From the earliest of ages, at first with my mother’s help, and then alone, I made my own clothes: dresses, blouses, shorts, trousers, nightclothes, I made them all. Years later, I made my maternity clothes, too, including what I considered to be my masterpiece, a fully lined woolen cloak which I wore throughout my two winter pregnancies. When I had two boys two years apart, I often inherited from friends clothes their children had outgrown. Just as well my sons didn’t require party dresses and the like, because I didn’t have time to make clothes for myself and the boys. In any case, my sons were soon at school wearing their regulation school uniform. I continued making my own clothes well into my 40s and 50s by which time I was living here in Ottawa, Canada.
I had been brought up to be frugal, a habit that has proved almost impossible for me to cast aside, even though my husband assures me that I can buy whatever I need. For me, purchasing a brand-new garment goes against the grain, if I can save money by making it or by buying it gently used. To this day, although I do buy some items from regular stores, I still find it hard to do so, often preferring to shop in consignment and thrift stores. We didn’t have such stores in Rhodesia, though.
I will never forget the day that my mother and I went to buy… yes, buy… a dress for me to wear to a special event. I can’t even remember the occasion for which the dress was required. Perhaps it was the last school dance of my high school years. We didn’t have graduation ceremonies and celebrations as do the students here in Canada. Maybe my mother didn’t have time to make a dress for me and perhaps she thought I deserved a purchased dress. After all, I was the Head Girl of my school in Salisbury. She knew I didn’t have the time to make anything, because I had been and still was studying hard, whilst also coping with my school responsibilities as Head Girl, overseeing 36 prefects and sub-prefects. We had so many duties to perform. Our tasks included organizing this final school dance! I was rushed off my feet.
My mother and I set off one Saturday morning to visit the few dress stores that existed in central Salisbury. Inventory was somewhat limited because the Rhodesian Prime Mnister had recently declared an illegal Universal Declaration of Independence from Britain. International sanctions were already affecting availability of goods.
I remember being uncomfortable with the obsequious flattery of the sales lady. I didn’t approve of her advocating various items in awful colours which I knew did not suit me but were appealing to her because they were the most expensive in her stock. I didn’t like her looking me over, touching me, adjusting things here and there. I wasn’t confident because I felt so out of place. I knew that I would never look like a regular young lady of the times because I didn’t sport the long straight hair in fashion during the 60s. No way would I ever look like the pop singer Cher, for instance. Instead, I had a mop of tightly curled hair, which was anything but styled, since my untrained mother had cut it for my entire life.
However, I was excited when my mother and I found an affordable dress that suited me. I recognized that this dress was perfect for me: ice blue satanized cotton, princess style with a slightly flared knee-length skirt. The colour brought out the blue of my eyes which contrasted strongly with my dark brown curls. The dress wasn’t strapless, sequined, slinky, or sexy, and certainly not like a graduation gowns an 18-year-old might wear today to a Grad Ball. I suspect that such dresses would have been considered unacceptable in Rhodesia in those days, not only by the school authorities, but also by my parents and by me. No, on the contrary, my dress was modest and very simple, but to me it was special because it was a purchased dress, not hand-made by my mother or by me.
I can still see that dress in my mind’s eye even now, all these decades later. It was unique, but not because of its design, its colour or its fabric. No, it was unique in the literal sense: the only dress that I ever had purchased for me. No wonder I haven’t forgotten it.
