Free Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher

the money he’d spent, for sure. He mumbled a kind of apology to me about forcing me on that trip. And that was enough for me. We all have our own ways of dealing with loss and with life. If I didn’t want anyone judging me, who was I to judge anyone else for their beliefs and coping mechanisms?

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Style on One Leg
    M y first style role model was my mom’s best friend, Sarah. She was six feet tall, gorgeous, sexy, and dressed with the vibrant palette of a peacock. Her fashion coda was cutting edge. As the saying goes, “Talent can hit a target no one else can hit; genius hits a target no one else can see.” Sarah had a kind of style genius. She knew how to make the most of her assets and hide any flaws. I studied her style. She would show up at our apartment in New York or the house in Jamaica in tight scoop-neck dresses, cool jeans and chambray button-down shirts, amazing thick winter sweaters over tights.
    In comparison, Mom’s style was impeccable. It was classic and elegant, not risqué and sexy. She looked neat and crisp. Picture Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour, with a little Jackie O. thrown in. Sarah entered a room like a ball of fire. She reeked of sex. In my high school phase of experiencing first love, first sex, and passion,I aspired to be as cool and sexy as Sarah was. My mother’s elegant, classic, timeless style was a look I saved for later in life when I became a mom.
    Along with inspiration, Sarah gave me reassurance. Every Christmas, Sarah, her husband, Gary, and their son, Bryce, would come to Jamaica for the holiday. Like her outfits, her compliments were way over the top. “Look at Aviva. She’s gorgeous! Look at that body! That tiny waist, those broad shoulders. Does her hair dry like that naturally?” she asked. “Oh, God, she’s stunning,” she’d go on and on. All afternoon, she’d sing my praises.
    It was somewhat embarrassing to have my body dissected by my parents’ friends, but my self-esteem was being built. A pioneer in fashion who worked with models all day long found me to be beautiful. The attention made me squirm, but I liked it, too. People weren’t averting their eyes or staring at only the part of me that was missing. They were looking at other distinctions.
    “Look at Aviva’s eyebrows,” said Sarah. “She looks just like Brooke Shields.” At the time—the early eighties—there was no greater compliment than being compared to Brooke Shields. I looked nothing like her, but it didn’t matter. My face—my bushy eyebrows—were the topic of discussion. Not the leg.
    Sarah and her cohorts might’ve been going overboard to puff me up, but I was fine with the inflated compliments. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a scrawny, geeky kid with big teeth, baby giraffe knees, and a bony chest. But Sarah made me feel pretty.
    Beauty was an objective measure. I wouldn’t dare hold myself up to anyone’s beauty standard. Pretty, however, was not a standard. Pretty was a feeling. We all know what it means to feel pretty—and to not feel pretty. Sarah gave me an excellent education by the pool in Jamaica on pretty as an emotion. When I felt it, I stood a littlestraighter. Self-consciousness about my leg was replaced by a bashful pride. She showed me how to isolate and strengthen that emotional muscle. I developed it as I grew up, using her stylish example.
    •  •  •
    My number-one aesthetic goal as a kid was to cover my leg. That meant tights, leggings, long pants—and boots. The prosthesis was bulky around my ankle. It looked like I had one elephant ankle and one gazelle. I couldn’t wear Nikes. The top part of the shoe came up too high. The only sneakers that fit were Keds, which were babyish and uncool. When I was in third or fourth grade, our family went to London for a vacation. My parents took me to the famous British cobbler John Lobb. He made custom lace-up leather boots for me. The look said “Artful Dodger meets Eliza Doolittle.”