To the dance | Beverley Stevens

“It’s ridiculous. It’s taking you hours, practically a whole afternoon to get ready.” There was unconcealed disapproval in my father’s tone. He was scornful of women who primped and preened before presenting themselves to the world, scoffed about the wife of a colleague who took an hour to do her hair and makeup each morning before heading out to teach eight-year-olds. Mum wasn’t like that. Practical, sporty and tanned – a woman with a low golf handicap who could back a trailer with ease and organize the logistics of a six-week camping holiday for a family of eight – she wore a dab of powder and dash of red lipstick to town and that was it.

But, at fourteen, two hours is what it took to get prettied up, even without having a bath since I’d had one the night before. My hair needed to be washed in the bathroom basin where, bent low at the waist, I scooped cup after plastic cup of water over my hair, wet it, shampooed, rinsed twice, then a final rinse with the juice of a lemon in the hope of making my fair hair shimmer with light for the occasion.

I sellotaped my fringe into place and twisted a strand of hair at each side into kiss-curls, each secured with two hair clips crossed in the shape of an X. Then I rolled section by small section of fine straight hair from tip to root around a plastic hair curler, prodding a plastic prong through to hold it in place until the hair dried; checked if it was too tight or uncomfortable and made adjustments.

Mum had splashed out on a hair dryer for when she set her hair in between perms. Her hair was dead straight, like mine, and it would have been unthinkable for her not to remedy that misfortune. The dryer looked like the ones in a hair salon, but it could be folded and stowed away in the small bit of space remaining in the packed hall cupboard.

I adjusted the stand to the right height, sat with my head inside the hood, and flicked a switch to start a warm flow of air from all sides. It was a whole lot faster than when a set had to be left to dry naturally, but after forty minutes baking under the dryer, my scalded scalp protested. I unrolled a single curler to test the dryness—the waves wouldn’t last the distance if the curlers came out while the hair was still damp. So back I went under the dryer for another ten minutes.

Dad could surely see that it all took well over an hour just to get to this point.

The hair curlers didn’t come out until the very end. First, foundation, powder, and rouge; then blue eyeshadow and black mascara; all finished off with glossy pink lipstick, blotted with tissues and applied again to give it staying power. Next, a quick flannel wash, deodorant, and a dab of ‘In Love’ perfume on the wrists and behind the ears. I donned suspender belt and stockings, bra, petticoat, dress and shoes, then turned full circle in front of the mirror to admire the swing of the square-necked, sleeveless tent dress that Mum had made. Its flattering fullness swept from a gathered yoke, the polished cotton skimmed over my detested pot tummy. The greens and blues of its abstract pattern matched my eyes and flattered my skin. My classmates would surely look at me in a new light. Larry might, hope against hope, ask me to dance.

Finally, after tea, I removed all the curlers and smoothed my hair into a gentle wave, flicked up all the way round in classic 1960s style. “I’m ready,” I announced to Mum and Dad. I don’t remember them making any comment on how I looked, then or, actually, any time. It only mattered to be clean and neat. Compliments were not part of their repertoire. 

“Alright then,” said Dad and chauffeured me, in his meticulously maintained second-hand Vauxhall Velox, to the door of the school hall. The assembly hall looked unfamiliar at night, all lit-up, the main entrance decorated with garlands of crepe-paper chains. A local band hired by the end-of-year fourth form social committee, could be heard playing ‘Georgie Girl’. Inside, coloured lights, balloons  and more garlands transformed the hall, and the music boomed out and filled the space.

I soon spotted Yvonne and Evelyn amongst all the girls who were sitting and standing in groups all along the left side of the hall. Only a few couples were dancing this early in the evening. I kept glancing across to the other side of the hall where the boys were gathered, Larry among them, looking as brylcreemed, suave and confident as it’s possible for a fourteen-year old boy favored with looks and intelligence to be.

 But Larry didn’t head across the floor in my direction. Not that he’d ever shown any hint of interest, and tonight was no different. His focus was on Jackie, an attractive, older and more sophisticated girl from our class. A couple of the boys, the ones we considered gawky or unattractive and carelessly dismissed as creeps, gathered up their courage and asked for a dance. But mostly I twisted and bunny-hopped with my friends, and went unpartnered to the supper room for sausage rolls and lemonade, doing my best to look as if I was having a good time.

“How was it?” Dad asked when he picked me up at the end, right on the dot of 11pm so there could be no after-dance hanky-panky. “It was great,” I said, imagining he’d be convinced by my upbeat tone. He probably wasn’t. Perhaps he was even pleased that boys weren’t clamoring after me. He asked no more and we drove the short drive home in silence. When we got there, everyone had gone to bed, the house was in darkness, all except for a harsh shaft of light from the cheap standard bulb at the back door.

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Beverley Stevens is a Kiwi writer based in Wellington, New Zealand who is working on a memoir in essays. Her work has been published in Landfall, Headland, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, the Brevity Blog, and more. A former technical writer, these days she’s employed, part-time, as a web copywriter and editor.