I turn the edge in—and again once more onto itself. I lower the presser foot on the fold I made, and it’s go time. I push the pedal under the table with my foot, and at first, it's slow. Chuka, chuka, chuka. The needle punches in and out of the cotton blend. Up, down, up, down. I press harder with my toe now, accelerating the operation. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. A finished seam flows behind the dipping needle.
Minutes earlier, Ricka modeled for me, wearing the dress I now amend. She wanted the skirt to hit her just right, so according to her tastes, I snipped off the rejected inches, allowing extra for the fold I stitch through now.
It’s going well, this editing assignment in fabric. I complete the dress’s bottom with my machine, closing the circle. Now a little backstitch at the end to seal it. Ricka waits for the final clipping of dangling threads, and the thrifting find is new to her, updated for her—a different sundress from the one a stranger once wore.
I contemplate the edge I cut. What if I had left it in its naked state, vulnerable to internal and external threats? Given enough time, washing would unravel it, daylight would fade it, and wear would fray it. Instead, I rescued the rawness from itself, protecting and covering it on all sides. No one would consider me cruel for removing its exposure to the world, tucking it away safely for its own beauty and good.
And now, maybe you’re thinking what I’m thinking.
You hem me in, behind and before, and lay Your hand upon me.
Oh, the best sewing project of all: us. But stitched in love—always in love.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.