The Bunny Years Read Online Free PDF

later.

    Betty fits a Bunny’s costume, 1962.
    I leaned against the counter with a blonde girl named Cheryl while I waited for Lauren Hutton to be fitted in a blue costume. There were long steel poles hung with satin costumes in dry cleaning bags and stacks of new costume shells with muslin linings. As I stood there waiting, I watched the steady stream of girls hurrying in and out of the dressing room as Eva Shephard, Betty’s cousin, handed out collars and cuffs and made sure the girls signed for the black mesh stockings. The $5 charge for hose would be deducted from their paychecks. The space was cramped, cluttered and intoxicating. Multicolored satin trims lay discarded on the floor. Bags of cottontails and satin ears rested in corners. High-pitched chatter, raucous laughter. It was “backstage.” I was nervous and very excited.
    Betty determined what color costume you got, based on what was available in your size from the stacks of prefabs and her determination to keep a rainbow of colors fairly balanced. I was told all the night-shift Bunnies wanted black costumes, “but only Bunny China refuses to wear anything but black.” When I later met China Lee (who eventually marriedpolitical satirist Mort Sahl), I discovered that her entire wardrobe—on and off the job—consisted of black or white clothing.
    A pink costume was selected for me. (I eventually was given three costumes: red, gold and pink.) The prefab corset was shiny and stiff with raw edges and no side seams. I tucked my breasts into the cups and held the top in place while Betty pinned the sides together. Then swiftly, with a pinch here and there, the costume started to take shape. Not necessarily my shape, but I wasn’t going to complain. Betty identified a hipbone and then snipped and tucked her way to my crotch.
    â€œIf I left it any wider, baby, the fabric would cut into you,” she said.
    â€œYes, it would,” I thought, and who’s complaining? Grommets would be stamped in later to string the corset laces. Now my tummy was flat, my legs were looking longer than I believed possible and, for the first time in my life, I had hips. As my mother delicately put it while fitting me for a skirt, I hadn’t quite “filled out” yet. In high school, I had once worn Bermuda shorts under a straight skirt to give the appearance of a figure. In those days I was even willing to settle for looking lumpy as long as I didn’t look like a stick. I was indeed a late bloomer; I was still growing and would add another inch to my height before I turned 21.
    The streamlined Bunny costume was clearly an improvement. The black mesh hose and the high-heeled shoes made even mediocre legs look better. The tail and ears were just plain silly. But something about the collar and cuffs actually made me feel like I was wearing a shirt. Still, there was the top problem. But Betty was not ready to raise the white flag. She bunched together a handful of plastic dry cleaning bags and told me to stuff them under my breasts.
    â€œBut don’t use those all the time, baby; it’ll make you sweat and you’ll lose what you got,” she added, hinting that I should look for more conventional help.
    As it turned out, living up to the Kelly Collins ideal was a problem I shared with a lot of the girls, most of whom, it seemed, were content to stuff themselves with whatever came to hand, including gym socks and old Bunny tails.
    While Betty finished my costume, I was sent back to the Bunny Mother for a hurried version of Bunny boot camp. As it turned out, I was to start immediately—with or without the dyed-to-match shoes. Miss Burgess was all business. She assigned me a locker and told me to leave nothing valuable in it. Girls pin their rings inside their costumes, I was told. Furthermore, sheinstructed, we weren’t allowed to wear any personal jewelry, not even the tiny gold posts for pierced earrings that I was