only that was who I really was. The dress hugged my body, but, more than that, it gave me curves in places where I knew for a fact there weren’t any. It felt like it was made for me, even though the idea was flat-out ridiculous. Did I need further proof that Audrey Hepburn and I were co

I wondered what Audrey felt the first time she put on the dress. Did she know that it would change her life forever? For the tiniest second in time, wearing the original Givenchy, it felt as if Audrey and I existed together, in that moment, in that dress, like stars crossing.

I spun like a ballerina and couldn’t stop marveling at myself in the mirror. The front neckline was deceptively simple, but it made my neck and shoulders look wonderful. Of course, the back of the dress was where things became really interesting, the neckline sort of scooping down to attach to the back of the dress—my shoulders and parts of my back exposed, my pale skin a sharp contrast to the smooth black satin.

“Just awesome. Lisbeth, you look amazing,” she whispered.

That Givenchy guy really knew what he was doing when it came to the body of a woman, specifically the body of a woman like Audrey Hepburn. I’ve read the story online a hundred times … how Audrey, a twenty-four-year-old actress with only a few films to her credit, showed up at Givenchy’s studio wearing a simple T-shirt, cropped pants, and a touristy gondolier’s hat … you know, those hats with the blue or red bow dropping to one side. Givenchy, just twenty-six but already famous, thought he was meeting Katharine Hepburn, not Audrey Hepburn. He had never heard of her. He was unimpressed and barely gave her the time of day. But little Audrey waltzed right into Givenchy’s backroom. She won him over with her exquisite taste and indomitable spirit, marking the begi

Givenchy took his cue from Audrey’s idea to highlight what other people considered her less than stellar features. He showcased Audrey’s rail-thin physique and long neck, making them assets of a new style and fashion. God knows how, but that Givenchy magic was working for me.

If I weren’t so conscious of how the dress caressed my hips and shoulders, I would have said I was having an out-of-body experience. I saw the result in Jess’s face.

With all the drama I could muster, I put my arm on Jess’s shoulder and gazed deep into her eyes and, using my best Audrey Hepburn voice, said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Fred darling … I’d marry you for your money in a minute. Would you marry me for my money?” I raised my gloved hand to my chin and gave Jess that wounded-fawn look.

Jess’s bag and comb tumbled out of her hands to the floor.

“Who are you?!” she asked.

“Golightly,” I said, “Holly Golightly. I live downstairs. We met this morning, remember?” I struck a classic pose with my arm raised in a flourish like Audrey in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. All that was missing was the long black cigarette holder.

“Your accent is perfect,” marveled Jess. “You sound exactly like her. Exactly. Have you been getting lessons or something?”

“All my life. Every day since I was nine, darling.” I let out a small laugh à la Audrey.

“It’s mind-blowing, not a trace of Jersey. Come on, did you take speech class?”

“The rine in spine sties minely in the pline!” I said. “Oh, Freddy, you don’t think I’m a heartless guttersnipe, do you?”

Jess laughed so hard she flopped back down in the chair, which spun around and around. She couldn’t stop laughing, until the phone rang and she picked up the desk receiver.

“Hey Joe, what’s happening?” she asked. In a split second, the blood was draining from her face. “Shit!” She slammed down the receiver.

“What is it?”

“My boss came back. He’s on his way up right now.” Her hand was shaking—I’ve never seen her that panicked. “I am so totally fired.”

7

“We’ve got to get that dress off you!” Jess yelled.

I pulled off the gloves and stepped out of the too-big shoes, and we both reached for the dress’s zipper at the same time.

“Hurry, hurry!” she hissed. “Myers will be here any second.” Her fingers brushed mine out of the way. I wondered which would be worse—Mr. Myers, Jess’s boss, walking in to see me in the million-dollar Breakfast at Tiffany’s dress or walking in to find me naked.

Naked would definitely be better.

“The zipper’s stuck!” Jess said, and her face went white.

“Let me try.” I pushed down—no-go. I pushed down and jumped up at the same time. It wouldn’t budge.