My personal experience with charm is rather limited. I think this is due to the fact that I neither possess any, nor do I often recognize it when displayed by others.

I was a relatively happy child, wanting attention and activity and creativity. I was "The Tomboy" of the family (Mom's description), despite my desires to learn ballet and be a fairy princess in ruffles. Tall and skinny, strong and athletic but otherwise graceless, perhaps the best description of my physicality would be "hyperactively gawky".

Various nicknames included String Bean (Mom), Teen the Bean, Moonbeam McSwine (Dad), Skeleton, Stick, and Bugs (Girl Scouts), and Dumbo, Medusa, and "Ug" (short for Ugly) (my loving brother).

You get the picture. It wasn't pretty. Neither was I.

In addition to physical clumsiness, I had the uncanny ability to blurt out, uncontrolled, totally obnoxious remarks. Even when trying to say something pleasant, witty, or otherwise appropriate, the wrong thing was always blurted.

My parents worried... "she'll NEVER fit in ... ".

It was almost like Turrette's Syndrome: I'd perceive a situation accurately enough, and start the process of forming the right words to offer... .then I'd feel something start to build and build, and finally, out would spew exactly what should NOT be said. And I had little more control over my body's excess energy-induced tics, fidgets and gesticulations.

My parents worried... "she'll NEVER make friends ... ".

Social disabilities such as these could make it hard to fit in anywhere outside of, say, a hermit's retreat in the Yukon. Not to mention the detrimental impact on my father's career, which could be made or broken by what the management elite thought of his family. Too, this large, highly social, engineering firm habitually gave its employees' offspring their first chance at employment. Depending, of course...

"Hi, Mr. Belcher. Is that really how fish drink?"

My parents REALLY worried ..."she'll NEVER get a job... ".

Mom searched for a solution. Though preferable in location, sending me to a Parisian finishing school was impractical: cost, language, I was twelve. Determined, Mom eventually found the "Wendy Ward Charm School" at the local Montgomery Ward department store. She took the chance. If anybody could mold me into something resembling a normal teenage girl, perhaps Wendy Ward could.

She handed me over. Strange, a boy was there too. Was his mother confused? Was MINE?? It became clear when the teacher explained to us that we had been recruited to model next season's Montgomery Ward's clothing in a fashion show.

Cool! Mom groaned.

As the teacher ("Miss Ward") droned on about how GLAD she was to see us all, and how MUCH she was looking forward to working with us all, and how much POTENTIAL she saw in EACH of us, I thought that if I couldn't be a ballerina fairy princess, maybe I could be a Charming Model. If she'd just shut up and actually start the class.

"LET'S GET ON WITH IT!!!"

My parents worried... ."she'll NEVER learn manners... ".

We learned about posture. We learned the "one-o'clock" foot position, poised at ready to stand and look alluring, or to turn quickly and make a graceful exit. We learned the "Wendy Ward Runway Walk", which was old-school, back-killing Christian Dior-ish, meaning that we learned to pose and "GLIDE, girls, GLIDE!!" with our hips forward of our shoulders, our feet placed, heels on an imaginary line, toes just to the outside of it. This GLIDE was nothing like today's runway style where the necessarily double-jointed model places each foot as far as possible off the opposite side of that imaginary line, resulting in flailing hips and arms, though both styles result in enormous chiropractic bills.

We glided like a pack of buffalo to the end of the runway, attempting to retain our balance and miss bumping our outflung hips as we passed each other. By the time the fashion show was over, our backs were permanently deformed, but I was hooked on modeling, and loudly proclaimed my new vocation.

My parents worried... "she'll NEVER learn grace... ".

They enrolled me in the actual (girls only) charm school course.

We learned personal grooming and hygiene. How often to wash our hair, shave, and give ourselves a manicure. Which hairstyles went with what shape of face. We learned different body types and which fabrics, colors, and cuts of clothing enhanced assets or hid flaws. We were introduced to "lingerie". We learned how to take our measurements, shape our brows, accessorize, how to gesture and hold our bodies, hands, and heads. We learned the Wendy Ward rule for making charming conversation, "Know something about everything, and everything about something." My subject was horses.

My parents worried... "she'll NEVER find a boyfriend... ".

They enrolled me again.

The real training began. We received our Wendy Ward Charm School Books and were given homework between classes. It was like boot camp. "Chin up!" "Back straight!" "Throw that chest out!" "Do you even KNOW what a fingernail file is?" "Eyes straight ahead!" "You call that hair WASHED?" "Feet at one o'clock!" "SMILE when you say that!" "THIS is MAKEUP. You will learn how to use it, to keep it functional, to clean it up. From now on it will be your MOTHER, your FATHER, and your BEST FRIEND."

By the time I was sixteen, I had modeled in several fashion shows, and benefited from some of the postures and gestures when competing in a Rodeo Queen contest. I actually stood in the one o'clock modeling pose for interviews and pictures as a Rodeo Princess.

I was deemed almost socially tolerable, though my talent for obnoxious blurting persisted. I wasn't any more gracious, intelligent, talented, pretty, stylish or witty, but I was now obsessed with skin, hair, figure, clothing, perfection, measurements, first impressions, image, etc.

Wendy Ward Charm school had drilled into me all the neurotic self-consciousness that defines fashionable modern females.  What stuck with me out of all of it was the awareness and embarrassment of my own flaws.   In that regard, I was certainly closer to being a typical teenage girl.   Was I now more charming?  Clearly, no.

My parents worried... "she'll NEVER find a man... ".

According to the wisdom of the Wendy Ward Charm School book, there is no compliment so great as when you walk away from someone, and they say, "Now there goes a charming girl". I wonder if Wendy Ward has charm school for adults. I'd like to find out which is the more important: being called charming, or walking away.

Sure, Jean Robb looks charming in this picture, but secretly her feet are in that subversive three-o'clock pose.