"Remember, always be a lady," Grammy said.

The scent of lavender perfume clung to Grammy like a well-worn shawl, a fragrance I associated with Sunday visits and the hushed reverence I had for her walk-in-closet, a kingdom of faux furs, pearlized buttons, and meticulously hung dresses—each a relic of a life lived on the precipice of glamour. Grammy, you see, had been a hand model. Not famous, not exactly rich, but touched by the glow of a world I only glimpsed when flipping through her high-end fashion magazines.

Beyond the glam and glitz and the garments of grandeur she once wore, Grammy possessed a quiet, natural elegance and captivating grace. Even as she aged, she always wore an invisible crown, moving with an air of practiced grace, her chin held high, each step slow and deliberate. Her porcelain hands were neatly groomed, not gaudy; and there was more beauty in the compassionate touch of her hands than in any fashion magazine.

Not only was Grammy a delicate woman, but she was also a creature of habit, regularly attending the bi-annual fashion show held inside the Zodiac Room at Neiman Marcus, Dallas’ premier high-end department store. One particular year, I, at the tender age of ten, was invited to accompany her. I felt special, believing I was now a lady-in-waiting or even a princess-in-the-making, and Grammy was my mentor and maven wrapped in one petite package.

That morning I sat next to Grammy at her dressing table, silently watching her brush and style her luxurious bronze-brown colored hair. Before applying her makeup, she retrieved her paper poudre booklet and tore two thin sheets from it.

“Paper poudre is a beauty essential,” she said handing me one of the sheets. “Watch and do as I do. Gently pass it powder side down over your face. This will cleanse and refresh your skin, removing all facial ‘oil and dust’ leaving your face shine free and fresh. Ah, perfect! See! You’ll be a lady in no time.”

She applied a thin layer of foundation to her face and mine, then dabbed and blended a soft pink rouge on her cheeks and mine followed with a hint of facial powder. Before leaving her dressing table, Grammy applied a muted plum colored lipstick to the graceful curvature of her tiny lips.

“Remember,” Grammy said taking my hands in hers, “A lady never leaves her house without putting on her face. It’s undignified!”
Grammy slipped into her yellow chiffon dress, draped her pink pearl necklace around her neck, and clasped the matching clip-on earrings into place. “One other thing,” she said as she took one last look at herself in the mirror, “jewelry should complement your outfit, not distract from it. Matching earrings are a ‘must’.”

With my frilly, petticoated dress freshly starched and ironed, I followed Grammy to the garage where we boarded her newly washed and waxed Chrysler Crown Imperial, making the drive to Nieman’s in record time. I stood outside staring at the luxurious, time-worn building imagining I was standing inside a Paramount Movies studio set.

“Are you coming?” Grammy tugged on my dress sleeve. “We mustn’t be late for the fashion show! Placing my hand in hers, she said, “Now honeybunch, walk with your head held high, like you were made of magic.”

Together we entered the department store, a temple of polished brass and hushed sales whispers. I paused momentarily, gawking at the exquisite crystal chandelier above me. Grammy and I floated from department to department, her gloved hand resting on my shoulder. We weren’t there to buy, not really. We were there to observe, absorb the atmosphere, and bask in the aura of elegance.

We stopped at a rack of sleeveless dresses. “Now, darling,” she began, her voice a low, melodic rumble, “Remember, a lady of ‘a certain age’ never, ever wears sleeveless dresses.” Her gaze swept over the mannequin’s bare arms, a dismissive flick in her eyes, “Skin loses its elasticity as you age. It sags and is simply unbecoming.”

I nodded, absorbing her truth. My ten-year-old arms suddenly felt vulnerable, anticipating time’s inevitable betrayal.

Next we navigated the mazelike cosmetics department. “Never neglect your appearance,” she instructed, her voice a soft whisper as she dabbed a sample of eye cream on the back of her hand. “Even if you’re just popping out for milk, you never know who you might run into. Besides, looking your best is a sign of respect, both for yourself and others.”

The pièce de résistance of our Nieman Marcus expedition was the fashion show and lunch at the Zodiac Room, a world of white tablecloths, tinkling silverware, and discreet waitstaff. The maître de seated us at a window table overlooking the city, the sun glistening off the skyscrapers like scattered diamonds.

The room was teeming with fashionable women wearing pill box hats, white gloves, tight-waisted dresses, and high heels. I watched models sashay from table to table presenting the latest in-vogue fashions. I inhaled the restaurant’s hypnotizing aroma, one of delicately scented lace and expensive French sachets.

Our creamy tomato soup arrived, and Grammy took a small, elegant sip. “Pay attention,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling. “Never slurp your soup; it’s unrefined!” She then demonstrated a delicate dipping motion, the spoon barely grazing the surface of the soup before bringing it to her lips. I mimicked her, trying to emulate her seemingly effortless grace.

I turned my head just as a pencil-thin model strolled by our table wearing a pair of tightly fitted Capri pants and a sleeveless, polka-dotted blouse.

“What a delightful spring outfit! I’m too old to wear something that flashy,” she said with lament in her voice. “At my age, my arms are flabby.” She removed her Chantilly lace shawl and jiggled the loose skin on her right arm. “See. An old lady’s arm jiggles. A lady over 50 never wears anything sleeveless. It’s unbecoming!” Grammy draped her shawl back over her shoulder, continuing to nibble on her sandwich. “Besides, my stomach pooches out; a lady never wears pants if her stomach pooches out. Never!” She grimaced. “It’s tasteless!”

After lunch, we walked arm and arm back to her Crown Imperial, the magic of the day enveloping me. A lifetime has passed since Grammy introduced me to the finer points of ladyhood. Her tidbits of wisdom stayed with me; they were precious gems much like her pink pearls that expressed her vision of the beauty and grace of womanhood.

As I grew into ‘ladyhood,’ I often wondered whatever happened to her pink pearls. Then one day shortly after Grammy’s passing, I received an unexpected package from my aunt. Inside I discovered Grammy’s vintage Chantilly lace shawl which held the lingering lilt of her lavender perfume. I gingerly unfolded the shawl; and, there to my surprise, were Grammy’s pink pearls. Taped to the lid of the box was her handwritten note to me. “I hope you enjoy wearing these pink pearls as much as I did. Remember, always be a lady!”