A long long time ago from about 2011 onwards women, girls, feminism, femininity and all things that weren’t male were front and centre. The whole industry was falling over itself to rebalance years of male dominance and show who run the world. Female empowerment was massively en Vogue (both metaphorically and on the front cover) and companies left and right were pledging to hire, promote and pay women, more. Ours was no exception. We’d set our stall out to increase our gender diversity (which in those days was a binary comparison) and our female CEO, female MD, female deputy MD, half female board and predominantly female work force were going to make damn sure it happened. As were the men, probably, but it didn’t really matter.
One headline grabber was the gender pay gap. The advertising industry was doing the analysis and it often showed that men were sometimes more than women at some levels. Women were justifiably outraged and wanted to know how and when it would be rectified. Our own analysis showed that in our company women were paid demonstratively more than men and at most levels but that data was off message so we decided to hire, promote and pay women more, more. We’d already written manifestoes and PR releases by then anyway.
We also decided to provide some tailored training for women only, to make up for the years of tailored training for men only that had never taken place. One element that was covered was the fact that women were less likely to ask for pay-rises and taught them how to do so. Unsurprisingly, newly empowered and inspired women returned from training and asked their female bosses (who were also on the training) for a pay-rise. Equally unsurprisingly their bosses promptly told them to go fuck themselves. The bosses secured their reservation in Madeline Albright’s special place in hell and the temporarily empowered were left wondering if their work sisters were only doing it for themselves. Irony is a bitch!
Central to all of this was WACL. A vast industry wide, group of rich and powerful women who held banquets, balls and networking events to lament the lack of rich and powerful women in the industry. On the rare occasions men were permitted to attend these events they effectively became compulsory for me due to the fact that my bosses and clients were all rich and powerful women. I would doff cap, put on black tie and wander around feeling like Rupaul at a Klan rally.
One afternoon that preceded the annual WACL ball which I was not attending due to my chromosomal challenges my CEO rang me in the office in some distress. She had arranged to meet my clients (rich and powerful women) in a hotel bar but was running late and wanted to put her ball gown on. It was 4pm and the ball started at 7pm so time was short. She wanted me to drop what I was doing and hurry across town to meet my clients that I wasn’t meeting and she was because she couldn’t. So I did. After a 20 minute trot I arrived, bought a round of drinks but before I could sit down my CEO swept into the room in full ball gown and told me to leave because it was “girls only”.
Now I’m not saying that if the genders were reversed it would be fucking outrageous because of the patriarchy or something but it gives context to the point of the story of when she took me clothes shopping.
One morning she put a meeting in my diary and its location was a coffee shop. This was a massive break from her usual meeting arrangement MO which normally comprised of her shouting “come here” across the office. I went along but she stopped at a small, boutique clothes shop, the type of which I would not normally frequent. She explained that she didn’t like my shirts. They were too dark and were often single colours which wasn’t reflective of the effervescent, dynamic image that she had decided for me. At that point I was still unclear what that had to do with our current location and why she hadn’t just shouted “put on a loud shirt” across the office. The clouds parted as I was ushered inside the completely alien, over-staffed shopping environment and immaculate tailors stared at me and my boring shirt.
I was told to try on shirt after shirt and parade them in front of her. Flowers, penguins, stripes, stars, dots, splashes were all tested and in full spectrum. A chromatographic eruption to rival a firework display. How I’d love my shirt of many colours. Actually, even though I fucking hated the one she finally selected I still felt it was a nice gesture for her to buy me a shirt and set me on the path to effervescent dynamism. When I caught sight of the price tag my gratitude increased to the point of feeling a bit guilty. Not for long. She pointed to the cash till and told me she’d meet me outside.
“How the fuck are you going to pay for it from out there?” I internalised.
It’s still the most expensive shirt I have ever bought. In fact I own suits that cost less than it. Nice suits. Suits I’ve worn to weddings.
Again I’m not saying that if a male CEO took a younger female employee dress shopping (under the ruse of it being a work meeting) and then got her to model some before selecting one for her anyone would raise any objection because of the patriarchy or something. But he’d have paid for it.
Diaries Of Media 