The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

As my friends took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn’t sure how this makeover thing was gonna come out. I mean, I’ve got three women who are all very different and the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.

Ariel is my oldest and closest friend. She’s a tall drink of water from a wealthy section of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a blanket under which a man becomes powerless.

Always impeccably dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she’s the proverbial blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you’ve got a girl who could probably be a model if she wanted to.

Serena is an attorney from California who learned early on that male members of a jury can often be distracted by a lawyer who dresses as if she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender. Her short hemlines are legendary in New York courtrooms, as she’s known for “skirting the issues” when it comes to closing arguments.

She’s not a stunner by any means, but she’s kinda pretty and makes the most of what she’s got. In a sea of New York women obsessed with black, Serena has a closet full of red, so she always stands out. Her big, shoulder-length hair harkens back to the eighties, framing an angular face and a cute pug nose. She’s got these devilish hazel eyes that always make her look like she’s up to something. Probably because she is, either in the courtroom, bedroom, or both.

Serena loves the law so much she carries that “lawyer-talk” out of the courtroom and often works it into everyday conversations. (I’ve picked up a little myself, as I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she’s an excellent lawyer and could easily win her cases dressed in burlap.

Roxanne is my gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who’s a hairstylist, or, as she calls it, “hairdressuh.” But she’s not just any salon gal; she’s sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy, who no doubt endure her wicked accent because she’s a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She’s blessed with natural wavy hair, big light-green eyes and a great rack. Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever could in a boardroom.

She’s about five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you’d want in a foxhole because Roxanne doesn’t take shit from anybody. She’s a tight package: tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.

They made me get up on my kitchen step-stool like it’s some pedestal and then walked around me looking at the total package.

“Let’s start at the top. The hair’s comin’ down,” said Roxanne, who reached up on her tiptoes to unleash the bun.

I leaned away. “I like my hair up.”

“Men like it down,” she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of the Gordian Knot. “Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing.” My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers through it. “Gawd, it’s like straw. But I can work with this. Women would kill for this color, you know.”

“They can get it out of a bottle,” I said.

“Yeah, but the carpet won’t match the drapes,” said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.

Serena had been rummaging through one of my closets. “Where the hell are your heels?”

“I don’t have any,” I said. “I’m five-five, that’s tall enough.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” she said. “Is it therefore your contention that you do not own one single pair?”

“Have you ever seen me in heels?”

She sat down on the floor facing me. “Now that I think about it, no. Do you even know how to walk in them?”

“I tried a pair in high school. Made my feet hurt.”

“What size are you?”

“Six. Narrow.”

“I’m a nine. Rox?”

“Sorry,” said Roxanne. “I got pancake flippers for feet.”

“Ariel?”

“Eight.”

“So much for tonight.” She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in closet. “What’s the dress situation?”

Ariel stuck her head out of the closet and shook her head. “Nada. No dresses or skirts. Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a battle with a spray can and a weed whacker.”

“Those are my cleaning shorts,” I said.

“I’m assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,” said Ariel. “You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting.”

I looked around my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt containers. “Fine, I’ll get a cleaning service.”

“A snow shovel would be quicker,” said Roxanne.

“Seriously,” said Serena. “You don’t have a single skirt?”

“What can I say, I like pants.”

“Do you even bother to shave your legs?” asked Ariel, ducking back into the closet.

“Of course,” I said, then shrugged. “Well, not every day.”

“So,” said Roxanne, “besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?”

Serena was making notes on a legal pad. “You ever try contacts?”

I nodded. “I had them in high school.”

“Did you like them?”

“Yeah, but they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses.”

“Figures,” said Serena, who made a check mark. “After the contacts, we need shoes and an entire new wardrobe.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m starting a pile for Goodwill,” yelled Ariel, still in my closet. “Geez, it looks like Hillary Clinton lives in here.”

I saw one of my favorite pantsuits fly out of the closet. “Hey!”

“Shaddup and take your medicine,” said Roxanne. “Meanwhile, put your hair back up.”

“I thought you said men like it down?”

“They do, but I’ll need half a day to fix that mess and our dinner reservations are in an hour.”

I stepped off the stool. “So, I’m deemed okay to be seen in public with you guys this evening? I won’t embarrass you?”

Serena got off the floor and gave me the once over. “It will have to do, but we are going to change one thing tonight.”