Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times (13 page)

The women in my family have certain traits: height, prominent noses, and the ability to rationalize spending extra, just once in a while, when there is no extra to be spent.
Because
. I got some of their height and all of the nose, but I thought that last characteristic was missing in me. It wasn’t; I just didn’t realize that it only wakes up when we begin to measure ourselves by money, or the lack of it. It’s not a reflexive kick of denial about having less. It’s a deep breath reminding us not to become miserly in spirit. We may be broke, but we’re not poor.

The French raisins are a revelation. They look and taste like jewels. Nana would have loved them.

YOUR MAKEUP AT WORK: Dewy. Natural eyebrows, and if penciled, carefully, carefully—never obviously. If you use eyeliner, only on upper lid, never lower. Never go without lipstick; it only makes you look washed out. Nothing looks better than a slightly rosy red mouth
.

HOW YOU SMELL AT WORK: No perfume—ever. Baby oil and talcum powder for you. Delicious
.

From “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!”

by Matilda Kallaher

• • •

Nana was a showstopper. She fit the stereotypical grandma profile in only one respect: her white hair. But she wore it stylishly short, with a Marilyn Monroe wave swooping down over one eye. She was incredibly chic—one of the first things people said about her, and still do, is how elegant she was. You’d never know she came from a family so perpetually broke she’d nearly starved to death, and that was the point.

When I was five I wanted to be fifty-five so I could look like Nana. She would let me wear her dresses and her jewelry, and I couldn’t wait for the day my hair would turn white like hers. She wasn’t a beauty—that was my mother, and even as a kid I sensed I’d never be as traffic-stoppingly gorgeous as Mom was. What Nana had was more attainable: a sense of style. She’d taken what she had and made the most of it.

She started with fine manners. “If you want to get along with everybody at a cocktail party,” she told my mother, “don’t discuss sex, politics, or religion.” (Unless a party was dull, that is; then she’d take gentle swipes at both politics
and
religion. “When all else fails,” she told Mom, “kick the chandelier.”) Then she dressed impeccably, though she never owned expensive clothes. She took note of what was in fashion and
found something similar for less money at bargain department stores like Loehmann’s and Alexander’s, or she stuck with classics and let inexpensive costume jewelry reflect the current trend. Last and most important, Nana made sure everything she wore fit her hourglass figure perfectly.

After a trip to Alexander’s, she’d stop at Papaya King, a hot dog stand, for two dogs with mustard and sauerkraut and a papaya drink. Then she would treat herself to a taxi home. (“She saved money on clothes and food, but she lived rich,” says my godmother Barbara.)

After she turned fifty, Nana wouldn’t wear black scarves or tops: “It drains the life out of a woman’s face,” she said. She never, ever went anywhere without her lipstick (shocking pink was her color), advice she shared with young secretaries in that article she wrote in the 1960s called “You’ve Got to Be a Bitch to Get Ahead!” She did her manicures herself, and she always cut her own hair.

• • •

I used to get my hair cut by a stylist—once they start using that title instead of “hairdresser” they’re
charging serious cash, and this one was no exception. She billed three hundred dollars for a cut, and I never would have gone to her if I’d had to pay that much money. But I got a discount for having been a loyal customer since the days when her fee was a mere two hundred, and another because I put in a good word for her with beauty editors in the magazine industry. My defense for the still-high expenditure was that with my curly/wavy/frizzy hair I needed an expert. Also, I saved money on hair color since I was letting my greys come in, hoping to fulfill my childhood dream of having hair like Nana’s.

I got no such discounts on skincare products, but I had sensitive skin that needed two special cleansers, one with pineapple and papaya for morning, and a creamy one for evening, along with an oil-free moisturizer for summer and a heavier one for winter. After that, what was another seventeen dollars for a good, alcohol-free toner?

My signature scent was an eau de toilette that goes for a relatively inexpensive fifty bucks per ounce. I changed it a few summers ago, and one day Nathan hugged me and suddenly looked sad. “I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You smell different.” I ran back to
the perfume counter and bought two bottles of the old fragrance.

Every six weeks or so was Eyebrow Day at the magazine, when an expert would come into the office to tweeze and shape our brows. As with most questionable indulgences, the first taste was free, but after that I cheerfully handed over forty dollars every time the plucker lady came to visit.

During especially hectic deadline weeks, I might treat myself to a massage at the health club that was very conveniently located in our office building.

Doing these things, and having the money to do them in the first place, made me feel like I’d arrived. But there was a limit; I always did my own pedicures. I didn’t see the point in spending twenty bucks at the salon when I did a better job myself.

• • •

DECEMBER 2008

HUDSON COUNTY, NEW JERSEY

Just as my eating habits changed when I stopped having lunch in the company cafeteria, my beauty routine has been modified somewhat now that I’m self-employed
(which sounds so much better than
un
employed). In December I had one last salon hurrah with a hairdresser—note title change—who charged half of what my old stylist did even after my discounts. These days I wait until I get the five-dollars-off coupon at the drugstore before I buy my new, cheap skincare products, which, to my surprise and chagrin, work just as well as the expensive stuff. (Mom is also cutting back wherever she can, but she’s not going along with me on this one: “I’d rather go without food than my face cream.”) Every other week or so is Eyebrow Day at my home office, where I pluck anything that strays outside of what I remember the expert’s outline was for my brows. I have bangs now, so no one can see them anyway if I make a mistake. I still make appointments for massages, and they’re very conveniently located in my building—right on our couch. While Nathan watches
Frontline
, he’ll grab my home-pedicured feet and knead my arches and toes for a while. It’s heavenly, and far more pleasurable than being Rolfed by a stranger.

Unfortunately, my hair is getting shaggy right around the same time that my cat Tootsie’s teeth are about to rot right out of her head.

In the past, these two events would have been completely unrelated. Now, with things being what they are, I can make an appointment with my hairdresser, or I can make an appointment with my veterinarian. But I feel like I can’t afford both.

(I pause here for a moment for a perspective check. There are a lot of people who can’t afford to get their
own
teeth fixed right now, much less their animals’. I feel very fortunate that we have enough money to keep all the teeth in our house, whether human or feline, present and accounted for.)

Of course, there’s no decision to be made. I’d give up my hair appointments forever and become the Wild Woman of Borneo before I’d let my cat be in pain or even have to forgo the crunchy kibble she likes so much. Nor will I repurpose my monthly donations to the ASPCA and the local food bank for this expense. I’ve had to cut down on the amount I give, but I refuse to cut charitable donations out completely. There have been too many stories of pets left behind in abandoned homes and last year’s food bank donors becoming this year’s recipients. Not giving while I still have something to give, no matter how little, is an inner beauty routine I won’t do without.

Besides, I know a hairdresser in Westchester who can give me a decent, simple bob. She’s been cutting her own hair for a long time, as did her mother before her. And after she cuts my hair, she’ll even make us some lunch and tell me another story about my family.

Oh, and the perfume? I’ve been rationing the last of the bottle I have, unable to bring myself to spend money that might be needed elsewhere. In its place I started using Nana’s suggested combination of baby oil and talcum powder and hoped that Nathan would still recognize me.

One night when we were about to fall asleep, he put his head on my chest and sighed. “You smell amazing,” he said.

APRIL 1952

THE BRONX, NEW YORK

Five years ago, I went back to work after being at home for fifteen years. During that time, I brought up two stepchildren, had a baby, and lost all contact with the world of business
.

Due to financial reasons (my husband is a carpenter, and that winter was very cold, so there was quite a bit of unemployment), I decided that, as the two older children were married and the youngster was now ten years old and a well-adjusted, self-reliant child, I would like to do something to earn some money
.

I found that even though I had a portable typewriter and had more or less kept up some typewriting speed all through the years, I completely lacked confidence. I answered one or two ads and actually felt like leaving before the interviews took place. Both times, I did not get the job; I know now why. In the first place, I was scared stiff and must have acted completely unconfident and awkward. Then, too, my appearance, although neat, was not as fashionable as it might have been. It’s a funny thing about employers: They seem to hire people who look as though they don’t need the job
.

From “Going Back to Work” by Matilda Kallaher

• • •

I once worked for a publishing house famous for its high-end fashion magazines, and just getting in the elevator in that building could kill my self-esteem for days. The women who worked there dressed like their desks were parked on a Parisian runway. Even the junior assistants, who made ramen noodle wages, wore thousands of dollars’ worth of couture borrowed from the magazines’ fashion closets. No one ever
looked up at the floor numbers in those cold steel boxes; they were all too busy giving each other’s outfits the once-, twice-, and thrice-overs. Having a recent college grad/couture model toss a disapproving glance at my shoes was a new type of job stress for me.

Well, now that I own the recession’s trendiest item—a pink slip—I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

Being jobless, though, has the potential to be almost uncomfortably comfortable. People always joked that one of the benefits of working at home was staying in your pajamas all day, but to me that just sounds depressing. The only other people I know who spend their days in pajamas are mental patients. And after a few weeks of not getting dressed for work, I’m beginning to feel like one myself.

• • •

Now let’s get to clothes. I don’t think anything in the world can make a woman feel better than to know she looks well
.

I am assuming that you have been staying at home and haven’t been going to business, and it is about your work clothes that we will be talking. The clothes you select to
wear on that job hunt are very important. They may determine whether or not you get the job
.

Navy blue always looks just right, without having the formality of black. A well-fitting plain dress, which I call a background dress, is a good investment. You can change its appearance with belts, pins, collars, scarves, twisted ropes of beads, etc
.

It is a much better plan to buy plain things that can be dressed up or down than it is to buy something with a trimming that will be remembered and can only be worn one way. Once you get into this habit of buying, you’ll be amazed at the reputation you will acquire for being exceptionally well-dressed
.

• • •

When Grandpa told Nana that they were moving to Saratoga, she went from being a career woman to a farmer’s wife in an instant. I haven’t had to trade a typewriter for a butter churn and the powder room for an outhouse, but I can still relate to her loss of identity. When people asked me what I did, as they tend to do, I loved saying, “I’m a writer.” Now that I wasn’t writing, I was … What? If an actress supports herself as a
waitress, is she an actress, or a waitress? And if a writer isn’t writing …? Like every person who throws themselves completely into their work and then loses their job, I’d arrived at a question: If I’m not what I do, then who am I?