Finding Myself in Fashion

by Jeanne Beker

  Most women would agree that our hairdressers are among our closest confidants, and a salon is tantamount to a port in a storm. This is where many of us truly “let our hair down,” gab and gossip, and don’t feel horrid about looking like something the cat dragged in, with gobs of dye in our unruly tresses, sans makeup, and frequently clad in schleppy attire. This is a kind of limbo, a place where we can allow ourselves to feel vulnerable. It’s the last place you would ever want to be judged, assessed, or presented. A deep wave of insecurity washed over me.

  “How long has she been here?” I asked, worried that the young woman may actually have witnessed my roots being done.

  “Oh, she just sat in my chair a minute ago,” Gregory reassured me.

  My eyes darted over to the familiar station. And my worst fears were confirmed. The person sitting in Greg’s chair was very tall. And very thin. And she had lovely, long hair that even looked good wet. I took a deep breath and mustered all the courage I could. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go over.”

  The moment I got to the chair, the young woman flashed a big smile and instantly stood up. Okay, I thought. At least she’s respectful. But God, she’s so young! My heart was beating like crazy. Gathering every ounce of grown-up in me, I stuck out my hand and said, “Well, hi there! Nice to finally meet you … I’ve heard so much about you!” This, in fact, was not true. I had hardly heard anything about her. But I had to say something.

  “Oh, and I’ve heard so much about you too!” she said, sounding especially nice and sincere.

  I guessed she had heard “so much about me” from the girls. It’s unlikely Denny would be very chatty about me. And then came that particularly awkward moment when we both just stood there grinning, with Gregory uncomfortably looking on. My mind was racing with thoughts of how preposterously young this woman looked and questions about what she could possibly have in common with Denny. Are they truly happy? I wondered. And does he treat her the way he treated me? Honestly, I just felt I had nothing to say to this woman, who actually struck me as kind of a girl, just because she really did look so … well, young. She also wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. Which made me feel even older. She looked like someone who could be Bekky’s friend. She looked like my boyfriend’s daughter. She looked like a schoolgirl, a child, a fetus, an embryo, a zygote. I marvelled at how there wasn’t a single line on her face. It was fresh, wholesome, and squeaky clean. I suddenly felt like somebody’s mother. And then I reminded myself that I was somebody’s mother.

  “Well, so … are you just … around?” I asked, trying to make conversation. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized they made no sense at all. I was so shocked to see her in the salon, sitting down for a haircut in the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn’t she be in school or something? Okay. Carried away again.

  “Oh, I just took the afternoon off work,” she informed me, then she went on to say something about going on a vacation.

  “So!” I said, not knowing where I was going at all. “You certainly have a really great hairdresser here.” I turned to Gregory. “Greg’s been doing my hair, for … uh, well …”

  And quick as whip, dear Gregory piped in, “Since before you were born!”

  We all laughed out loud. And that was my cue to get the heck out of there.

  “Well, nice meeting you. Take good care,” I said, and quickly turned, making a beeline for the door.

  My heart was pounding hard, as if I had been hit by an adrenalin rush. I got into the car and looked in the mirror. I had to be honest: I kind of looked old, especially compared to the fair young woman I had just encountered. I knew it wasn’t right or smart or mature of me to feel this way. But that’s how I felt. (She wasn’t even the one who had broken up our marriage. That ended years ago.) And to top it off, even though I knew I had acted classily, I felt totally goofy about the dramatic royal blue cape I was wearing. I wondered how I must have come off to her.

  I’m not sure, even now, why any of this mattered so much. But it did. I called my best friend, Penny Fiksel, to share what had just happened. And we had a bit of a laugh over it. About an hour later, I called Gregory. “Oh, you wouldn’t have believed it!” he said. “After you left, she kept saying how thrilled she was that she had finally met you, because she grew up watching you and always looked up to you. And then she kept saying what a lovely woman you were.”

  I was happy I hadn’t disappointed her. Nevertheless, I cried. And once again, I’m not sure why any of this mattered so much. But it did.

  A couple of months later, Bekky, who had been studying theatre at university in Montreal for four years, was giving her end-of-term performance, a big circus-style show that she had written. Obviously, she was keen for both Denny and me to see it. I made plans to fly to Montreal with Joey, who was still living at home with me. I told Bekky when I was coming in and what flight I would be on. “Oh,” she told me, “that’s the flight Dad and his girlfriend are taking too.” I hadn’t figured on his bringing her, but there you have it. It crossed my mind to change my flight, but that seemed foolish. And so, we all made the trip to Montreal together—Denny and his pleasant young girlfriend, me and Joey. And as fate would have it, Jo and I ended up right across the aisle from the other two. It was freaky watching this “couple” travel together, this guy with whom I shared so much history, now totally involved with someone else.

  We all had a good time in the end, and after Bekky’s show, I invited Denny and his girlfriend back to my hotel for drinks. We sat around a big table at the hotel’s glamorous restaurant, drinking Champagne, telling stories, and taking pictures. It all felt very cozy, and I made a concerted effort to be as upbeat and charming as I could, feeling proud of myself for handling all the weirdness with such aplomb. I kept looking around the table, watching our girls enjoying themselves, just relishing all the love and laughter and knowing how important it was that both parents could be there for Bekky on such a special night. When Denny and his girlfriend left, I actually gave them both a peck on the cheek. Then I turned to Bekky, who was sitting beside me, and said, “Okay, Bek, I’m going to give myself a medal for getting through all that.” She smiled and gave me a hug, understanding exactly what I meant.

  Back in Toronto a few days later, I received a handwritten note in the mail. It was from Denny’s girlfriend, saying how wonderful it had been to spend time together, and hoping that we might do it again someday. I doubted that would happen any day soon, but I appreciated her warmth, thoughtfulness, and sweet sincerity. Most of all, I was pleased with myself for successfully wrestling my neurotic ego to the back burner, and allowing myself to open my mind and my heart to possibilities that could take us all forward.

  OH, CANADA!

  I’VE ALWAYS MAINTAINED that the best part of any trip is the taxi ride home from the airport. That’s when I feel the most fulfilled— tuckered out, yes, but infinitely richer for all the experiences I have had, and always comforted to know that I have an exquisite life to return to.

  Coming home to Canada after my global jaunts is particularly soothing. There’s a wholesomeness to this country, an unassuming purity that’s light years away from the pomp and pretension of some of the high-style circles I’m obliged to run in. And while there are times when I have castigated Canada for being too conservative, small-minded, limiting, or petty, I know it’s because of this country that I have achieved my level of success and have been able to thrive in an industry fraught with hype without falling victim to the phoniness and superficiality. I am who I am because of this country.

  My pride in Canada goes back to my early childhood. One of my most treasured possessions is a small plastic RCMP doll that stands on guard on a shelf in my farmhouse dining room. The wee officer is a souvenir from my first road trip to Ottawa with my parents in 1960, when I was about eight years old. My mother still delights in telling how that little Mountie captured my heart when I spotted him in a Parliament Hill souvenir shop. Though I desperately wanted that little do
ll, my parents refused to indulge me. To them, ten dollars was simply too much to spend on such a frivolous thing, and they felt I’d had my share of gifts that week. As we left Ottawa, I cried myself to sleep in the backseat of our 1953 Buick, heartbroken that the little treasure wasn’t coming home with me.

  When I woke up about an hour later, I was surprised to see that we were back in Ottawa, in front of the souvenir shop where the Mountie lived. Moments later, my mother emerged with the coveted doll. I was flabbergasted when she presented it to me. Apparently, my parents had felt so bad about denying me that they turned around and drove back to get it for me. I was enthralled. The little Mountie spoke of the grandeur of what my family had experienced in Ottawa, touring those splendid Parliament Buildings for the first time, and was emblematic of the intense pride we all felt in being citizens of this great and glorious country. Every time I see my Mountie, I applaud my parents for having the courage and good sense to immigrate to Canada to rebuild their shattered lives.

  No matter how much fame or fortune you win, I’ve found that Canada has a funny way of keeping your feet on the ground. Maybe it’s because we’ve all got to work at least twice as hard to make it here. Or maybe it’s just because the people who leave this country—especially those in the entertainment business—are often rewarded for doing so. Those of us who choose to stay, and make it despite the odds, somehow aren’t ever as celebrated as those who abandon ship. And maybe it’s that lack of celebration that keeps us humble. I suppose it’s a good thing. The humility this country breeds has put it on the map, in a sense. In my mind, it’s made us a nicer, less aggressive, gentler, and generally more compassionate people. The rest of the world seems to associate these qualities with Canadians. And while I admit that I sometimes envy those who had the guts and determination to leave this country in pursuit of their dreams, deep down I’m proud that I managed to make so many of my own dreams come true while staying in my own backyard. I became a success both thanks to Canada and in spite of Canada. And I wouldn’t have wanted to do it any other way.

  Recently, I had the chance to bask in the glow of this country in even more enviable ways. In February 2010, I was given the heart-swelling honour of being chosen an Olympic torchbearer. In their infinite wisdom, CTV head honchos Ivan Fecan and Susanne Boyce decided that style should be represented in the network’s Olympic coverage, and I was assigned to report on fashion at the Vancouver winter games. My sports-meets-style stint began the moment I donned my white nylon torchbearer’s uniform and headed out to the suburb of Ladner, B.C., one of twelve thousand Canadians privileged to participate in the mammoth cross-country torch relay. As I sat on the torchbearers’ bus, which was transporting me to the drop-off point where I would start my three-hundred-metre torch run, my heart pounded with anticipation.

  It was a perfectly sunny day, and Ladner Trunk Road was lined with hundreds of the most beautiful smiling faces I had ever seen. People of all ages had gathered to watch the torch parade, and many were decked out in patriotic red and white, some waving flags, all eager to see this powerful flame that was igniting the passion of an entire nation. My red-mittened right hand waved like crazy through the bus window while my left clutched my sleek white Bombardier-designed torch, the precious implement that would link me to the Olympic experience.

  As I approached my drop-off point, I began to see familiar faces by the side of the road—friends and family who had come out to see me run. My boyfriend, Barry, was there with his sister, Joyce, and her husband, Pat, both wearing jackets emblazoned with the words “Team Beker.” My dear old friend Mark Labelle came out. And perhaps most touchingly, Denny’s two sisters and their kids—still family, despite all that heartache long ago—were there, holding signs that read “Go, Auntie Jeanne!” I was overwhelmed with happiness.

  The bus dropped me off at my starting point by the side of the road, where I cheerfully posed for photographs with assorted fans all craving a piece of the torch relay’s magic. After a couple of minutes of sheer exhilaration, dancing to the strains of “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” which was blaring from a promotional Coca-Cola truck in the convoy, I was escorted to the middle of the road and suddenly surrounded by other runners. I was jumping up and down with excitement! My torch was ignited, and we all began following a truck with a camera on the back of it, which was beaming my image live on the Internet to the rest of the world. I knew my girls and Penny would be watching together back home in Toronto, my sister would be watching in L.A., and even my dear mum would be sitting at her new computer, transfixed by the technology that allowed her to share this special moment with me. And as I gazed up at that beautiful flame dancing above my head, I saw my whole life in an instant—felt the love and the pride and the passion of my parents and my children, remembered the dreams of my past, and kindled new hopes for my future. The side of the road soon became a blur of red and white and smiles and waves as my heart glowed. For three hundred glorious metres, the little kid in me just couldn’t stop smiling as my inner voice shouted, “I love you, Canada!” over and over and over again.

  DRESSING UP

  FORTY-EIGHT YEARS after our first Ottawa trip together, my mother, at the age of eighty-seven, was invited back for a special Holocaust remembrance ceremony on Parliament Hill. She had been asked to lay a wreath in memory of her own family and the six million other Jews who were annihilated. About fifty Holocaust survivors from Toronto and Montreal were set to participate, and the plan was to bring them to Ottawa for the day by bus. As excited as my mother was about the trip, my sister and I felt that all those hours on a bus would be too tiring for her. I realized that if my mother was going to go to Ottawa, I would have to accompany her there by plane, and it would be best if we spent the night there, since the journey would undoubtedly be exhausting. She was exhilarated by the prospect of not only travelling with me but also making the pilgrimage to our capital city to honour those she had loved and lost.

  I mentioned to my friend Mitchel Raphael, the Ottawa society columnist for Maclean’s magazine, that we were considering making the trip. Immediately, the cogs in his brain started turning. A couple of weeks earlier, Mitchel had reported that the prime minister’s wife, Laureen Harper, was a huge fan of Fashion Television and had been following my career closely for years. Mitchel decided to let the personable Mrs. Harper know that I was planning a visit to Ottawa with my mother. Perhaps she would like to meet us for tea? No sooner had he informed us of his plans than we were invited to 24 Sussex Drive for dinner! We were flabbergasted. My mother marvelled at how a girl from a tiny shtetl, who was once forced to run for her life, could ever be invited to such an illustrious place. Armed with perhaps the most prestigious invitation my mother had ever received, she and I made the trek to Ottawa. Like a child, she was thrilled by the view of Parliament Hill outside her hotel room window, and she wondered if she would actually get the chance to meet Stephen Harper himself.

  It was the eve of the Holocaust memorial service, and our anticipation mounted as we were picked up at the hotel by Environment Minister John Baird and Jason Kenney, the secretary of state for multiculturalism, who were also invited to dinner. Mitchel was on board as well, toting a huge bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Harper. He was thrilled to be included, having never been invited to 24 Sussex for dinner before. Entering the front gates was a fantasy. But reality set in when the great front door opened and we saw Mrs. Harper standing there, dressed simply in white slacks and a black-and-white top. “Hey! I thought this was going to be a casual dinner!” she quipped, taking in my dramatic Louise Kennedy embroidered coat and chic David Dixon navy crepe dress. My mother had opted for an elegant black silk jacket and skirt. Apparently the prime minister’s wife had expected us to show up in jeans.

  But although it was merely another cozy home-cooked meal for Laureen Harper, it was for us the height of splendour. Unfortunately, the prime minister had had to fly to Calgary that afternoon, so the super-attractive Mrs. Harper was hosting solo. I had heard it was
the prime minister’s birthday, so I brought him a whimsical Ferragamo blue silk tie decorated with tiny dragonflies. (Doubt that he’s ever worn it, but he did follow up with a lovely thank-you note a couple of weeks later.) As for the lady of the house, she was warmer and more affable than we ever could have imagined. Laureen Harper had grown up on a farm outside of Calgary, and she jokingly kept referring to herself as a mere “farm girl.” Shortly after we arrived, she began regaling us with tales about Nicolas Sarkozy and Vladimir Putin, joking that now she would have to keep up with the French president’s fashionable wife, the former model Carla Bruni.

  We could hardly believe we were sitting around a table where such dignitaries had sat before. Yet there, telling her own story, was my diminutive, starry-eyed mother. It was a story I had heard countless times. But to hear the saga relayed at the home of the prime minister was especially powerful. My mother was particularly moved. She had grown so used to hiding her identity as a Jew that it seemed at once frightening and liberating to be discussing her past so openly. “If you live long enough, you get to do everything,” she said.

  The next day, in the bright Ottawa sunshine, in front of an impressive audience of government dignitaries and Holocaust survivors and their families, my mother placed a wreath at the base of the war memorial on Parliament Hill. I watched the tears well up in her eyes as the memories of that dark chapter in her life came rushing back. But moments later, we were posing for cameras and meeting the Israeli ambassador, and all the sadness seemed to dissipate. My mother was a survivor, and life in the here and now was remarkably sweet.

  At dinner the night before, Laureen Harper and I had bonded as I luxuriated in my own “proud Canadian” moment. I was especially impressed by Mrs. Harper’s down-to-earth, candid nature and her curiosity about the fashion world. She admitted that she didn’t know much about the subject, and she said she was hardly familiar with any Canadian designers at all. I told her how important I thought it would be for her to start wearing Canadian fashion, and offered to take her on a shopping spree in Toronto and introduce her to a handful of our top designers. She was game, and a couple of months later, we hatched a plan for her to visit Toronto to familiarize herself with some of our best talent.