HALLOWE'EN HOOPS AND PAINTED FACES

HALLOWE'EN HOOPS AND PAINTED FACES                                                            

         October is synonymous with Hallowe'en, a fun day when imagination and make-believe are encouraged and celebrated. People like to dress up in costumes and masks; wear make-up and wigs. Sometimes our over-zealousness, our enthusiasm overrides our common sense. It's not so much wardrobe malfunctions, as absence of forethought. We cannot plan for every contingency, especially if our focus is on appearance. We sacrifice the practical.                                        

         I met my costume of all costumes in a friend's shop. He had rack upon rack of outfits for rent. The choices were overwhelming and I had no preconceived ideas. Maybe I could find a simple furry animal costume to step into---no fuss, no muss. He had another plan. Certainly the price was right,( free), and I couldn't think of a reason to say no. Perhaps it was because he lamented that no one ever borrowed this outfit or it might have been the 'YOU JUST STEP RIGHT INTO IT" sales pitch. The details are fuzzy, but somehow I took home a hooped-skirt ball gown. I was committed to portraying a Southern belle.                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

         I shall do my best to describe this costume, but I believe it helps to think of Disney princesses. The skirt of the gown was sewn over a huge wire-framed bell-shaped contraption; imagine an opened umbrella or a fat lampshade or a billowing parachute stretched over baling wire. It was resplendent with an attached bustier/bodice.                                                                                                                                                                

         There was no way into this dress but through the bottom. I have a new appreciation for ladies' maids. They not only had to be strong enough to lift such a gown, and then pull it back down over their mistresses' bodies, but they had to be able to keep a straight face. There's nothing dignified about this ritual. I'm sure squires helping knights with suits of armour had it easier. Anyway, I had to burrow in and under the skirt, unaided, and rise carefully up through it, towards the light. Admittedly the waist was a bit of a squeeze. Maybe the hoop was designed with some sort of opening mechanism; I never looked for it. Stepping into my costume would have entailed the use of a step ladder, climbing up next to and over the dress, a certain appreciation for balance, and then unceremonious assistance from gravity as I slipped into it. I'd never worn a dress that could stand alone and didn't need me to fill it out. During the evening party, whenever I wanted to "simply" turn, I needed a free hand on the bodice to realign and physically move it with me.                                                                                                                                                                                                        

         My first barriers were the doorways in my home. Apparently, the building code does not take dress circumference into account. I had to be pushed, pulled, and forced through the tiny eye of my sewing needle front door.                                                                                                              

         The hoop skirt never lost its flounce, not even when it was stuffed into the front passenger seat of my car. Again, nothing in the vehicle's design foresaw such a need: the seat goes up or down, back or forward, but within limitations. I required costume room, not leg room. My vision was blocked by an impenetrable arc of wire and ruffled material, I struggled with my own instant air bag. My husband, the chauffeur, had to steer with his elbows tucked in and navigate without my input.                                                                                                                                                                                              

         At the party site, my gallant mate escorted me up a flight of stairs. This was not just a show of good manners or even a display of affection. This was literally physical support. Stairs are my nemesis at the best of times. Usually, to successfully climb and walk, I keep my feet where I can see them. Tonight, they were not only hidden beneath a bobbing voluminous hooped-skirt, they were wobbling in heels. Somehow sneakers did not seem to be the appropriate lady-in -a-ball-gown footwear.                                                                                                                                                                

         This is where I sacrificed the practical. Who would have seen my shoe choice or anything else for that matter? I was attempting to keep up with a dress that bounced and flounced and probably could have floated gracefully if I wasn't stumbling along inside of it. Conceivably, I could have hidden a tail, several legs, boxer shorts, army boots, a rifle, and a small tank under that hoop.                                                                                                    

         What I was wearing , although they turned out to be itchy and uncomfortable, was several crinolines. Inevitably, during a period of dancing, I succumbed to gravity and fell to the floor. I'm sure many partyers were bedazzled by my flash of crinkly crinolines, but I'm not certain. I was behind that damned arc of hooped skirt; floundering. It was like trying to do sit-ups against a spring-loaded balloon. My legs were flailing, entangled amongst the under layers. My hands strained to reach the floor for leverage, but I wasn't actually sitting on the floor. My tush was suspended up off the ground in a roll cage. It was impossible to push myself up off my backside and plant my feet. Rolling onto my knees might have been an option if there had also been something sturdy to pull myself up with. I was saved from scrabbling up someone's pant legs by the tugging of both of my hands. I was hauled back up into a vertical position with my skirt springing back into its circle around me.                                                                                          

         Once, I dared to sit on a "normal" chair, the kind with a formed straight back. I'd momentarily forgotten my car ride. The exact minute I landed on the seat, my umbrella of a gown flew open, knocking a drink from my hand and instantly shading my face; exposing my crinolines yet again. My modesty was grateful I'd decided to wear them and not bikini or thong undies alone. Perhaps if a stool had been available I could have positioned it under my hoop, but instead I remained standing for the rest of the evening.                                                                                                              

         Answering the call of nature in this costume was also tricky. Bathroom stalls or cubicles are never roomy even when their users are dressed in more suitable attire. I had to rethink my approach and scrunch my way into the stall backwards. I didn't need to see where I was going and I wasn't expecting any surprises. There definitely wasn't any wiggle room and I think I held my breath. I had to bend forward, stretch my arms, and push against the sink with the skirt, in order to wash my hands. I never did attempt to drink water from a fountain.                                                                                

         My costume choice has not always been impractical. Sometimes, I've used make-up that has proven difficult to remove or in one instance, a make-up substitute.                                                                                                                                                                                              

         At a Guide camp, I had the brilliant idea to paint faces on the knees of three Guiders. With our upper bodies hidden behind a blanket, and our shins dressed in girls' t-shirts topped by our "cute" knee faces, we planned to entertain the campers with a skit. I volunteered my knees, my drawing skills, and, most importantly, my permanent markers. Two other women sacrificed their knees as well.                                                                                          

         I created six wonderful and colourful faces complete with finishing details of hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. I varied the eye colours and I emphasized bright red lips. One of my knees even sported black bushy eyebrows and a black moustache.                                                                                

         We enjoyed ourselves and I believe the girls were at least a little bit amused by our performance. We still laughed when the faces rebuffed our initial efforts to erase them. We were at camp, we were in a relaxed atmosphere, we felt certain that we could remove them once we were back home. We even joked about having to possibly explain their existence/origins should we have an accident while returning home.                                                                      

         Well, I for one, lived with those two bold faces on my knee caps for ten days. Despite liberal amounts of soap, scrubbing, buffing, bathing, and showering, I was beginning to realize that perhaps the "permanent" of permanent marker was true. Had I created the equivalent of two tattoos? My "friends" were constantly with me. They smiled at me each time I dressed or undressed. If I crossed my legs, one would be smothering the other. On the eleventh day, when I considered accepting them, just like the various scars that couldn't be denied, and I even thought of naming them, their ink began to finally and subtly fade. Each subsequent shower removed more and more of the faces. The Groucho Marx eyebrows and moustache proved especially resilient.                                        

         In retrospect, I was pleased that my artwork was not indeed permanent. I feared that I'd have to give up shaving my legs. In two or three weeks tops, I could have cultivated enough leg hair to either camouflage the faces or provide them with a nice comb-over. Of course, I would have also been obliged to dye my blonde leg hair a dark colour. This could have been messy. (1526 words )