Twin set

I'm trudging up the hill in the late afternoon, and am overtaken by two women. I'm barely registering them until I notice that one is clad in a "Canadian tuxedo": denim jacket and denim trousers, both, in this case, dark blue. 

 I haven't seen a Canadian tuxedo in ages, and then, only on men. I watch the women stride ahead and notice that they have matching hair, that straight chin-length bob - fresh from the hairdressers - which doesn't quite match their age. And they do appear to be of an age, anywhere from late fifties to early seventies. They also share height and build: medium and slim.  Both are wearing trainers, not identical, but the same type, though different colours.  The companion of the Canadian Tuxedo clad lady is wearing a jacket and trousers of a similar style, though not in denim.

I find myself wondering if they are sisters, and when I catch up with them at the light, discreetly glance sideways.  No, they don't look related.

As they briskly enter the crosswalk ahead of me, I remember pairs of girls in my high school, the ones who had evidently conferred by phone, either the previous evening, or in the morning before getting dressed.  They'd show up in outfits of the same style, with colours carefully chosen to go together.  I don't recall ever doing this with my friends, but then I was never known for my fashion sense.

Do those matching school chums continue to do this throughout their lives?  Is that what I was witnessing?  Do high school girls still do this today?  I'd set myself up by a secondary school to see, but I have neither the time, nor the inclination to seem creepy.

No room for rompers

I'm making my way home from dinner-call at Demeter's, when I see a couple just ahead of me on the sidewalk stop to approach a bush and smell the blossoms. 

Nuthin' wrong with that. The women of the pair, however,  is wearing an ill-advised romper. 

(N.B. All rompers are ill-advised; I once mistakenly purchased one for younger daughter, believing it to be a blouse.) 

The lower quarters of the lady's buttocks are emerging from the leg-holes, which is why they're designed for young women - and even then, they're still a bad idea.  I advert my eyes, and quickly walk past them - the woman and the man, that is. 

They abruptly stand to one side to let me by, and the fellow calls out to me in a loud jocular voice, congratulating me on "beating" them: "No, really, I congratulate you, ma'am!" he persists. 

 I laugh heartily, with a sinking and uneasy feeling that I'm being mocked. (Why? I wonder to myself. At least I'm not wearing a romper.)  I hurry up the pathway to my building. 

 It rather ruins my evening.

After a fashion

With Victoria Day out of the way, I hear people claiming it's summer.

No, it isn't.  Not even in Victoria, where a run of cool days have resulted in a mixture of clothes downtown:  from quilted winter coats to tee-shirts.  An older gentlemen just walked by dressed in shorts with a fleece jacket --- Look!  There's another one!

I wouldn't be intrusive enough to snap pictures to illustrate, but I can do a sort of written snapshot.

Here's something I wrote over my bowl of oatmeal (with maple syrup, bananas and sour cream) at the Blue Fox Cafe last February, when no one was in shorts.  Not even in Victoria.

The girls my daughters' ages are wearing toques in neutral shades, pulled down to just above their ears, with the toque-tips arranged in artful pockets, and their wavy tresses carefully flowing down from beneath.

They wear layers, some draped over the backs of their chairs:  cable sweaters - also in neutral shades - sheep-skin-lined patchwork jackets (but not real sheepskin - that's cruel), broad shawl-style scarves perfectly covering their shoulders in soft folds.

At the next table, a lady with bobbed, noticeably tousled, dark, dyed hair looks out from what's left of her eyebrows.  She's wearing what appears to be an exact replica of the close-knit midnight blue pullover worn by the honey-blonde (possibly also dyed) taupe-toqued young girl a few feet away.  The lady has a gold band hanging from a pendant, heart-shaped.  Her close-fitting jeans are folded up to reveal her stylish ankle-boots.

Women dress so much more deliberately for the company of other women.

The magic dress

I'm not an enthusiastic shopper.

As a result, I've learned to tackle Christmas and Birthday Season - the latter being the thirty-day run between the period before I must post my parcel to elder daughter in Hades to Mother's Day - in manageable purchasing bursts, none more than ninety minutes.

I found younger daughter's birthday approaching rapidly, but despite my careful planning and plotting, had failed to find an item of pretty clothing to join the gifts of movies, music, and makeup.  Usually, I wander into a likely shop and something will call to me.  Although I'd heard elder daughter's name floating out at me in April, nothing whispered about younger daughter.

With two days to go, I wandered into a shop in Cook Street, mentioned the specifications to the employee there - something feminine for a petite stature with a generous bosom, as younger daughter takes after one of her paternal great-grandmothers.  (She certainly didn't get it from my side of the family...)

I spotted it a split second before the clerk did, a simple sundress, reminiscent of the late Fifties, early Sixties.  Flower print, modest boat neck, slightly pleated skirt, and defined waist. Sort of Sandra Dee without the sly overtones.

She showed me several others, but I kept saying, "That one's calling me."

I presented it to younger daughter on her birthday, and she wore it the very next day for her part in a fundraising concert.

It was like magic.  The dress, which fit perfectly, seemed to endow her with extra social grace and confidence.  She maintained poise as garden tours strolled past her and planes droned overhead.  I was delighted (and careful not to say so) when she excused herself at lunch - a new thing in itself - to reapply her makeup in the washroom instead of at the table.