Surviving Miss Dally

For the first time in my life I’m having a fashion crisis entirely unrelated to how I’m perceived by the cute guy who makes my coffee in the morning. I’m about to start my first day at June Dally-Watkins School of Personal and Professional Development, an institution made famous for its ability to transform the plainer ducklings into radiant swans by teaching them the basics of speech, etiquette, beauty and wardrobe. Which is why I’m looking at myself in the mirror with vague paranoia and mild contempt, worried about what they’ll say about my scuffed shoes and wondering if it’s still possible to drag myself out of style Siberia when I’ve been wearing the same pair of jeans for two years.



As I make my way into the city past smartly dressed office workers and chic retail assistants I make a silent prayer that they not throw me out on a shirt-tucking technicality. Thank God the only shoe shiner in this town is right next door to the building where I’ll be clawing my way back through the pearly gates of fashion. Up Marc Jacob’s ladder if you like.
As I’m ushered out of the lift and onto the floor where I’ll be spending the next week I have another anxiety attack. I take a deep breath and think of coffee boy on bended knee proffering a bagel engagement ring, which makes me feel slightly better, but my calm is swept away by taking an inventory of my classmates. Nearly every girl in the foyer is young enough to be my daughter although apparently old enough to be swapping tar advice on Vogue cigarettes. Some of them are wearing lace petticoats as an outer garment, one of them is sucking violently on a chuppa chup and another is hitching up her crushed velvet miniskirt to reveal a cul-de-sac of suburban thigh. It’s obvious we all have some work to do. A girl with a diamante nose pin tries to make me feel welcome by asking how much I loved Next Top Model. I look at her with starry eyed nervousness and tell her it’s the only reason I’m here.
The truth is that apart from my monastic wardrobe I’ve been noticing a general slackness in my manners, a certain laissez faire when it comes to my personal grooming and an almost criminal avoidance of correct sitting posture. I’m hoping that Australia’s most famous deportment school will remedy this and I’m encouraged when Miss June Dally-Watkins herself walks into the room with the gait of a ballerina and the smile of a proud but demanding grandmother. "Ladies! There are three things you will never do again. You will never say yeah. You will never say nuh. And you will never push every button of the lift in this building." She singles me out as the sole ambassador of my sex and declares that after doing her course in Personal Development my life will never again be ruled by football and beer. To be honest I was hoping she could steer me away from the greater evils of saunas and shandies, but I’m happy to let her work her magic as she sees fit.
Our first teacher strides into the room with a steely glare and gangly limbs, an intimidating Cruella who I fear will strangle the weakest Dalmatian. "How many of you are here because your mothers made you come?" she asks. Nearly everyone puts up their hand except a Phillipino woman who is already a mother of two. She’s hoping to improve her English while gaining some valuable make-up tips and has already made the class laugh by declaring that I’m the only thorn amongst the roses. I have taken umbrage and will teach her that word later.
The first thing we are taught as part of ‘Social Etiquette’ is how to leave a room. In theory ‘never have your back to people’ seems quite simple, but the execution is surprisingly difficult when it involves finding a door handle while maintaining both a winning smile and tractor-beam eye contact. Cruella then poses a curly question regarding what to do when faced with boring conversation at a cocktail party. Megan the thirteen year old goth stands up and says she would throw the person on a trampoline and then drown them in cold water. The class snickers and Cruella hushes them while Megan tells us more about herself. "I like Kelly Osbourne. And I had a twin sister but she died." The class is silent. I want to adopt her.
Our next lecture is on skin care and our teacher apologises for being late. "I’ve just been making the monsters for the new Star Wars. Let’s hope we can make you look better than those creatures, ladies!" The only girls that laugh are the ones without pimples. "Does anyone here smoke?" A couple of hands creep up. "What about drugs? Has anyone ever taken drugs?" Every hand stays down including the one I’ve used to prise open assorted sealed packages. "Of course I don’t expect you to say yes, but when I come around and do your skin analysis I’ll know straight away." When she’s not looking I grab some Revlon face lifting cream in the same manner as a drunk driver might reach for a tic tac.
I fare much better in the manicure class where the teacher is impressed by the beauty and delicacy of my cuticles. She even suggests I have a chance at being a hand model, although apparently this would involve wearing gloves year round and avoiding extreme sports such as needle point and puppeteering. Miss Dally makes an unscheduled visit to the class and pronounces a fatwa against acrylic nails. "They speak of falsity at every turn and I want my young ladies to be natural. Your nails must be allowed to breathe!" As she leaves she punches me in the shoulder a few times as a reminder not to slouch. She’s lucky she didn’t damage my hands or my lawyers would be shutting her operation down.
Next up is ‘Body Image’ where we are instructed on the correct way to walk up and down stairs (feet should be on a diagonal) and how to avoid fat thighs when seated at a bus stop (try perching on the edge of the bench). When shaking hands try to avoid the 'dead fish' and the 'bonecrusher', and never offer a moist palm to a stranger. (No, gentlemen, not even at Ken’s. Miss Dally would be mortified if you didn’t make correct use of your towel.)
We also have the first rehearsal for our graduation ceremony which will take place at the end of the week. The room is a choreographic shambles and I can’t believe I’m the only one who knows how to execute a catwalk turn, but then again I’m the only one who’s ever taped a George Michael video. The rest of the girls strut with misplaced steps, wonky pivots and wooden limbs and I’m impressed by Miss Dally’s chutzpah when she announces that we will be required to parade down the marble stairs of Grace Bros’ city store on the busiest shopping night of the year.
For this event we’ll be required to choose our own outfits, and I’m thankful that the first lecture this morning is ‘Colour and Wardrobe’. One by one we are seated in front of the class and draped with swathes of different coloured fabrics in the hope of discovering which ‘season’ we are. One thing I learn is that apricot is not my friend and that Chinese blue is a shade I should be cutting diplomatic ties with. Red however provokes gasps of delight from the girls and they insist that I start buying shirts, jumpers and pashminas in the only colour truly designed to stop traffic. It’s obvious to everyone now that I’m a ‘winter’ and I’m honoured to learn that I share this season with Oprah, Snow White and the Nanny.
While the girls are shepherded to their next class in make-up, Miss Dally has decided to supplement my wardrobe skills with a shopping excursion to the Queen Victoria Building. One of the male teachers is designated to be my chaperone and I start having visions of Julia Roberts being fussed over by shop assistants while Richard Gere picks his teeth with his platinum credit card. After looking at scarves that cost more than my tertiary education my talkative guide lets slip that a similar range can be found at Gowings or Lowes for a fraction of the cost. I make a note to pop down in my lunch break to see if they have Julia’s opera gown in my size.
With only a few hours to go before our graduation ceremony there are some minor dramas unfolding. In the make-up room there’s a girl with panda eyes and crayon cheeks who’s crying because she looks like a work experience drag queen. Someone else’s boyfriend has just broken up with her by text message and she’s sending back a withering reply. Her spelling is atrocious and she’s obviously learnt nothing from our ‘Formal Entertaining’ class about taking care with hand written thank you notes. On our photocopied handouts was advice on dinner parties that included what not to talk about at the table. "Avoid becoming involved in discussions about religion, politics, sex, dirty jokes and the weather. Gossip and bitching is dysfunctional, risky and something which is never to be engaged in." Oh what the hell, I’ll just book in for a lobotomy while I’m getting that facial.
By the time it comes to our graduation parade we’re all nerves and Diet Coke. (As one girl remarks with a rising inflection, "It’s not because I’m fat. I just prefer the taste?") Pitt Street mall is humming with Christmas shoppers and Miss Dally is tapping the microphone for absolute silence from the hordes. I check my Prada shoes - I can almost see my terrified face in them. My Morrissey pants? Free from loose threads. The Saba shirt? Tucked with hospital corners. And the hair, thank Fudge, is finally behaving with Jane Austen restraint. Someone behind me whispers that she can see one of the modelling agents that are supposedly in attendance, and to the strains of Janet Jackson I feel transported to another era, one of debutantes and dilletantes, of decorum and decolletage.
As a hundred cameras flash in front of me I realise how far myself and the other girls have come. We’ve learnt how to switch our mobiles to discreet and we’ve thrown away our chewing gum. There is not a duckling amongst us who would feel out of place in an upcoming presentation of Swan Lake. There are some joyful parents whose tears would usually embarrass me, but I’ve decided to put away my teenage awkwardness until I’ve finished my mid-life crisis. The noise of the crowd dies away as I take my first step towards a beaming Miss Dally. As she holds out my diploma I can feel my spine straightening and my lips parting to reveal a demure smile worthy of Eliza Doolittle, a smile that I’m certain will get me some extra froth on my cappuccino tomorrow morning.



First published in Blue Mode #04 Autumn/Winter 2003