Two mama of the bride/groom stories from my former blog entitled “As the Bobbin Winds.” Someday, I wil actually write a book about my alterations adventures.
I have time this week (thank you, summer!) so yes, it’s a possibility, but to be perfectly honest, any corseting below the waistline would look like she bought a dress that was too small and was trying to make do. She agreed, and I have never been so happy to see someone head off into the sunset with her feet firmly planted in reality.
The worst client I’ve ever had was a mother of the bride who I’m sure has not been ever told no in her life. I always find it so strange when I meet someone who is old enough to be my mother has the maturity level of someone in middle school. Perhaps it speaks volumes about my state of mind that I equate immaturity with spoiled, but this woman seemed to encompass both traits.
“I’m a size 18 on top and a size 12 on the bottom, so I ordered a 14.” This math does not equate. I explained everything I could do to make it fit better, and suggested that she perhaps re-evaluate her choice. “I’m a 12, so a 14 should certainly fit.”
So after approximately 24 hours of work, 6 (yes, that’s right, SIX as opposed to 2 – 3) appointments, she sat in my office crying because I had ruined her dress, ruined the wedding, and ruined any chance for her to have a decent picture of her and her daughter on her wedding day. (On a redeeming note, her daughter also brought me her dress and wished me luck dealing with her mom.)
Altering clothing does not equal plastic surgery. If you have little chicken wing folds on your armpits and you have not purchased a dress to cover that, I can’t fix it. I can’t magically make more fabric appear.
To hell with sizes. Buy what fits–and when in doubt, but a size larger.
Spin. Run. Sew. Repeat. 