My father belonged to the Royal Automobile Club in London when I was a girl. He was one of its more unlikely members. A former WWII navy pilot who grew up in rural New Jersey, he sported a crew cut and spoke with an American accent rather than the plummy Oxbridge tones favored in those gilded rooms. On Sundays, RAC members were permitted to bring their families to eat in the Moorish dining room or swim in the Grecian pool. (During the week, the men bathed there naked.) One lucky Sunday, when I was not quite eleven, I was the family member who got to go.
In my bedroom, watched over by my posters of Mike Nesmith and Marc Bolan, I rolled up my sensible black one-piece bathing suit in a checkered towel, found my swim cap, and put them in a bag for my dad to carry. I planned to dress up for the occasion, and I refused to be burdened with a plain old canvas shopping bag. My oldest sister (the future college professor) was featuring bohemian styles at the time—embroidered coats, peasant blouses. My second sister (the future union president) favored a uniform of orange pants and an earth-toned brown shirt, which she wore almost every single day.
But for me, ten years old in the spring of 1970, dressing up for the RAC meant wearing my go-to trendy ensemble of the season: tomato-red bell-bottom pants and thigh-length matching vest, coupled with a psychedelic blouse, and finished with white patent leather shoes with large silver buckles. (Note that the buttons on the vest were also silver.)
I rocked that look.
Dad and I drove up to London, found a parking space on a street off Pall Mall, and hand in hand, sauntered up to the entrance of the club. When we arrived at the imposing stone edifice, which looks not unlike Buckingham Palace, I flashed a big grin at the uniformed doorman and followed my father through the polished door. Our arrival, which should not have caused a stir, did. The club manager glided swiftly over to us and stopped my father with the hushed words, “I’m sorry, sir. We have a strict no-trouser rule for ladies.”
A strict no-trouser rule for ladies. Of ten.
Women have been told how to dress since they could walk upright. Shirts can’t be too tight. Or too loose—I recently discovered that in eighteenth-century Paris, a loose dress signaled sexual availability. Skirts cannot, of course, be too high. Or too low. Nor can heels. Heads must be covered. Heads must be uncovered. Heads must be bowed. Even as I write this, a controversy is swirling about two young girls barred from air travel because their pants were not the “right” pants. As you read this, there will likely be another.
My father, fighting mad, led me out of the club. “That’s not a good rule,” he said. “Let’s get you a dress.”
“How about if I take my pants off?” I countered.
This, we both agreed, was a superb idea. We would comply with their bad rule by subverting it. Plus, I’d get to wear a micro-miniskirt. We walked back to the car, I slipped into the backseat, and with my father acting as guard, I shimmied out of my pants and emerged in my vest, compliant with the no-trouser rule. We walked back to the club and were granted immediate admittance, and I had my swim in the pool. There were no naked men.
WOMEN HAVE BEEN TOLD HOW TO DRESS SINCE THEY COULD WALK UPRIGHT. SHIRTS CAN'T BE TOO TIGHT. OR TOO LOOSE.… SKIRTS CANNOT, OF COURSE, BE TOO HIGH. OR TOO LOW. NOR CAN HEELS. HEADS MUST BE COVERED. HEADS MUST BE UNCOVERED. HEADS MUST BE BOWED.
WOMEN OF MY ERA HAVE BECOME EXPERT AT FINDING WAYS AROUND BAD RULES: THE ONES THAT SAY WE GET PAID LESS THAN MEN, THAT OUR WORK IS NOT AS VALUED, THAT WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO GOVERN OUR OWN THOUGHTS OR BODIES.
The moral of this story is not that it’s time to stop making rules about how women dress. That we already know.
The moral of this story is that—at ten years old—I was already good at the work-around, because I was a girl. Women of my era have become expert at finding ways around bad rules: the ones that say we get paid less than men, that our work is not as valued, that we don’t know how to govern our own thoughts or bodies. As girls, we took in very early that we needed to resort to the work-around if we were to be granted access as equals. Or to be granted access at all.