Ms. Pitty-Pat’s Finishing School
written by: Lisa H. Owens
“Places everyone, and remember, we wear our somber expressions when greeting our new arrivals,” said the founder and Headmistress of Ms. Pitty-Pat’s, the world-renowned finishing school guaranteed to awaken and motivate those tween girls who were angst-ridden troublemakers before it was too late. Their mission statement was, “Give them the tools to succeed; then let them lead.”
A black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter 2500, turned off Main Street to traverse the winding tree-lined drive that ended at the 200-year-old Elm tree fronting the refurbished Colonial mansion-turned-school. The faculty and staff assumed the traditional welcome formation beneath the shade of the flourishing tree. A shoulder-to-shoulder semi-circle was formed near the drop-off zone in hopes of inspiring and gaining some perspective with this first group, all of whom had traveled great distances for freshman orientation. What mischief and mayhem might they bring?
The afternoon sun glinted off the van’s sleek finish as it perused the long driveway, slowing down to park alongside the staff, sharing the expansive shade of the elm. The driver stepped out of the luxury van and scratched his head before smoothing the few wayward hairs that remained, then donned his uniform cap. He was a stately old gent, a snapshot from the past, wearing full chauffeur regalia. The cap, the white gloves, the double-breasted black suit with epaulettes—quite military-esque in appearance—despite the heat of the mid-summer day.
Each new generation of students had its quirks and downfalls, but this group of girls had him worried about the future of the world at large. He took a moment to gather himself; a few seconds to erase the stress that was written all over his face. His process worked somewhat, and he wore a pleasant smile when he turned to face the staff, but the deep furrows in his brow remained. Proceeding around to the passenger side, he directed a meaningful nod at Ms. Pitty-Pat and raised his bushy white eyebrows (they had a history that went back to the dawn of man), before sliding the door back with a flourish.
Twelve pampered girls sat upon four rows of plush gray leather, all staring down at their cell phones as if their lives depended on it. Ms. Pitty-Pat sighed as she studied the dozen. Unaware they’d even arrived, their seatbelts were still fastened. The phones would be the first things to go, as was protocol, and she thought about the upcoming confrontation with glee. This was her favorite part of the transformation process. She loudly cleared her throat, and the girls looked over, perturbed. Then they emerged—slowly—begrudgingly leaving the van’s cozy cocoon-like interior.
As was typical of girls of this age and status, they were a group of cloned plastics—each messy bun a halo of haphazardly piled highlights and wayward strands displaced with precision. Voluminous black lashes on twenty-four upper eyelids fluttered as each eyeball was assaulted by harsh sunlight, and twelve pairs of identical micro-bladed brows raised in distress. Contoured cheekbones and perfectly drawn cupid’s-bow lips revealed the gory aftermath of a host of trendy influencers’ makeup tutorials, and Ms. Pitty-Pat gasped. In all of her forty years of educating the offspring of the wealthy, this was the worst case she had ever encountered. The seasoned instructors would have their work cut out for them with this bunch.
“Ladies…” she said, her feral uni-brow furrowing as she struggled to find words, “Forget everything you think you know about style and etiquette,” she paused for ten seconds, which must have seemed like ten hours to the tweens, as they began to fidget and look down at their screens.
“Behold! As you are,” she dramatically swept her arm across the group, and the girls’ heads swiveled left and right to scrutinize their classmates, for what was likely the first time. They all wore the same sustainable couture, and their features softened into toothy grins.
“Unoriginal—all of you! You have so much to learn,” she mercilessly shamed them.
“Behold! What you can become under our tutelage…” she unfolded an arm covered in the stifling tweed of a practical businesswoman’s attire toward the somber instructors.
Bare-faced women clad in traditional pantsuits paired with block-heel pumps—all sporting identical shellacked hairdos, obviously the results of weekly beauty shop wash-and-sets.
The smiles turned upside-down as the horrified girls studied the throwbacks, the academics, the movers-and-shakers—the Hilary Clintons—of the world.
But then they collectively turned their backs, phones lifted high above their heads to snap duck-lip selfies, the hard-scrabble career women fronting the entrance to Ms. Pitty-Pat’s Finishing School, slightly blurred in the background, captioned:
#pressedpowdercrones
#fml
#viral
#bye
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