Chapter 1 – The end of the line?
I just couldn't stand it anymore. When I got the email from Leroy telling me he never wanted to see me again, I just fell apart. He was the only guy who'd contacted me from the dating site, and I'd really hoped that we would hit it off. After just one date, when I thought we'd gotten along fine, he just dumped me. Not even face-to-face, but by email.
You see, I've never had a boyfriend. When I was at school, my parents were so strict; I was never allowed to bring anyone home. The boys, and some of the other girls, made fun of me at school because of my geeky hair and big glasses. So I got more and more neurotic. My folks never had any money to send me to college, so I started as a secretary as soon as I left school.
I know I'm a good secretary. Mr Rogers, my boss, has employed me as his personal assistant for nearly four years. He's been kind and pleasant, and he relies on me for lots of things, but I don't think he ever really thought of me as a woman. It seems very few men do. But then, I suppose I wasn't really a woman at all.
You see, when Leroy dumped me, I was forty-six years old. Yeah, I knew I was overweight, that my hair was mousey, that my dress sense was poor. My self-esteem was about as low as it could get. No man had ever found me attractive enough to take out on more than three dates. And the thing that upset me the most was that at forty-six, I was still a virgin.
I'd tried speed-dating, Internet sites, agencies – nothing. Absolute nada. I didn't even have many girlfriends to turn to. I just went home every night, desperately seeking for someone, anyone, who would be nice to me. But no-one ever was.
As I sat there, sobbing at my desk, Mr Rogers walked in. He's a nice guy; not what you'd call classically handsome, maybe a little skinny, but not bad looking. He's around forty, has quite a few lines on his face from the worry he has at work, I suppose, and his hair is a sort of tight, curly iron grey, but I think it makes him look distinguished. Anyway, he's better looking than bald, fat Leroy. And Mr Rogers runs his own company, while Leroy drives a truck.
But I knew I'd get nowhere with Mr Rogers. See, he's married, and his wife's real pretty, and he has two nice kids. Their pictures are on his desk. But he's kind, sympathetic. I think he likes me as a person. Only, he's my boss, so I couldn't really confide in him.
Anyway, on this particular day, I was an emotional wreck. The fact that I got dumped by a fat jerk like Leroy was the final straw. I was seriously thinking of ending it all.
Mr. Rogers passed me a box of tissues, and asked me what was wrong, waited until I stopped sobbing and asked me again. I explained that my latest date had dumped me, and he got all sympathetic and said not to worry, there'd be other guys out there. That's when I really fell apart. When I realized where I was, I had my head on his chest and my tears had made his shirt wet. When I could speak, I just blurted it out; no boyfriend, ever; no likelihood of getting one; a very high likelihood of dying a virgin.
He took my glasses off me, dried my eyes, held my shoulders gently, and repeated my name several times until I finally looked into his face. "Look, Vicky," he said gently, "I think I can help you with your problem, but you're going to have to trust me and do what I tell you. Do you really want things to change?"
"Oh Mr. Rogers, I want to change everything about my life – except working for you. I just don't know where to start."
He smiled, kindly. "Vicky, I think I can help you make yourself more attractive to men, but you have to make some changes. Not all of them are gonna be easy. Look," he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Take the morning off, go to that hairdresser's across the street and tell them to restyle your hair and do your make up. And also, to show you how to do it yourself. This ought to cover it." He pulled out two hundred bucks. "Let them do whatever they suggest is best for your face shape and hair texture. Come back and show me when you're done."
"Mr. Rogers" I blurted out. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"
"Vicky, it's my pleasure. But before you get too carried away, this is just the start. Getting your hair and makeup done isn't going to change you into someone who's going to attract the guys overnight. But when you come back, I hope you'll feel better, and we can talk about a plan to make it work out better for you. What do you say?"
He smiled so nicely that I began to well up again. He gave me some more tissues and said "Vicky, just stop crying and get over there. See how much better you'll feel when you get back."
And I did. The looks I got when I went in were quite mortifying; like 'what's this that's just crawled in'. True, my hair was straggly and greying and all over the place, and I hadn't had it properly styled in maybe ten years, just cut back to how it was before. And I didn't really have a clue with makeup. I mean, not a clue. But the girl who came over to me looked kind, and she smiled and asked what she could do. I think she could see I'd been crying. I said I needed a complete makeover, someone to make me look a whole heap better than I did, and could she help. There was a fleeting look of 'well, I couldn't do any worse', before she ran her hand through my hair and looked at me closely from several directions.
"Sure, I can help a lot. You need to get this colored – I'd suggest some reds and mid-browns - and cut short around here. Then you need your eyebrows plucked and some work on your skin. It'll cost a couple of hundred. Is that OK?"
"Sure – er, what's your name?"
"Ashlyn. What's yours?" She smiled. She was young and pretty, and I envied her for it.
"My – my name's Vicky. Look, Ashlyn, just do what you need. I trust you to cut and color my hair and do my face and whatever. I just want to change how I look for the better. Can you really do that?"
"Sure. Just take a seat over here."
So Ashlyn set about changing my look. She cut and colored my hair, like she said. She plucked my eyebrows, exfoliated and cleansed and moisturized and God knows what else. When I finally looked in the mirror, I definitely looked heaps better, maybe at least five years younger. "You know, I think you'd look better without the glasses, Vicky" Ashlyn added as I paid her – and tipped her generously. "I got my eyes lasered, but my sister wears contacts and they work fine for her."
I thanked her for her advice, and she smiled at me – a sort of buddy smile, rather different from the one she gave me when I arrived. I went back to the office – it was now nearly one pm – and presented myself for Mr. Rogers to inspect.
