Personal Grooming and Appearance

Personal Grooming and Appearance

Future Reflections January- February 1984, Vol. 3 No. 1
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PERSONAL GROOMING AND APPEARANCE
by Mary Ellen Reihing
I was the first girl born in our family, and by
the time I was five I had naturally curly, blonde
hair. My two older brothers played with trucks,
climbed trees, threw footballs, and did all the
other things boys at that age were expected to
do. My entire family thought that a dainty girl
would be a nice change of pace.
On that score I was a frustration from day one.
I refused to sit still while my mother laboriously
pinned up my hair. I rebelled at ruffles and
objected to skirts. I preferred the baseball
diamond to play-diamond rings, and building
blocks were far more appealing than tea sets.
Grown-ups used to talk about me. "Oh, isn't she
sweet. It's such a shame she can't see." I
wanted to be invisible. If looking nice meant
people notice me, I decided not to bother since I
wanted to go unnoticed.
My reluctance to worry about my appearance
also had a lot to do with my attitudes about
blindness. People often told me I was wonderful
because I could walk across a room unassisted.
I remember doing a personal experiment. I
deliberately wore something that I knew was
unbecoming and asked an adult how I looked.
"You look just lovely dear," the person said. I
knew better. When I asked the same person
how I looked on a day when I knew I had gone
to extra trouble to be presentable, the answer
was the same. I decided that it really didn't
matter what I did because I would get compliments
that I didn't trust anyway.
My parents were always careful to tell me
precisely how I looked and what I could do to
improve my appearance. When my mother said
I looked nice, I knew I did, or at least I knew she
thought I did. The closer I got to age thirteen,
the less I valued her judgment about anything.
So I rejected my most trustworthy fashion
critic just because she was my mom. (At the
time I hated being called a typical teenager, but
I guess I was.)
My brothers also felt no qualms about giving
me their opinions, and they didn't even wait to
be asked. "Sis, are you going to a dance, or are
you on your way to milk a cow?"
I really didn't understand what I had to gain
from trying to look my best I have always tried
to get the most results from the least possible
effort, and fiddling with jewelry and makeup
seemed to me to be a frivolous waste of energy. I
was easy to point to the results of an evening
spent studying. My grades were better if I
worked at it, but what grades would I get that
outweighed the pain of sleeping on rollers?
I entered high school during the late sixties and
was caught up in the "hippie generation." I
never adopted some of the extremes of dress of
that era, but I cheerfully informed anyone in
authority that it was fashionable to look like a
scrounge. I wore my hair long and straight or
pulled back into a severe ponytail. I donned
loose turtleneck sweaters and banished skirts
to the furthest recesses of my closet. I was
convinced that my case of acne was the worst
ever to have appeared on the face of the earth
and gave up trying to prevent growth of the
pimple population.
Still, there were time when I longed to be pretty.
I would wipe the cobwebs off the curlers and
pile my hair up on top of my head in ringlets. I
learned to apply make-up and took pride in
being able to "put on my face."
I was in college before I really began to understand
how much my appearance affected the
way I was treated. Understanding began to
dawn as I became increasingly active in the
work of the National Federation of the Blind.
At first I tried to look nice on special occasions
-- meetings with Congressmen and speeches
before organizations, conventions, and seminars.
The I began to realize that everyday was
a potential special occasion. I also began meeting
people who could give me clear feedback
about the effectiveness of my efforts, and information
about what was really fashionable.
It is painful to hear that my favorite white
blouse has become dingy grey and they my new
skirt makes me look twenty pounds heavier. I
don't like being told that there is a run in my
hose, especially when I already know it and am
hoping no one else will notice. But it is even
more painful not knowing these things.
Once, in my grubby college days, all my favorite
clothes combinations were in the laundry. I
dug to the bottom of the drawer and came up
with slacks and a shirt which I had never
combined before. I turned to my sleepy roommate
and asked if the colors matched. She said
they did, and I dressed and went happily on my
way. The combination was comfortable and I
liked it. It was not until the third time I wore it,
several weeks later, that someone told me the
truth. The colors combined nicely, but the
pants had a vertical strips while the shirt was
striped horizontally. On three occasions I had
gone around campus looking peculiar and no
one had the courtesy to tell me. After I confronted
my roommate, she said, "Well, the
colors did match." I learned not to ask her
opinion again.
From close observations of the people I trust, I
have learned something about the styles and
colors that look best on me. I also know what
feels comfortable, and I try to buy clothes that balance my comfort against the dictates of
others' opinions. A few simple tips help me
avoid embarrassment and save time and
trouble.
If I am going shopping alone, I try to set the
tone by dressing appropriately. If I want to buy
a suit, I wear another suit. If I want to buy
casual clothes, I go shopping in jeans. It is
surprising what a difference my apparel makes
in the selection the salespeople present to me.
I try to buy things which can be color coordinated
so that a small number of items can
be arranged to make my wardrobe seem larger.
It is positively dangerous to say to a clerk, "I
want something to go with my red skirt."
Instead, I wear the red skirt and say, "I want
something that will match this."
I like shopping with a friend I trust, but I have
developed enough self-confidence to go into a
department store alone. The first time, I tried it
because I had to have something in a hurry,
and there was no one available to go with me.
When I received compliments on my purchase,
I became a little bolder. I have been happier
with some purchases than others, but the same is true of clothes I bought while shopping with
a friend.
I can tell what I think of the judgment of a
salesclerk by asking her opinion about something
I see which I dislike. If she is willing to
say, "That doesn't make you look very good," I
know that she is interested in more than a
quick sale.
I try to ask someone I trust to look over my
wardrobe at the beginning of each season. We go over the color combinations, and I find out
about items which no longer look presentable.
I try to keep an extra white blouse on hand for
emergencies. You never know when a few drops
of coffee or a little bit of ketchup will ruin the
effect of an outfit. I try to have a navy skirt
available for the same reason.
It is almost impossible for me to keep from
looking disgusted when I learn that a spot
didn't come out in the wash. If I am too vocal
about my unhappiness, I will discourage my
friends from being honest with me. So I try to
say things like, "That's not something I enjoy
hearing, but I'm awfully glad to know it. Thank
you for telling me."
I still like to spend as little time as possible
dealing with my appearance. I avoid anything
that needs ironing. I wear my hair in a short,
"blow and go" style. I wear little or no makeup.
Much of what I have said has to do with my
personal approach and is not true of every
blind person. Some of the blind girls I knew in
elementary school seemed to have been born
with a tube of lipstick in one hand and a curling
iron in the other.
Parents should remember a few simple rules
when teching their blind children about their
appearance:
1. Let your child know that she will be noticed whether she likes it or not. She might as
well give the public something worth
looking looking at.
2. Be honest. You will cause more pain in the long run by withholding vital information
or telling little white lies.
3. Explain as much as you can about colors, patterns, and styles. Let your child look at
clothing in the store. Explain which styles
look best on her and why.
4. Be as generous with your compliments as you are with your criticisms. Your child
needs to know what she's doing right.
5. Don't fall into the trap of assuming that a blind child must have only white blouses to
avoid the possibility of clashing colors.
6. Don't worry as your child rejects all of your notions about styles when she reaches age
thirteen. In fact, though it may drive you
crazy, this is a sure indicator that your child
is typical.
Mary Ellen Reihing is an attractive, competent
young woman who is currently employed as
Assistant Director of the JOB (Job Opportunities
for the Blind) project operated out of
the NFB national office in Baltimore, Maryland.
Before becoming employed with the JOB
project, she was a Legislative Aid to the
Speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives
(now, Lieutenant Governor of Illinois); and
before that, a counselor working with blind
elderly, and blind multiple-handicapped
persons. Mary Ellen is one of the "RLF" babies
of the fifties. (RLF stands for retrolental fibroplasia.
It is caused by exposing a newborn -- often premature -- to a high concentration of
oxygen in an incubator. There were a large
number of children blinded by this until the
cause was definitely determined in 1954 and medical practices were changed to give an
infant only the amount of oxygen needed for
survival. RLF is not so common now, but still
occurs, particularly with extremely premature
infants.) Mary Ellen's parents joined with other
parents, when she was a young child, to help
bring about the first "mainstreaming" for blind
children in their Ohio community.
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