Makeover

1

My fortieth birthday came and went without fanfare. I had dinner with a few close friends, I fielded the expected calls from family, but at the end of the day I was back in my apartment, looking at a computer screen full of code, getting a head start on the work week. Sips from a glass of red wine kept me relaxed.

"Thirty was a tougher birthday," I said out loud. Forty felt fine. Dinner had been interesting - a double date of sorts. My business partner Manual and his wife Joy, and the two misfits - me and my oddball friend Denise Landon.

You'll need some background on her.

I've known Denise for almost twenty years. I had my first job out of school in Camden, New Jersey - working for what I thought was an exciting tech start-up. My coworker Leo and I shared a small apartment, and Denise was his girlfriend. Her personality clicked with mine immediately and we struck up an enduring friendship. I could make Denise explode with laughter with the slightest quip or sarcastic aside, and she was constantly baffling me with the most bizarre opinions and trivia. Did I know which beverage was the most frequently requested on airplanes? (ginger ale). Or the correct term for a group of cats? (a clowder). This was a woman who would follow a car if she needed extra time to decipher the license plate. If a movie character gave a phone number, she would call it.

Eventually Leo was out of the picture, but Denise and I stayed friends. She eventually hooked up with a bisexual artist named Trent, and when he moved to Los Angeles to seek his fortune she followed him. For my part I was working long hours and keeping my head down. The start-up went bust, but I worked up and down the east coast at a succession of software firms, paying my dues and learning new skills. Denise became a teacher. Thousands of miles separated us, and years would pass between meetups for coffee or dinner, but thanks to email and texting barely a week went by without a funny, in-depth conversation about our goings-on, or just the news of the day. Even if neither of us had anything to say, we found a way to verbally spar and entertain each other. I wouldn't have admitted she was my best friend, but then who could I really rank ahead of her?

But I would do Denise a disservice only mentioning her quirky humor. Beneath the scatterbrain was a gentle, compassionate nature, and a patient one. The patience came in handy during my rough times - times when I was having relationship troubles or couldn't find work. Denise listened, which if you've ever been at a low point you know is the best thing a friend can offer.

Now you might be wondering: why didn't we ever get together? We got along so well after all - why did I never consider it? Oh I could give you the bullshit answer: the friendship was too important... she was like a sister to me... blah blah blah. The true answer is a little unkind, but simpler: the woman is just not attractive. Let me paint the picture, and forgive all the detail - it's important to the story.

Denise is pencil thin. She's 5'5" but if she ever weighed 100 pounds I would be surprised. No muscle tone, no curves... a non-existent chest. There's no mincing words there: she's flat as Kansas. On her head is a greasy mop of brown hair, usually buzzed short, and a fair complexion covered in freckles. Her skin didn't tan - where it didn't freckle it burned. On her angular nose rested glasses with some kind of maximum prescription. To the outsider they gave her googly eyes.

But beyond these natural shortcomings was the attitude she took towards her appearance. The woman just could not be bothered and could not give a fuck what she looked like. She had a strong non-conformist streak. No feminine attire ever graced her body. Men's tank tops were more her style, with long, pale, skinny arms on display. Sweatpants and sandals completed the look. And, well, the armpit hair has to be mentioned. I'm a man and I keep mine trimmed for God's sakes - hers was wild and bushy. Visible even if her arms were at her sides. I can put up with a lot, but for some reason the hirsute look on women is always a dealbreaker.

Let me stop for a second. You think I'm being cruel, but in fact it was the reality of her unattractiveness that made our friendship possible. I'm serious! Let's put it this way: if she was hot, we would never have been friends. I wouldn't have been able to be myself. I would have gear-shifted into a different personality, and that gradual building of trust and affection - it would never have happened. And for the record, the unattraction was mutual. She never pined for me either. But out of this came the most rewarding friendship I've ever had with a woman.

We both married. She eventually persuaded Trent to tie the knot after years of asking, but he was struggling with his career and their relationship was rocky. I met Helena, a fellow engineer from Georgia (the Russian Georgia, not the one with the peaches). Neither marriage lasted longer than 5 years. Turns out Trent really did prefer dudes - a tomboy wife was only so good as a substitute. And as for me and Helena. Maybe we'll come back to that - it's not a tale I feel like telling.

And now after twenty years Denise and I were neighbors again. When I was finally able to realize my ambition and start my own business, the opportunity was in Los Angeles. I moved across the country and found myself back in her orbit, just like the old days.

Was that two years ago? It didn't seem like it.

I had switched off the computer and was ready to turn in when the doorbell chimed. Who could be surprising me at home at 11:00 PM? It was a short list. I opened the door and there stood Denise.

"Well well well, is this a last minute birthday-gram? Are you going to sing for me?"

She chuckled. "Not quite." I stepped aside and let her enter. Immediately I could tell there was something amiss. Denise looked dejected - like she carried a weight. She plopped down on my sofa and stared straight ahead.

"You want something to drink? Some wine?" I offered.

"I'll take a water."

She started talking as I filled a glass from the tap. "I don't know Eric. I don't feel so great."

"Are you sick?"

"No, it's more like a malaise. Do you ever get the feeling like your life was supposed to go in one direction, and you always assumed it would. But then you look up and you realize - damn, I'm almost forty. My life isn't going somewhere, this is my life. For better or worse."

"Yeah, I know the feeling. I didn't expect to be divorced or childless at forty."

"Eric, I came over here, because... I want to make a change. I want your help with something."

"Name it."

"This, well, this isn't easy to say." Denise took a sip of water and played with the glass.

"Okay," I said. "But you know it's me you're talking to. Whatever this problem is, we'll fix it together."

Denise looked me in the eye and I could see hers were moist. "Thank you for saying that." A silence, and then, "It isn't easy to admit when you've been wrong. But, I'm lonely, Eric. I haven't dated in years."

"Really?" I feigned surprise.

"Yeah. I know I give off a weird vibe to guys and I don't look how I'm supposed to look. But I'm happy that's the way it is. I want to meet someone who isn't interested in the superficial shit. But it hasn't been working. I've been on some dating sites. The guys who seem good - I start conversations, but they don't write back. And the guys who have contacted me have all been way too old, or they're pervs."

"Fucking dating sites. It's not a great experience for guys either but I'd hate to have to use them as a woman."

"There's a guy I know at work - I'm kinda interested in him. But I'm afraid to say anything."

"I know that feeling. But sometimes you've got to take a risk."

At this Denise looked like she might cry. She stared at the floor. "Look Eric, I'm not oblivious. I've heard the way men comment about my looks."

"There's nothing wrong with your looks."

She shook her head. "No. I'm not looking for reassurance. I'm not here for sugar-coating the truth or to be patronized."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want help - from a guy's perspective. I want to know what to do to make myself more attractive before I ask this guy out."

"You want MY help?" I was shocked. "Denise I can barely match a shirt with a pair of pants, I can't give anybody beauty tips. This is a question for a girlfriend."

"No, I think that's getting it backwards. I need a man's opinion. I need to know what guys want to see. I've been trying it my way for too many years. I'm tired of being lonely. I'm ready to do whatever I have to do to compete with other women."

"Great. That's great. I wish I could be useful. I just don't see how I can help."

"Eric, I've been basically wearing the same outfit since the day we met. I'm sure you've got some opinion about what I could do differently to catch a man's eye."

"Leo liked you the way you are."

"He was an idiot. I want to find a real man - someone who can take care of himself."

"So who is this guy at work? Another teacher?"

"I don't want to tell you about him just yet. First I need to know, will you help me?"

"Help give you a makeover? I don't know."

"You just said, whatever the problem was we'd fix it together!"

Inside I was conflicted. Did I have opinions on Denise's appearance? Of course I did. But I never wanted to share any of it with her. How do you tell your best friend that she's basically unattractive? How could I hurt her feelings like that?

But then again, she's asking for my help. You don't turn your back on a friend. Don't I owe her honesty? Shouldn't I try to give her the best possible chance with this dude? I might be able to really make a difference.

"All right," I decided. "You want my help? You can have my help."

"Oh Eric!" her eyes lit up, "Thank you."

"I will tell you what I think you can do to make yourself beautiful for this guy. But I'm going to have to be frank, and I can't spare your feelings. So we shouldn't do this unless you're ready for me to be critical."

"That's perfect. That's exactly what I want."

"Okay." I stood up and approached her. "Stand up and turn around slowly. Denise rose and dutifully did a slow 360 with her arms out. Beanpole. That was the only word that could accurately be used. Or maybe scarecrow. Hell, maybe I shouldn't be a pessimist; there are plenty of guys out there that like skinny women, right? We just need to lose the butch look.

"What you need here is a little..."

"Yeah?"

"Femininity. Nothing about you says feminine. That's what guys want to see. Right? So okay, where should we start?"

"I was thinking we'd talk about clothes."

"Sure, let's start there. Okay. The sweatpants? Gone. No more sweatpants. Sweatpants are for Sunday mornings in bed on a cold day. You gotta think skirts and dresses, pants and jeans, tights."

"Uh huh."

"Your flip flops and sandals - gone. I don't want to see those any more."

"But guys like that. They want to see your toes, don't they? I could paint them."

"Wrong. Guys want to undress you. They want to take off your shoes. They want to imagine what your feet look like. How beautiful they are. What we're going to do here is we're going to create some mystery. We have to let their imaginations do the work." Denise sat back down as I continued. "Now your feet are perfectly attractive, but we're not giving it away. When you've been dating the guy for six months, sure, bring the sandals back. For now, he needs to earn your feet."

"Jeez."

And it's the same thing with the tank tops. I don't want to see your arms."

"I know I have skinny arms."

"That's not the point. We're going to make guys imagine what your arms look like. We're not going to show them."

"So how about I just wear a burka and then the guys can imagine everything?"

"It's up to you Denise. Either the guy can see your arms when he meets you and think, 'damn, she's got some skinny-ass arms'. Or he can see them much later when you're necking on the couch after the third date and he's so damned excited that you're taking off your top that he won't notice and he won't care. At that point he wouldn't care if you were an amputee."

"Ok. Sleeves. What else."

"Look, your whole wardrobe. You know what your wardrobe says about you?"

"What?"

"It says I don't care about my appearance and I don't give a damn."

"I do care." Denise's voice was beginning to rise. "So I don't wear skirts, so what? I'm not looking for some alpha male douche-nozzle. Don't you know me? I'm not interested in what society says I have to wear, like walking around in painful high heels because someone else decided it was fashionable. I don't care about superficial shit like that and I don't want a man who cares either. Because let's say he does care - how long are he and I going to last? I do want to change - but I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not.

"Denise. I hear you, okay? I know you aren't interested in conformity. But here's my insight that I'm trying to arm you with. You see, men... we have lizard brains. We become attracted, or not, at first sight. You have that one opportunity to make an impression. So that means, yes, you have to pay attention to the superficial shit. Just at the beginning - just to meet the guy. I think if you're willing, we can make you pretty close to gorgeous, but it's not going to mean you're being deceitful, it's just to make that good impression."

"But it's not me."

"It's just to get this guy interested enough to go on the date. Then on the date, you can probe his brain and find out if he's an asshole. There are a lot of guys who are fundamentally decent - I'm serious! - but who would be scared off by the lesbian militia thing that you've got going on here. Your tomboy look - you use it as a test, I get it. But too many good and decent guys are going to fail the test. Give them a chance to get to know you and to understand you, and I think you'll be surprised."

Denise looked away in thought. Finally she sighed: "So what, I've got to get heels?"

"Heels couldn't hurt, but the word I'm thinking of here is feminine. You've got to be more feminine."

"Why?"

"Cause I don't know - evolution? Human nature? Guys like feminine women. You have got to embrace being feminine. We've got to dial the tomboy thing way way back."

"So what kind of wardrobe changes are we talking about?" Denise had a pained, almost fearful expression as she waited for more bad news.

"Let's try some new ensembles. Outfits that will trigger the male mind to think of all the crushes and arousal they've ever had."

"Okayyy..."

"How about, a catholic schoolgirl outfit? With the plaid skirt and the jacket?"

"Really?"

"Or maybe an athletic look - like you just came from yoga class."

"...You would not want to see me in a yoga outfit."

"Lady executive? The business look. Or casual - jeans and maybe like a lace top."

"Ok, I get it."

"Something feminine."

"And I should lose the glasses I take it."

"Oh no no no. We keep the glasses. Glasses are awesome. That's something else the guy can take off. You have look #1 with the glasses: smart, focused, all-business. Then you have look #2 without the glasses: vulnerable, beautiful, secret. We're going to make the guy imagine that. He's going to imagine what you look like without the glasses and then when he finally gets to see it, he's... well he may jizz his pants right there."

"I can't see three feet in front of me without the glasses."

"By the time he takes them off he's going to be crazy for you so don't worry about it."

"He will be a blur."

"He's going to be a sexy blur."

"Good. You guarantee all this by the way?"

"If you do everything I say, guys will be falling all over each other to ask you out. Shall we move on to hair?"

"Oh we weren't done?"

"Clothes are just the beginning. This is a complete makeover we're talking about."

"Ok, fire away. You want me to grow my hair out."

"Yes."

"My hair looks really shitty when it's long, Eric. It's all oily and limp. This is why you've never seen it that way. That whole slow motion hair shaking thing in the shampoo commercials? I can't do that."

"When was the last time you tried to wear it long? Are you sure there isn't product you could use to give it some body and make it look natural?"

"I've tried all that."

"I know nothing about hair product, but you aren't some kind of medical oddity. There's got to be a million other women with your hair, and I guarantee you that somewhere in CVS there's a bottle that fixes it."

"Okay, I'll take another look. What next?"

"Well... we weren't finished with hair. Now I've got to, uh, get a little personal. You did request the full and honest truth."

"Yes, I want to hear it," she said, though her expression indicated otherwise.

"Your eyebrows are... fine. And lashes. A little eyebrow trim once in a while is good - it lets the guy know you're thinking about your appearance.

"Okay."

"Below your eyelashes... there can't be any hair. Anywhere."

Denise said nothing and gave me a poker face. I pressed my luck:

"The whole tank top with bushy armpits thing. It's a turnoff. I can't speak for all guys, but I don't think guys like underarm hair on girls. And you don't shave your legs. This is not good for what you're trying to accomplish."

Denise surprised me: "I agree," she said. "I'll do it."

"And as for the uh..." I gestured vaguely, "the personal area? Your best bet there is to have nothing at all - but, if you really want, you can get away with something small and well-tended."

"Well tended?"

"I mean like, well maintained and trimmed. We're talking just a small Japanese garden here. A little triangle, a heart, landing strip - that's all you want."

"This is very specific."

"You don't have any tattoos, do you?"

"Nope."

"Good. Although you know, that could be kind of fun. The guy gets your clothes off and sees something you took a chance on from 20 years ago - could be sort of cute.

"Well I don't have any."

"Do we need to stop? Is this getting too uncomfortable?"

"No... it's just... I've never had this kind of conversation before. I realize I did ask for it."

I moved closer to her and put a reassuring hand on hers. "Listen. All these changes that I'm suggesting you make. This is like we're creating an ad campaign. The product we're selling is you. I'm not suggesting we change the product. I love the product. We're just talking about the packaging."

"I know."

"So let's finish this up. Next is makeup."

"I don't wear any."

"And I think usually that's smart - too much makeup makes anyone look cheap. But - I think a little makeup, just a little, is the best play."

"Really?" She sighed. "Makeup?"

"Oh yeah. Like trimming the eyebrows it's all about sending the message. Just a little makeup - not enough to make you look like a clown, but enough so that when the guy leans in he notices it. It reassures him that you care about your appearance. That's all it is - reassurance."

"Okay."

"Posture," I continued, "is also key. No more slouching. You have a tendency to sloop and slouch. No more. I want to see head up, shoulders back, chest forward."

At this Denise looked away. "What chest?" she said, almost in a whisper. "I don't have one." I looked at her sympathetically. "You think I should get a boob job?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "I wouldn't want you to."

"Mother nature had a sense of humor with me," Denise said quietly. "She didn't give me much to work with."

"It doesn't matter," I said in response. "Fuck mother nature. You're going to look awesome. And that actually brings me to the last topic: your physique."

"How would you like me to change that?"