I’ve also been reading a lot about the flappers who propelled the fashion style. They were the rebels of the prohibition, women of easy virtues and loose morals. They drank, they smoked, they slept around and they were unapologetic about it.
They wore their hair in bobs, finger waved or Marcelled. They rejected the curvaceous hour-glass figures and corsets in favour of boyish structured frocks. Dark rimmed smoky eyes and deep wine pouts drawn into cupid’s bow. The Charleston was all the rage during this time of the jazz age. The flappers kicked their feet to the music with wild abandon, shocking the conservative generations before them. I’ve always wanted to be a flapper.
My great-grandmother used to tell me stories about “hanging out” with Elliot Ness and attending all those “wild” parties. My eyes would glaze over every time she talked about her younger days. My aunt always told me I was born in the wrong era. No kidding.
One evening recently, before Christmas, I was inspired to do my makeup a la Clara Bow, smoky plum eyes, dark berry lipstick drawn with slightly exaggerated cupid’s bow and tight pin curls. I topped my curls off with a raspberry felt beret. Louis (my partner in crime) and I walked into Nosh for dinner. He walked behind me and when we got to the table, he leaned over and said, “People are staring at you.” Not surprised.
What surprises me though is that you don’t see more of it here in Dallas. But then again, it’s not easy pulling off dark lipstick without looking too goth. And who wants to sit around for hours getting the pin curls down to bouncy curly-qs? And who wants to sit in front of a mirror making sure the cat eyeliner is even, perfect and Marilyn Monroe approved? And to spend an extra minute to put on those fluttery false lashes? And who wants to waste time making sure the seams on the stockings are straight against the gams?
I do. All of it.
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