The Road

The class picture becomes more important each day.

It is a reminder of so many things, decisions and most importantly, people.

I was 15 when it was taken, about to graduate from high school, and with the ego of only youth; immature, immensely confident.

I was about to set on a quest to find my image and believed I only required two tools to make my mark in the world.

I needed a snood and a blouse with fringe. I kept my savings in a small leather pouch and it consisted mainly of coins.

However, I was close to reaching one of the pinnacles needed for success, a snood.

Our neighborhood was inclusive. Most of my friends shared another ethnicity; one that provided then with abundant thick curls.

My two classmates, Antoinette and Carmela, had parents who had emigrated from a country of south central Europe znd occupied a peninsular jutting deep into the Mediterranean Sea.

My black Irish heritage provided me with limp locks of hair. They were the color of India ink and had little volume. However, I optimistically believed a snood would soon correct that problem.

It was a spring Saturday shortly after the senior class picture was taken, when I decided to cash in my savings.

I headed down to the famed NYC garment center (then still pulsing with activity) and quickly selected a pale pink cotton snood with wildflowers attached. It was a dream accomplished.

That ended when I arrived home and tried it on. Then the tears flowed until my older cousin Mary Hall, came in to comfort me. Mary was 21, beautiful, engaged and wise in the ways of the world.

Gently smiling, she removed the limp snood , and said:

“Anne, it’s not you. Find your own image and never try to copy another's. Snoods may be great for your friends, but you need another look. Be patient and keep looking, You will know when you do.”

I listened to Mary’s wisdom and decided she was right. Obviously, the snood did not work, but a blouse with fringe might be the solution

A fellow classmate, Fran Perry, endowed with an ample bosom, had recently worn one to class. Most of us watched in awe as the narrow slips of white silk jingled whenever she moved. It was a sight to behold, and our stoic black robed Latin teacher soon arranged that would not happen again.

I gave the pink snood to my sister for her Madam Alexander doll and returned the following Saturday to Kleins on the Square to find a blouse with fringe. It wasn’t quite as easy as locating the snood, but eventually I was successful.

I brought it home and let it linger in the closet until the proper moment when it was needed.

Oddly enough, it never emerged.

Perhaps maturity intervened after I entered Katie Gibbs where there wasn’t a hint of fringe.

Perhaps it happened later when employed by Elizabeth Arden, I gazed daily in awe at beautiful women, none wearing either fringe nor snoods,

I don’t know what ever happened to the unworn garment, nor did I care.

Eventually, I relinquished my quest for an image and let nature take its course.

Now more than half a century later, my appearance has definitely aged, but one feature remains intact. My hair is still black (with a great deal of assistance) straight and limp.

I never did wear the coveted garment with fringe, nor did I purchase another.

But I confess, sometimes I wonder about the road not taken.

If I had adopted the snood and the blouse with fringe, would life have been different?

And immediately, I remember that was not what I ever wanted.

I wanted my prince to recognize me, and he did.