No model has hit the glamour headlines with greater impact than lovely JUNE PALMER, one of our consistent top pops. June is the perfect answer to the fallacy that gentlemen prefer blondes.
June, a London girl, is a full-time model and loves every minute she spends in front of a camera. She is, in fact, a perfect pin-up in every way.
It was like the man next door who left his house to catch his train to work. He looked absolutely dapper, as he always did, in his single-breasted, narrow-lapelled charcoal grey suit, complete with buttonhole. But he was still wearing his carpet slippers and when he reached the station the only thing the friendly porter could do was to lend him a pair of railway boots.
The day was a ridiculous one for him, he spent it noisily clumping round the office, making the typists quiver and inciting the boss to send out orders demanding the removal of some road-breaking machine that had been smuggled into the building.
Well, it didn’t get as ridiculous as that for BRITT HAMPSHIRE. She only forgot her gloves. She had everything else needed to make a girl look well-dressed and glamorous and gloves hardly mattered. It was just that a finishing touch, like neat gloves or cute hat, completes a girl’s look to her own satisfaction.
Sometimes when a girl feels gloves are a must, such as on the occasion of being a guest at a well-dressed wedding, and she finds she’s either forgotten them or misplaced them, the event is absolutely ruined for her.
She feels quite undressed.
West German student ANGELIKA FAKELBERG is having a very intense time at the moment, swotting for nothing but exams.
It's all reference books and brain work.
You wouldn't think, would you, that anyone as pretty as Angelika would need to worry about brains, but the world being what it is a girl these days needs them as she's never needed them before.
That's what comes of equality and having to show men you're as good as they are. It's not enough now to have intuition and the beguiling aptitude for making men go on their knees when they offer diamond bracelets, you've got to beat them to their knees in other ways.
It’s getting awful
It was a lovely wedding and the bride looked sumptuous. The honeymoon was memorable, of course, and then SHERIDAN WELLS settled down to looking after her home and her man.
But what with the cost of living rocketing at week-ends, Sheridan found the budget hardly allowed for a Sunday joint. So, she went out and did some modelling in her spare time.
"Thanks," she said when the agency paid her, "every little helps.”
"That's not little," said the agency, counting it out again.
"That's what you think,' said Sheridan, "haven't you seen the price of tomatoes?"
"We're off tomatoes, they give us the pip."
To be a really good model, you not only have to be a pretty type — you have to be a pretty tough type. That’s what MAUREEN HUCKER found when a recent assignment took her out into the country and it began to rain.
"Do we stop?” she asked the cameraman, and the cameraman, all wrapped up in raincoat, hat and umbrella, thought she was fooling. "Stop?” he said. “What for?”
“Because it’s raining and I’m wet,” said Maureen, and the cameraman said I’m all right, Jack, why should I worry?
“Oh, gosh," said Maureen, “these pictures could be called Girl and a Shower, and you,” she added under her breath, “are the shower, you rotter.”
If the sixties are remembered for anything, it'll be for the emergence of the mini-skirted dollies.
Girls have always played a characteristically confusing part in the lives of boys. Boys find no complications up to the age of about 15. Up to that age the girls are around but the boys ignore them.
This makes the girls furious. So, when the boys reach 16 and upwards, when they then become aware there's something corkingly fascinating about girls, the girls pay them out by making life so confusing and complicated for them that life is never quite the same again for the muscular sex.
The emergence of the mini-skirted dollies really put the lid on the traumatic effects. Many a boy just reeled about mumbling, "Oh, my grandmother, I can't even put my head out of the window without losing my eyesight."
SARA WOLFE is a brilliant example of a London dolly making life chronically traumatic for highly susceptible boys. She works in an advertising agency. She wears the loveliest minis.
But now that the midi and the maxi are gradually taking over, where will all our dishy dollies go to? Girls in midis or maxis aren't dollies anymore, they're just followers of undolly fashion. Perhaps the boys won't get such eyestrain, but oh, woe.
It goes without saying that Sara in a maxi would be a different girl. You'd never see her legs and young boys would wonder if she'd got any.
According to her fans, NICOLA TAYLOR turns them all on, and there's hardly a day goes by without some entirely susceptible Charley boy doesn't spin round until he drops.
Nicola is a Hampshire girl with her own way of looking lovely. She simply remains herself.
There was a sensitive baby elephant which spent all its growing years trying to look like a bunch of flowers. It didn't create any real impact, and one day when it emerged from the river looking exactly like a growing baby elephant, an American lady tourist said, "Oh, how cute, can I buy that one?"
The baby elephant was happy ever after.
There you are, then. If you're lovely in your own way, be like Nicola and the baby elephant. Just remain yourself and don't grow a beard.
Those finishing schools in Switzerland are all very popular, of course, and when they turn a girl out—if you’ll pardon the phrase—she is usually perfectly equipped to cope with all the trials and tribulations of hard, practical life.
But mostly the first thing the girls want to know about concerns parties.
There were parties for SUSANNE KENT, naturally, and all bang-up and on the ball. There was the future to consider, of course, but that was something to be thought about tomorrow or the day after.
And what else does any ambitious girl want to do except modelling? She has to give the matter no thought at all—it just comes naturally.
If you can’t be a model, you can be a secretary. After that, there’s just nothing. Hardly any girl wants to be a film star these days. Of course, there are those who like to see their pictures up outside cinemas, but it’s not the same as it used to be.
Susanne went for modelling and we’re happy to report that in this sphere she’s coming along nicely.
That was the day.
Down the steps from the airliner they came, polished, gleaming and pointing. Encased in them were the shapely legs of NANCY SINATRA, and by the time they reached ground level the photographers were already putting their elbows in the other feller's eye. Word having got around that Nancy had arrived in London, loud were the cries of “Come on, Nancy, walk right over me, baby—I want to show your boot marks to my best friends
Ooh-oh.
Serve the fool right. He should have known it was going to hurt.
Nancy took it all in her stride. What a girl. What boots.
Ooh-oh.
There's a saying that if you wear a sprig of heather it will bring you luck. If you wear a sprig of Scottish heather, it's said you'll never have the misfortune to fall into Loch Ness and be eaten by the monster.
Now then. HEATHER BROWN was on holiday in Scotland and she and her boyfriend were out in a boat. He was wearing a sprig of local heather. He fell in. Heather rescued him. "There you are," he panted wetly, "what luck, it didn't eat me."
"It wasn't there," said Heather, "this is Loch Lomond."
"Never mind," he said, "you're my best bit of real luck, if you hadn't been around you couldn't have pulled me out."
Heather giggled.
Anyone can be an egghead. All you need is the right kind of brain and a fixation on philosophy or economics or the kings of ancient Thebes. In that way, you not only become an egghead but because of your great learning you’re an old fogey before you’re thirty. You can’t talk about anything except logarithms or Theseus or Queen Nefertiti.
Cardiff student unlikely to ever turn into an egghead or a fogey is JENNY PRICE. She’s simply too dishy. There are female eggheads who wander around museums looking at Egyptian mummies, but that’s not for Jenny. She’s going to be a cool, elegant, indispensable, photogenic secretary.
Thank goodness for that.
Very frisky indeed were the passing breezes on the day MARION McCRECOR took a trip into the country, catching her just at the crucial moment of climbing the fence.
Ah, well, it’s fun to be alive and what’s a fence or a frisky breeze when you're young enough to take both in your stride?
It’s not something you need go to a psychiatrist about. JOAN PAUL doesn’t, but some people do.
“Rest comfortably on the couch, please. Comfy? Nice and relaxed? Good. Now then, what’s the trouble?”
“I’ve got a mania.’’
“Oh, have you? So have I. I was thinking of going to a psychiatrist about it.” “But you’re a psychiatrist yourself.”
“I can’t help that, we’ve all got our problems. Now about my mania—it comes over me mostly in the park.”
“Excuse me, but I’m the patient, it’s my mania I’ve come to discuss with you, not yours. Look, see that, I’ve got one leg in the air.”
“Is that your mania?”
“No, that’s my cramp. My mania is to do with mini-skirts. The whole thing is a terrible worry to me and I can’t sleep at nights.”
“Why is it such a worry?”
“I keep thinking they’ll go out of fashion. Ouch, there goes my cramp again.”
When one realises just how scintillating Joan is in her mini, one can’t help sympathising with all men who worry about when it will all end.
Perhaps you've never been to Persia. They call it Iran now, but it's the same place.
The poets and the songwriters used to write lovely things about Persian gardens. Well, here's a ravishing bloom straight out of a Persian garden. CAMELLIA TIRAN. She's been in England for quite a few years and at eighteen she's still blooming.
Camellia makes dresses and gives them all a touch of Persian enchantment, and if you know any nice concubines tell them they'll look exquisite in anything Camellia turns out. There's nothing like a bit of the old Persian enchantment to add lustre to a saucy Fatima.
When we were young we thought we knew it all. We thought, as every generation thinks, that we were the ones who’d discovered sex. We forgot that when Shakespeare was young his generation discovered it too.
Not concerned with any burning questions which don’t concern her academic pursuits, CHRISTINE NORTON is a student whose spare time is fully taken up with intensive studying.
Now and again she does break out, however, such as when she entered the Miss Enfield beauty contest and delightedly found herself a finalist.
Other than that it’s pen and pencil-biting sessions over books and logarithms and what were the economic reasons that led to the French Revolution and why Lincoln was so passionate at Gettysburg.
It’s a lot to cram into the mind of any lovely learner when there is so much gay living going on elsewhere. Christine admits she sometimes wants to drop everything and go down to the river for a trip in a canoe. But if she wants to qualify as a linguistic secretary or as a junior executive on a woman’s magazine, she’s got to forget canoes and things.
