Just click your heels

Every Kansas girl needs a pair of ruby slippers, and the world’s best sister saw to it that I got mine.


I’ve had more Chuck Taylor All-Stars than Zsa Zsa Gabor’s had husbands. Back in Chicago, my hair stylist would look at my feet before mixing up the color: The purple high-tops meant we were going aubergine, while the pink low-cuts meant red hair. (I never did wear sandals there, for fear of ending up with a Mohawk.)

More recently, my dentist and hygienist were both exclaiming over my pink and orange plaid Chucks. “I’m glad you like them,” I said. “My husband thinks they’re hideous, so when he’s gone I wear them a lot more often.”

This seemed to amuse the dentist. “Some women go wild when their husbands leave town,” she said. “You wear pink shoes.”

A few weeks later, I returned for some follow-up work. I happened to be wearing sensible brown ankle boots. The dentist barely said hello before asking, “Husband’s back?” Why, yes. He was.

Now I’m almost looking forward to the next cleaning, to show off my latest and sparkliest addition. She won’t even have to ask this time.