Tonight is the culmination of a year of dress shopping, ladies’ brunches, boozy cocktail parties, elegant invitations, and old-fashioned and fancy debutante gifts like Tiffany pens and monogramed silver bells. At eight o’clock this evening, we’ll go to the final ball for Caroline and the other debutantes.
When I debuted, with Trip at my side, I spent the year in a perfumed cloud of southern elegance and warmth. I clinked glasses with my mother’s pals and waltzed with Tito’s less ancient chess partners. I feasted on crab cakes and caviar and drank as much champagne as I wanted. How lucky was I to have been born into a tribe that, whatever its shortcomings, celebrates its young women for the better part of a year? And with such pomp. I felt like a princess. I imagine Caroline feels the same way.
For the grand ball, Mom insisted that I have my hair professionally styled. After showing up with wet hair at Mom and Dad’s cocktail party for Caroline last month, I don’t have a case against it. I’ve been sitting in a sticky-hot vinyl chair for an hour. My hair has been blown, rolled, teased, and sprayed into a starchy mat.
The stylist is weaving my hair into a complicated series of knots reminiscent of nineties prom hair. Ouch. He rams another bobby pin into my scalp. The hair around my ears is pulled back so tight it gives me a facelift. My hair has been teased and jacked up into a fourth dimension, leaving my poor scalp pounding after all the yanking. Ouch.
The stylist jams another bobby pin next to my ear. I can smell his breath, which isn’t unpleasant; he’s been sucking on a peppermint the whole time. He steps back to admire his rococo creation, rolls the candy in his mouth, douses me in another cloud of hairspray, and looks to Mom for approval. They exchange triumphant smiles.
“Now, aren’t you glad you came?” Mom wears her usual winter uniform: slim pants and ankle boots. But today, with typical forethought, she’s traded her regular turtleneck for a buttoned blouse and zippered jacket, the better not to mess up her hair when she changes out of her clothes and into her ball gown.
“It looks really . . .” I search my image in the mirror, trying to find the right word. “Impressive.” At least I won’t be confused for a server tonight. “Thank you so much.”
He whips the black cape off my neck with a flourish. “Have fun, sweetie.”
Mom and I check on Caroline’s progress. She sits in the premier seat of the salon, facing the window. Passersby turn to catch a glimpse of this live-action primp session. Caroline’s stylist is still hard at work, flitting and darting around my little sister like a bee pollinating goldenrod.
“I have something special for you, Caroline.” Reverently, Mom pulls a drawstring sack from her purse and hands it to Caroline, who opens the satin satchel. Inside is the antique pearl necklace I know well: the string of the highest-quality, opalescent, freshwater pearls. I, of course, have Laudie’s watch, and I plan to wear it tonight. “Laudie wanted you to have this, especially for tonight.”
Caroline dips her head so that Mom can place the necklace around her slender neck. “It’s gorgeous, Mom.” Caroline twists her head, admiring her reflection at different angles. “The pearls are ginormous!”
Mom and Caroline study their nearly twin images in the mirror. Both smile serenely, and I’m struck by how much they not only look alike but are alike. Both are happy in a natural, uncomplicated way. Serenely they follow the cultural path laid out for them generations ago: one of cotillions, Battery Hall lunches, pearls, debutante balls, ladies’ teas, white weddings. They’re happy. I’m glad they’re happy.