Primates of Park Avenue (16 page)

Because aggression is potentially dangerous and competitive signaling costly, it is now believed, female mammals, including primates, have learned over the eons to compete “under the radar.” That is, they inflict social rather than physical violence through coalitions, subtle signals, and nonphysical aggression. When female chimps exclude and ignore and harass a new female transfer to the troop, they are making their point—“You’re a rung below us”—without ever putting themselves or their offspring at physical risk the way an actual bodily assault could. Among human females, refusal to cooperate with someone, destruction of her reputation (so that others will refuse to cooperate with her), gossip, and social exclusion are all effective ways to devastate a potential competitor. And, because punishments are often delivered circuitously and simultaneously by several group members, there is no “defending” oneself. The nasty looks and holier-than-thou attitudes of the Queen of Queen Bees and her acolytes in the school halls and playgroups went unconfronted because they were subtle, compared to a punch to the solar plexus. But they were similar in their effectiveness.

Acutely aware of male’s taste for novelty, scientists have observed, female primates in established groups may be intensely vigilant about and hostile toward female newcomers, particularly when sex ratios are skewed in males’ favor, as they are so dramatically on the Upper East Side, where there are two reproductive females for every male. Escalated aggression between females, scientists who study it tell us, is reserved for just such intensely competitive situations, which yield high reproductive reward, or the defense (or perceived defense) of one’s mate status or one’s offspring. And the aggression is, as we saw with mice, “plastic,” that is, tailored to the specific environment, ecological conditions, and resources. That is why one mom, at soccer practice, refused to turn around or acknowledge me at all when I told her, three times, sitting just behind her, that my son would like to join the summer playgroup she was organizing. That is why, when another mom intervened and said, “Wednesday’s son, too,” the high-ranking mom said, back still turned to me, “
Fine
. Caroline, Nancy, Sarah, Pamela, Daniela, Julia, and
her.
” That is why, looking at the same white cotton embellished dress the fashion-forward mom had worn to drop-off in February, as it hung in my own closet, I felt that she had soaked it with her pee.

Even if this covert competition and aggression was less costly in the biological sense, it must be really
expensive
, I figured. What, I wondered aloud to Candace as our Cobb salads materialized before us, did one
do
in order to be a beautiful-enough woman with children in this world? And how much did it cost in actual dollars and cents? Candace’s hazel eyes, free of crow’s feet thanks to good genes, good diet, and some good, strategic recent Botox, lit up. “Let’s figure it out!” she suggested. Why hadn’t we thought of this before? Our salads were soon forgotten—this was more fun than eating. When we were done, our notes about what we guessed a Manhattan Geisha of the Upper East Side tribe I was studying did for and spent on her upkeep—based on conversations, observations, and a heavily padded version of what we did for ourselves—looked like this:

Head-to-toe analysis of cost of self-maintenance for high-mid- to high-ranking UES woman with kids in private school

Hair and
scalp

Haircut & color (5x/year @ $500) $2.5K and weekly blowout (@ $70 per, incl. tip) $3.5K = $6K

Hair & makeup stylist for events $150 x 10 = $1.5K

Consult and follow-up w/specialist who does not accept insurance, regarding hair loss due to color, stress, hormones, and/or autoimmune issues caused by stress and hormones = $2K

Face

Botox, Restylane, and fillers, quarterly ($1,000 x 4) = $4K

Monthly peel ($300 x 12) = $3.6K

Monthly facial ($250 x 12) = $3K

Brows: waxing, tweezing, sugaring, or stringing ($50/month x 12) = $600

Laser (for sun damage, collagen stimulation, etc.) = $2.5K

Facial skin care products (cleaner, moisturizer, serum, sunblock, eye cream) = $1.5K

Facial makeup = $1K

Body

Exercise classes = $3.5K

Personal trainer = $7.5K

Nutritionist = $1.5K

Juice cleanses weekly $75 (x 50, annually) = $3.5K

Mani/pedi = $2K

Massage = $9K if weekly; $4.5K if biweekly

Spray-on tan = $500

Spa getaway/s 2/year = $8K

Plastic surgery incl. breast augmentation, lipo = wild-card items

Wardrobe

Clothing

Seasonal F/W = $3K–20K

Seasonal SP/SU = $3K–20K

Events = $5K–20K

Resort/vacation

Hamptons = $5K

Palm Beach = $5K

Aspen (ski jacket, pants, hat/s, gloves) = $2.5K

Other

Shoes/boots = $5–8K

Bags = $5–10K

“Stupefying,” Candace pronounced as we tallied up the numbers and put our credit cards on the table. Something like $95K, on the low end, just to be beautiful enough and well enough dressed and well enough shod and sufficiently well tended to be in the game. “We are
not
telling our husbands,” she intoned seriously as we kissed goodbye and parted on the street. Although maybe that would be a good idea, since we were cheap dates in comparison to others we knew. “Hey!” she shouted seconds later from the window of the cab she had just hopped into: “We didn’t even count drivers and Uber to get to and from the stores and appointments!” She was right. But I didn’t have the appetite to revisit our figures. I felt dizzy. In spite of this fact, I had an outfit to plan, and some shopping to do.

And so I came to find myself puzzling over what to wear to a girls’ night in. I knew that many of the women I now spent time with hired hair and makeup artists, sometimes even to prep them for lunch at Rotisserie Georgette with girlfriends, and personal stylists to curate their wardrobes—for parties and events but also, astonishingly, for school pickup and drop-off. Manhattan retail is a byzantine, two-tier system, one to be worked and massaged by a knowledgeable insider if you want to get the only size 0 in the city. Anyone can walk into Prada. And that is why, in addition to a stylist, you “need” a dedicated salesperson at your store or stores of choice. She texts you photos of new arrivals you might like, and when you show up, puts you in the biggest dressing room and brings you water and champagne while you try the clothes on. Don’t have time to come in? She can send things to your home via messenger “on approval.” Many women wear them and return them after. Later in the season, your salesperson calls and whispers, “When can I
presale
you?” Translation: “When can you come in so I can let you have first crack at stuff that will be on sale in a month, that I can give you at sale price
now
?” The women of the tribe demanded special perks and plenty of privacy in their retail experiences, that’s for sure. Often there were charity events at exclusive boutiques after hours, where you could browse with friends at your side and a drink in your hand, and a portion of every dollar you spent was donated to a good cause—the Guggenheim, Children’s Aid, the Children’s Museum of the East End—you name it, it had a charity shopping night at Chanel, Lanvin, Dolce&Gabbana, or Dior.

Thanks to some “shopping for a cause events,” I was now able, rummaging through my tees and pants and rifling through my closet, to settle on a pair of bright pink snakeskin-patterned skinny trousers of stretchy denim, a simple, boxy white T-shirt with an embroidered red-and-black flower front and center, and a bright green Chanel knock-off jacket with fringe at the wrists and along the front placket. I knew that, incredibly, nothing about this getup would seem over-the-top to the women at Rebecca’s.

Now I just needed to figure out what to wear on my feet. Most of the homes I went to were by now “shoes off,” parents all over Manhattan having embraced the custom of not bringing street ick into the home via one’s soles. But I strongly suspected that, at this moms’ night in, we would be allowed to wear our shoes. It would make these women feel too vulnerable, I figured, to forfeit the reassuring sensation of being a little taller and a little skinnier. Being barefoot would make them feel undone and exposed. Rebecca would know that. Pulling out the sling-back bootie I always wore “out,” I saw hat tits heel was cracked. There wasn’t time to get it fixed at Leather Spa and I didn’t have a lot of options in my closet. And so I found myself at one of the tribe’s two fashion altars: Barney’s. The one on Madison, of course.

“All shoes are six hundred dollars,” the salesman observed with a shake of his head as I tried on the ravishing beauties in every heel height and configuration he had chosen when I told him about the evening in my near future—D’Orsay pumps, stilettos, stacked heels—and gasped at the numbers. “And all boots,” he added as I anxiously flipped over a supple navy suede boot I liked to check the price affixed to its sole, “are twelve hundred.” Now he peeled back the tissue paper from a Christian Louboutin open-toed, platform sling-back mule of black suede with red and pink stripes and observed sagely, “These are
sick
.”

This last shoe was indeed a winner, like a piece of candy for the feet, yet sturdy enough that I didn’t wobble on it. And it was on sale. Still, I fretted that, given its height and the way it pinched my left big toe, it wasn’t precisely a wise investment. “You could always just wear them for short periods,” the salesman mused. “And if you have a longer evening ahead of you, you could get one of those
injections
.”

Come again?

Hadn’t I heard, he laughed, of the shots to numb your foot, or part of it, so you could do a whole night in a killer heel? Apparently there were podiatrists who acted as enablers of women with high-heel fixations here and in Hollywood, and they could fix me up—or rather, shoot me up—for a price. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, figuring the salesman was having me on. “For
realsies
.” He smiled as I surrendered my Amex, making the universal sign for “crazy” with his finger next to his ear.