caught her reflection in a nearby mirror. She looked slightly dismayed and smoothed a wrinkle where the skirt crept up over her ample hips. “I’ll just check on Amanda,” she said, running for the back of the store.
Lacey was left to linger at the balcony and enjoy a view of the Georgetown sidewalk scene, a parade of wealthy foreign tourists, university students, and the ladies who lunched. The occasional panhandler crossed into view, equal parts despair and salesman-ship, asking for dollars, not change, and being polite, as required by D.C. ordinance. With a bird’s-eye view of the action, Lacey noticed a man stride boldly into the salon as if he owned it. In fact, Brad Powers did own it, with his wife, Yvette. Lacey recognized him from his photos in the social and business pages.
Belying his expressive blue eyes, his shiny shaved head and his silk suit gave him the air of an expensive thug. His skull had the first hint of a five-o’clock shadow: From the balcony Lacey could see exactly where his receding hairline stopped.
Powers called for his wife and took her by the arm. Lacey could not hear them, though their gestures and expressions betrayed an argument. She noticed that he and Yvette were the same buttery-tan color. Dyed to match, she thought. The fashionable postmodern couple. They moved out of view.
She turned her attention to the delicate wisps of fabric that fluttered from their hangers, the chic little dresses of Chrysalis. They were arranged in small artistic groupings and equally small sizes. It was October outside, but it seemed to be some sort of springtime of the mind inside. Chrysalis, of course, was the perfect symbol for Amanda Manville, the pupa transformed into a butterfly. The colors ran from pale pinks, blues, and lavenders to jewel colors of sapphire blues and deep greens, in velvets, silks, and polished cottons. Many of the dresses were cut on the bias, a mixture of velvet and chintz, offbeat yet with a winsome charm.
The clothes were affordable, Lacey supposed, if you were a Georgetown University student with a very healthy allowance. Or a TFB, a trust-fund baby, like so many Washington interns and staffers. And heaven knew, there was no dearth of wealthy university students and interns. They could be seen everywhere, networking on their cell phones in their Volvos and BMWs. A skirt that cost $300 and a simple cotton dress that topped $550 were nothing to them, though it would certainly strain a reporter’s paltry budget. At least a reporter who worked at The Eye .
They were the kind of dresses that The Washington Post fashion editor would probably lament as being “pretty enough” and then muse somberly whether it was “enough to be pretty.” As far as Lacey was concerned, Washington fashion could always use a little prettying up. The city itself, she reflected, with its malls and monuments, was always stunning, although choked with traffic and burdened with its odd mix of tourists, lobbyists, lawyers, bureaucrats, wonks, and weirdos.
The question was, Would women in Washington buy them? It did seem that a small conspiracy of color had recently taken hold of the retailers. Everywhere display windows featured pink and blue and yellow, as if to slap back at the troubles pressing in on the nation. Perhaps even in Washington women craved clear blue skies, the rosy dawn of optimism, blazing yellow sunshine, and Code Green days. And a few brave men had even been sighted wearing pink preppy shirts.
Occasionally Lacey sighted one of these color rebels. Just the day before, there was a young blonde on the Metro wearing a black coat and shocking-pink Wellingtons, even though it wasn’t raining. But maybe she was just a tourist from California, the land of neon.
Lacey made her way back to the staging area for the interviews, where pale curtains hung behind a semicircular stage. Giant photos of the beautiful Amanda framed the space. Angular modern gray chairs, ugly and painful, were set
Lacey was left to linger at the balcony and enjoy a view of the Georgetown sidewalk scene, a parade of wealthy foreign tourists, university students, and the ladies who lunched. The occasional panhandler crossed into view, equal parts despair and salesman-ship, asking for dollars, not change, and being polite, as required by D.C. ordinance. With a bird’s-eye view of the action, Lacey noticed a man stride boldly into the salon as if he owned it. In fact, Brad Powers did own it, with his wife, Yvette. Lacey recognized him from his photos in the social and business pages.
Belying his expressive blue eyes, his shiny shaved head and his silk suit gave him the air of an expensive thug. His skull had the first hint of a five-o’clock shadow: From the balcony Lacey could see exactly where his receding hairline stopped.
Powers called for his wife and took her by the arm. Lacey could not hear them, though their gestures and expressions betrayed an argument. She noticed that he and Yvette were the same buttery-tan color. Dyed to match, she thought. The fashionable postmodern couple. They moved out of view.
She turned her attention to the delicate wisps of fabric that fluttered from their hangers, the chic little dresses of Chrysalis. They were arranged in small artistic groupings and equally small sizes. It was October outside, but it seemed to be some sort of springtime of the mind inside. Chrysalis, of course, was the perfect symbol for Amanda Manville, the pupa transformed into a butterfly. The colors ran from pale pinks, blues, and lavenders to jewel colors of sapphire blues and deep greens, in velvets, silks, and polished cottons. Many of the dresses were cut on the bias, a mixture of velvet and chintz, offbeat yet with a winsome charm.
The clothes were affordable, Lacey supposed, if you were a Georgetown University student with a very healthy allowance. Or a TFB, a trust-fund baby, like so many Washington interns and staffers. And heaven knew, there was no dearth of wealthy university students and interns. They could be seen everywhere, networking on their cell phones in their Volvos and BMWs. A skirt that cost $300 and a simple cotton dress that topped $550 were nothing to them, though it would certainly strain a reporter’s paltry budget. At least a reporter who worked at The Eye .
They were the kind of dresses that The Washington Post fashion editor would probably lament as being “pretty enough” and then muse somberly whether it was “enough to be pretty.” As far as Lacey was concerned, Washington fashion could always use a little prettying up. The city itself, she reflected, with its malls and monuments, was always stunning, although choked with traffic and burdened with its odd mix of tourists, lobbyists, lawyers, bureaucrats, wonks, and weirdos.
The question was, Would women in Washington buy them? It did seem that a small conspiracy of color had recently taken hold of the retailers. Everywhere display windows featured pink and blue and yellow, as if to slap back at the troubles pressing in on the nation. Perhaps even in Washington women craved clear blue skies, the rosy dawn of optimism, blazing yellow sunshine, and Code Green days. And a few brave men had even been sighted wearing pink preppy shirts.
Occasionally Lacey sighted one of these color rebels. Just the day before, there was a young blonde on the Metro wearing a black coat and shocking-pink Wellingtons, even though it wasn’t raining. But maybe she was just a tourist from California, the land of neon.
Lacey made her way back to the staging area for the interviews, where pale curtains hung behind a semicircular stage. Giant photos of the beautiful Amanda framed the space. Angular modern gray chairs, ugly and painful, were set
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