The same week that I was inducted onto the itty-bitty titty committee, I somehow found myself on the road with my dad to procure my first bra. Most of the girls in my 6th grade class had started to bloom and blossom. I was at the smaller end of the spectrum and had no clue that braless life would end so abruptly. After days of my dad threatening to buy me a “brassiere” the morning had come to make the purchase.
My dad, Herbert, was born in a rural community in Kentucky in 1935. A part of the “Silent Generation” he has always been predictably conservative, firm and traditional in terms of his family values. My mom, Gwen, born 17 years later, a “Baby Boomer”, has always been more relaxed when it comes to issues regarding my fashion choices. She wanted no parts in this conspiracy and thought my chest was just fine.
Past trips to Grand Rapids, Michigan, for Rogers’ department store visits were like magical bonding experiences between my father and I. The agenda typically included the 45-minute drive, 2-3 hours of shopping, and a stop at McDonald’s for a chicken nugget Happy Meal before heading home. But on this humid mid-September Saturday, the radio was off and my dad seemed to be intently focused on the highway ahead. I wanted to cry but instead I fell asleep, on the passenger’s side, to the soft hum of the air conditioner. I was not excited about the imminent shopping experience or the thought of wearing an unnecessary brace around my body.
When I woke up we were cruising store’s parking lot in search of a space to accommodate my father’s silver 87’ Buick. After circling the busy lot a few times he parked. My dad rolled up his window and we began our adventure. Weekends were always hectic at Rogers. On our walk to the door, I observed people as they entered and exited the store. Some were empty handed while others carried white shopping bags with the Rogers’ logo proudly embossed on both sides. As we walked through the revolving doors, a waif of perfume hit me and I started to feel nauseous. I followed my dad, almost running to keep up, as he led the way cutting though the bustling cosmetics department, the display of delightful chocolates, and the mannequins who stood in the Misses’ department, styled in what seemed to be too warm for the season.
We stepped on to the escalator and I knew that our destination was near. As the moving staircase inched us closer, I began to panic. “Who is going to help me pick out a bra!?” I quirkily blurted. “We’ll ask one of the ladies who works here”, he explained in a firm yet gentle tone. “Okaaay”, I responded relieved but still extremely uncomfortable. On our way to the undies we stopped to price a pair of navy blue corduroy trousers that would be suitable for Michigan winter weather. The summer had ended too soon.
As we approached the undergarments, a familiar face emerged. It was the young woman that had assisted with my selection of an Easter dress earlier that year. After swapping pleasantries, my dad announced, “It’s time for Lesley to have her first bra.” I felt like a chocolate bunny that had been abandoned in the heat; I could have easily melted onto freshly waxed art deco tiles beneath us.
Eventually disappearing down the ales, my dad found himself a haven in the pod of chairs adjacent the shoe department on the other side of the floor. Now it was just the friendly blond sales associate, let’s call her Rachel, and me surrounded by racks and end caps stocked with socks, tights, slips, panties, and a wide assortment of mostly pastel training bras. She asked me which ones I liked the most, prints or the solids? I opted for the solids because the prints were all cartoon characters, like Tweedy Bird and the Road Runner, which made zero sense. The bras I choose had tiny bows carefully stitched in the center with a pinch of lacy elastic neatly along the edge. Rachel pulled a few from the rack and grabbed a yellow measuring tape. Six minutes later we emerged from the dressing room– my first bra fitting was complete! The process was quick, painless, and pointless.
Rachel and I found my dad flipping through catalog pages to melodic-soft rock from overhead. The three of us then shifted towards the register to check out. Rachel removed the bras from the flimsy white plastic hangers, neatly wrapped the stretchy items in tissue paper, and then swiped my dad’s card. While he signed the receipt, she proudly stepped from behind the counter to hand me my bag containing four trainers for my itty-bittys.
We walked out of the hues of yellow, pink, and purple, in the Girls’ department, through a sea of blue, green, and gray hues, in Boys’. On this jaunt to the escalator, I swung my embossed Rogers’ department store bag back and forth, wishing it were a dress, following my dad’s long strides. In this moment I realized to keep your balance, in life, you must always be moving forward even when you want to hide or cry. We cannot always control what is in the bag but we do have power over how we carry it, I thought as we made our decent back to the 1st floor.
Author: Lesley Ware
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Lesley Ware is a fashion personality who has written three books, Sew Fab: Sewing and Style for Young Fashionistas, My Fab Fashion Style File, and How to Be a Fashion Designer with publishers Laurence King and DK Books of London. Lesley teaches teen programs at The Parsons School of Design, The Metropolitan Museum, Pioneer Works, Museum of the City of New York and other institutions in New York. She is also a fashion designer and artist advisor.
Social Media: IG + Twitter @creativecookie
