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I feel the lives of these women. They don't hang on hangers as many people see them, any more than I am a captive of my kitchen, my bedroom or my life. They use my shop as a pretence for their secrets. They swing and rustle and whisper, at times so loud, I think I have customers. When some people enter, they immediately back out the door. It is the intimacy they feel like a wall of fog. It excludes those without vision. My women are selective and shy but their intuition is razor keen. They open up to those with understanding. The door closes behind them and agendas are squeezed under the door, back to the street. The odour of secrets confuses time and my women touch tentatively to stir memory. I wait quietly behind my desk. It takes a few moments for the customer to surrender the outside world. Then the exchange begins. I watch 'My Women' flirt and laugh. A rustle of Taffeta tickles through the fingers of a captive customer. Taffeta is brazen and always so sure of herself. Silk Velvet is more subtle but relentless. She moves against the skin like a confident lover. Her touch can bring me to my knees. I watch the newcomer's eyes open wide with longing. Her hand slides through gathers to gently pull the shimmering dress closer. I am always amused by the impatience of 'My Women'. Once they feel this acceptance their naiveté always surprises me, as then can flood a room with malice in a second to flush an intruder out. Yet when they feel at ease, it seems they become utterly vulnerable. This is when I come into the room to act as a chaperone. I chat with the customer to see if they are genuine, to guard

'My Women' against divulging too much. Yet it seems as soon as I am in the room, I am pulled here and there by Silk Gowns, Slipper Satin Dresses, and soon all our defenses are down as we enjoy this new customer like children at a party. I watch as they vie for attention, showing off their charms with seductive abandon. Helpless customers are pushed to the changing rooms with one or two shameless frocks. I do my best to ease them together as the transformation can be like a drug. 'My Women' think only of fleshing out their past, listening to the swish of a dance step, feeling the crush of an embrace. It is only the gown reflected from the mirror to the customer's eyes. She is bound to it with the ties of wicked romance. It is not my intention to sell them. 'My Women' have the power to be carried out the door by themselves. I put a high price on their departure only to protect them from their over-zealous natures. In this way you might say they support themselves, whilst providing me with an adequate salary. Only one has ever returned. A beautiful Rose Crepe gown from the 1940's. A flaw, some fading which made us all die with laughter as it is the imperfections over time which give 'My Women' their magic.
Her beauty is breathtaking, yet she has me sewing glass beads onto her folded sleeve. I love the vanity of 'My Women'. It is tangled with the memory of romance and scattered with the tears of tragedy.

Copyright 2007, Lee-Ann MacKenzie