by Sheryl Berk
Check out the Fashion Academy series from Sheryl and Carrie Berk!
From the time she was old enough to hold her first pair of scissors in kindergarten, Mickey Williams knew she wanted to be a fashion designer. Way before she could even read, she and her mom pored over issues of Vogue, Elle, and InStyle together, tearing out pages of their favorite couture looks. Not many little girls knew who Coco Chanel was, but Mickey considered the fashion icon her idol and inspiration—not to mention Donatella Versace, Miuccia Prada, and Stella McCartney.
“What do you think?” she asked her mom. It was her sixth birthday, and she was giving one of her presents—Pink and Pretty Barbie—an extreme makeover.
She held up the doll that she’d wrapped head to toe in tinfoil and stickers. She’d braided its hair into an intricate updo and topped it off with a red-pen cap.
Her mom studied the outfit. She was always one hundred percent honest with her.
“I think it’s a bit avant-garde,” her mom replied. “A little edgy for Barbie. But that said…I like it. It’s very Alexander McQueen.”
Mickey nodded. “I was trying to dress her for a runway show in outer space.”
“Aha,” her mom replied thoughtfully. “Then I’d say that look fits the bill.”
Mickey smiled. Her friends in first grade all thought she was crazy for chopping off her dolls’ hair and coloring it with neon-green highlighter markers. They were grossed out when she replaced each doll’s elegant evening gown with scraps of old clothing. But who wanted her Barbie to look like a clone of thousands of others on the toy store shelf? Mickey wanted all her dolls to be individuals in one-of-a-kind outfits. She could always find tons of fabric scraps at the Sunday flea market—all sorts of velvets, satins, plaids, and brocades in every color of the rainbow. For five dollars, she could take home a whole bag full! She and her mom loved hunting for treasures among the rows of cluttered booths.
“Do you like this?” her mom asked one Sunday as they roamed through the stalls of treasures. She held up a brooch shaped like a peacock that was missing a few blue stones and attached it to the lapel of her denim jacket. “If you don’t get too close, you don’t even notice.”
Mickey examined the pin with a critical eye. It made her mom’s blue eyes pop, but it was kind of old-fashioned looking—what Vogue would call “so yesterday.”
“Pass,” she said, and picked up another pin—this one a dazzling emerald-green clover made of Swarovski crystals. “This looks so pretty with your red hair. And four-leaf clovers are lucky.” It was only five dollars—a steal!
“I love it,” her mom said, turning to the vendor. She hugged Mickey. “What would I do without you, Mickey Mouse?”
But Mickey’s classmates were not quite as appreciative of her talents. In second grade, when she offered to give her friend Ally’s doll a makeover, she never expected the little girl to burst into tears.
“You ruined my princess!” she wailed on a playdate. “I’m telling!”
Mickey examined her handiwork: Cinderella clearly needed a new look, so she’d given it to her. She combed her long blond hair out of its updo and gave it a swingy shoulder-length cut that resembled hers. Then she highlighted it with an orange marker. Finally, she taped on a black felt miniskirt and a red, plaid strapless top.
“I think she looks pretty,” she said, trying to stop Ally’s bawling. “She could be on a magazine cover now.”
Ally wasn’t buying it. “I want my mommy!” she screamed, until Mickey’s mom came running in and calmed her down with the promise of a glass of chocolate milk.
“Mickey, seriously?” her mom whispered to her. “Now I’m going to have to go buy Ally a new Cinderella doll—and I barely have enough money to pay the rent this month!”
Mickey felt awful. She knew how hard her mom worked behind the makeup counter at Wanamaker’s Department Store—sometimes seven days a week, from opening till closing.
“I’ll pay for it,” Mickey promised her. “I have money saved up in my piggy bank that Aunt Olive gave me for my birthday.”
Her mom shook her head. “Honey, I know you were just playing, but you have to use your head.” She ruffled Mickey’s blond curls. “If something doesn’t belong to you, please don’t give it a fashion makeover.”
It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time that Mickey got in trouble for “redesigning.” In fourth-grade home ec class, the assignment was to sew a simple skirt to wear for the school’s spring festival. Most girls chose a pretty pastel fabric: pink, baby blue, or lavender in tiny floral prints. Mickey’s skirt was…different.
“Oh my!” Ms. Farrell gasped when Mickey walked into the classroom modeling it. She’d found a shiny brown python pleather and trimmed it with perfect tiny green stitches around the hemline.
“Is it supposed to be a witch’s costume?” Ally asked.
“No, it’s supposed to be Mother Nature,” Mickey insisted. “It’s earthy.”
Ms. Farrell didn’t know what to say. “It’s…very…unique,” she stammered. “Maybe we can put it up on display, and you can make another skirt that’s less, well, dramatic.”
But Mickey was determined. “No, I’m wearing the skirt I made. I’m not going to make one that looks like everyone else’s.”
So when they stood on the auditorium stage and sang, “A Tisket, A Tasket, I Made a May Basket,” she stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t that she wanted to. It was simply that she had to be herself.
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