Yesterday I’m at work, boss gets off phone, turns to me and says, “You might have a fitting tomorrow.”
I say, “ok! Where?”
He says, “well, they’re being all secretive about it. Somewhere in Beverly Hills. It’s a personal, not a show, so someone’s house, maybe? Will know more if or when they call back to confirm. Oh, and they said to dress appropriately for Beverly Hills.”
I’m all, “Snort! Appropriate?! Um, is anyone gonna see me drive up? ‘Cause if they see my car the jig is up.”
And he’s like, “Ha! Girl, true dat. That heap of yours is definitely not Beverly Hills appropriate.”
(Gentle Reader, this is actually true. Cars as old and homely as mine have been known to receive parking tickets in Beverly Hills basically for being old and homely)
End of day he gets another call. Fitting is definitely on, definitely in Beverly Hills, top secret location tba. And a reminder to dress Beverly Hills Appropriate.
I’m like, “so who am I fitting?”
He says, “They won’t say.”
Fine. Big mystery. Whatever.
Next day, back at work, boss gets the phone call with the top secret location and top secret time, and another reminder for me to dress appropriately for Beverly Hills.
A third reminder.
Whut thuh fuuuck.
I mean, these people have never met me, so they’re not saying, ‘please ask that slobby slob to look a little less sloberiffic today.’
But, if it’s not personal, what the hell does it mean? Am I supposed to look expensive? Trendy? Old? Wtf???
I start to get srsly weirded out, as evidenced by this conversation via text with Mr. Adult Beginner:
AB: just received 3rd reminder to dress Beverly Hills Appropriate. Getting srsly weirded out.
ding!MrAB: So, slutty slut slut? Hot pants and an Ed Hardy tank? Big-like-Paris sunglasses?
ding!MrAB: Seriously wtf is Beverly Hills Appropriate? Probably code for Please Don’t Be Poor
ding!MrAB: Carry tiny dog
ding!MrAB: Six inch heels
ding!MrAB: Quick! Get collagen lips and bleach hair!
ding!MrAB: Bev Hills doesn’t get it. They are the Jersey Shore of Los Angeles
ding!MrAB: Hey Bev Hills! No One Likes You
ding!MrAB: Except Tourists.
And then I was like Yeah! He is totally correct! And what the fuck ever, I’m dressed Fitting Appropriate.
I’m not there to look right, I’m there to make someone else look right!
And then I had a flash of brilliance and thought, “Snobbery! Yes! What is more Beverly Hills Appropriate that a haughty attitude?! I will promenade up in there with my nose in the air like I just don’t care! Like Smirnoff is always reminding me to do in class! Ballet posture for the fucking Win!
Totally worked too.
Secret location turned out to be a hair salon.
No one saw my car, I hid it away in the subterrainian public parking.
Strutted up in there, announce that I was there for a fitting. Ice-pretty receptionist is all, “Oh? (chilly pause) With whom?”
Now, Gentle Reader, this is the part where I realized that a younger less adult-beginnery version of myself would have been totally intimidated by her minimal, yogini-esque combed up hair and cold authority. And I thought to myself, ‘Self, this girl is about to be your new bf in about two seconds,’ during which I leaned in slightly and said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “They wouldn’t tell me.”
And the ice goddess totally cracks a grin and says, “I’ll go find out!”
This is another little trick I’ve leaned from Mr. Adult Beginner: in a town where everyone is trying so desperately to seem more important than they are, it can be very disarming to take the opposite approach.
Anyway, I was ushered through the salon, past all the clients, up the secret stairs into the private salon where I fit a very lovely woman whose name I didn’t catch and face I didn’t recognize.
But I kept a long neck, a high chin, rested in a relaxed fourth, and fit right the fuck in.
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