Best Supporting Role

I have a theory that if early-design bras had been stretchy, one-size-fits-all things like the current microfibre range (variously named “Ah Bra,” “Genie Bra,” “Magic Bra” etc) then the concept of a brassiere that was adjustable, would be revolutionary.  

Retrofitted ads would scream “Finally!  A bra with straps you can lengthen or shorten, and catches at the back that allow you to tighten the fit when it gets too stretchy, or loosen when you gain weight!" 

It’s a classic case of fixing something that isn't broken.  Of believing that because something is new, it’s therefore better. 

However, I wouldn’t mind putting a Genie Bra in a time machine and taking it back to the mid 1970s.   I’m sure the smallest microfibre bra would have been far more comfortable, and less threatening, than the structured “Training Bras” covering the budding bosoms of the era.

Getting your first bra was not generally something to boast about.  At a certain stage, you began wearing a singlet if there was any chance you’d have to undress in front of others, and eventually,  depending on (a) your age (b) the comparative size of your friends and (c) whether you played sport or liked to use a trampoline,  you accepted it was Bra Time.

Girls who developed early often wore clothes that helped disguise their changing figure.  Boys, with their tit-sensing hormones, would still sneak up and run a finger down the girl’s spine to feel for the tell-tale bump of a bra fastener.   Apparently this was quite thrilling for them *rolls eyes*

Look at those colours - in the 1960s? - the brazen hussies!

In Australia, Holeproof Fibs were a Godsend to young teen girls, the closest thing we had to an “Ah Bra” but a lot funkier and even less of a ‘real’ bra.   Fibs were soft stretchy bras, sans adjustable bits, with matching knickers, and came in neon colors and 70s patterns that included bold-colored paisleys.  Before Fibs, bra colour choices ranged pretty much from white to beige to skintone.  On a good day, you might see pale pink or pale blue.   Black bras were for bad girls and lacey red ones were for prostitutes, we all knew that.

Naturally the makers of ‘real’ bras tut-tutted and assured our mothers that these bras did not offer support and would lead to Stretch Marks and a Saggy Bustline.





Which leads us to the specialist fitter at any large department store, where we endured a stranger (often a former nurse) with cold hands wrapping us with a tape measure, then bringing a selection of suitable brassieres which she would stretch, pull and twang around our shoulders and back, sometimes even doing a little ‘cupping’ in order to get the Right Fit.  

It was tough for our mothers too, trying to feign interest in what the fitter had to say, yet knowing we were mortified to have her focusing so closely on our 32AAA chest.   They’d both speak as if you weren’t even there, as if your bust was some rogue to be tamed.


As our teen years progressed, we could shop for our own bras, but even then, it seemed the moment you set foot in the lingerie department, somebody would spring up from behind the Berlei  display and insist your were Professionally Fitted.  


I miss many fashions of the 70s, but the undergarments?   NOT a bit.

All hands on .... deck?

The Love Boat sailed Television Land from 1977 to 1986, at which time I found it far-fetched and cheesey.   Lately it’s been screening on ‘retro’ channels, and although it’s truly over-ripe now,  I feel a certain affection for it.  There’s a nostalgic enjoyment/horror in revisiting the fashions and hairstyles of the era, and it’s quite fun seeing almost every American TV face of the era appearing as a guest star sooner or later.

But watching it in 2012, with extra ‘real life’ tucked under my belt, I can’t help but notice the following:

"Can you stop her writing this crap?"

Did the boat steer itself?  Captain Stubing seemed to spend his entire day walking up and down the cabin corridors or stalking passengers on the deck and by the pool.  Wasn’t that Julie’s job? With all the time he spent gazing into the eyes of rich beautiful widows and unhappily married women, was the boat a Costa Concordia waiting to happen?  I could just picture him getting into the first available lifeboat with his Louis Vitton luggage,  Florence Henderson and a souvenir pinjada.








Julie’s excitement levels were pretty smacky - maybe her room was too near fumes from the engine.  Speaking of which, her cabin was so NOT the cramped, only-fits-one space that ship staff are allotted.

Julie (Lauren Tewes) THEN

Julie (Lauren Tewes) NOW

The ocean was never rough and nobody ever got seasick.  Probably that was a was a good thing if you were a woman, ‘cause the ship Doctor (imaginatively known as Doc) would try to cure that by saying something inappropriately personal and maybe even trying for a pash.  Doc was a CREEP.

Tedster.

One thing hasn’t changed since I first watched the show, and in my more recent viewings:  Ted McGinley is a FINE looking man J

Mia Culpa

Mia Culpa-Farrow

If I’d been old enough to understand how curses work, I would have cursed Mia Farrow and the super-short hairstyle that women the world over would copy, well into the 1970s.

At six years old, I lacked the words (and physical strength) to challenge my mother as she allowed the hairdresser to chop off my long curls.  I remember staring into the salon mirror, too proud to cry, but my face like thunder, as the stylist thinned what hair was left, into that voguish waif cut.

 At home, I sat at my dressing table, telling Barbie, Sindy and Chrissy (the doll whose hair could grow just by pressing a button in her back) how upset I was, all the while combing, combing, combing what was left of my hair in the belief this would somehow hasten the regrowth. 

Cindy Brady rockin' the rope ribbons

By the following year, I had enough hair to wear The Pageboy – another ugly, but super-popular style of the 70s.   Better still, I reached that milestone that female victims of Very Short Hair know all too well:  my hair was now jusssssst long enough to pull into a ponytail, without ‘bits’ falling short of the elastic.   With great joy, I added the touch d’jour:  a rope ribbon.   I think elsewhere they were known as soft wool ribbons?   Although ropelike in shape, they were very soft to the touch.  

I didn’t know any girl who’d wear pigtails, plaits or a ponytail, without dressing it up.  Baubles and ribbons were the finishing touch.  If you wore your hair down, matching barrettes were the way to go.  Teachers made an enormous fuss if your hair fell anywhere near your face.  Long fringes, we were told, could lead to blindness. At this point, we began falling into two camps: girls with conformist hair, and those with The Shag.  I thought The Shag (and "The Lioness") looked pretty exciting, but flashbacks to my last Major Haircut left me shy of scissors coming anywhere remotely close to my shoulders.

So the majority of us clung to our lengthy locks.  Our mothers longed for us to forever wear pigtails that sat high and springy above our ears, but as you got closer to – say – ten years of age, the pigtails became big bunches of hair that sat lower on your head, and much closer to your face.   Thus you had graduated from being Cindy to being Marcia.   

And if that doesn’t make sense ... you weren’t a child of the seventies