Transvestia

A chance remark of mine the following day started the snowball down the hill.

We were in Harry's large office at the lumber yard for a skull session. "The ideal scheme would be to tie-in a show with the women's hospital cause," he began. "If we could make the show remind the people of WHY we want them to buy tickets, we'd stand a much better chance of success." I agreed but could think of no definite plan and we listlessly tossed ideas back and forth for the next ten minutes or so until nothing else would come. Harry's phone rang and while he talked, I idly strolled to the window and gazed down over the vast lumber yard, my eyes settling on a crew unloading a box car of wood. As Harry finished his call, a woman clerk in slacks approached the crew below, exchanged some papers with the foreman and returned to the building. As I watched her walk, I idly commented, "Boy, talk about women! They're dressing more and more like men every day!" "Oh, they have to around this place," he answered, "much too dirty." I nodded and turned only to see a broad grin break across Harry's face. "My boy, I think that's the idea we've been looking for," he exclaimed.

All I could say was, "huh?"

"Certainly," he went on, "women are dressing more and more like men every day! Why don't we do a switch and carry the thing a step farthur? We'll do a fashion show of what the well dressed man will be wearing in ten or fifteen years!"

"What will he be wearing," I asked dumbly.

"Skirts!"

"Skirts?"

"Sure! That's our premise! The whole cycle is changing. We have an advance scoop. That's the

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