emilyenrose:

emilyenrose:

Today I went to visit the magic bra ladies.

The magic bra ladies live in a small shop hung with underwear and swimsuits. It is not fancy looking. There are a lot of cardboard boxes. The shop is called Madame Leiberg’s. I sometimes wonder about that. Who was Madame Leiberg? I know my mum got her first bra there, and that it’s where my great-grandmother used to buy her long-line bras and reinforced pantygirdles. It must have been around since at least the 1960s. I can’t imagine the redoubtable figure that was Great-Gran buying her all-important slightly creaky-sounding undergarments anywhere new, so it had probably been there a while before she condescended to grace it with her patronage. 1950s? Earlier? It’s in the middle of the most Jewish suburb of London, and Leiberg sounds German. Maybe the original Madame Leiberg was part of the wave of German Jewish immigrants in the 1930s. Or maybe she never existed at all, who knows. 

It’s the most incredible shop.

I walk in. I do not make the mistake of trying to browse. You don’t browse in this place. “What are you looking for?” asks the nearest magic bra lady. She is the junior shop assistant, I think, although I’m pretty sure she’s also the one who fitted me for my first bra a decade and a half ago. She looks like she’s been there since the dawn of time. The senior bra lady looks like she’s been there since before the dawn of time. There is decades of combined underwear experience in this room. 

“Er,” I say. This is already going better than the second-last time I was here, when the senior bra lady didn’t even ask the question, just raised an eyebrow and said, “Ah. You’ll want something that fits.”

“Two bras?” I say. “Uh, a dark one and a light one?” Two bras here is an extravagance. I can just about afford it. It’ll pay itself off in cost-per-wear, I tell myself.

I am whisked into a fitting room and ordered to take my top off. I don’t feel remotely shy about it. I never do here. They aren’t interested in what my body looks like. They just want to give me the perfect bra.

That’s why you don’t browse, you see. You know nothing about the perfect bra. They do. They don’t mess around with measurements. I have never seen a tape measure in this shop. They take a look at you and then go and fetch you the exact bra you need from a cardboard box known only to them. It truly is magical.

My magic bra lady examines the bra I’m currently wearing. She checks the label. “That can’t be right,” she says. My bra is a 32C nude t-shirt bra, purchased here two years ago. “Hmm,” says the assistant. She goes and gets me a bra the same size and tries it on me. “Just what I thought,” she says, whisking it off before I have a chance to see what it looks like. 

“Take that,” she says, gesturing to the bra I came in with, “and throw it away. Burn it. Never wear it again.”

“Okay,” I say meekly.

“Look, try this.” She puts a 34D bra in the same style on me. I can feel the difference at once. There’s no wire digging into me. The straps fit. “That’s so much bett-” I begin.

“No,” she says. She takes it off me. She puts another one on me. “Here.”

34E. Wow, really? I’m thinking. I knew I’d gained weight but I didn’t realise it was that much. “Perfect,” says my bra lady with satisfaction. “The other one was gapping over the breastbone.”

I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve been unsatisfied with my body lately, if I’m honest. I didn’t expect to stay the same weight forever that I was when I was a teenager, I tell myself. I’m okay being a stone or two heavier; it’s definitely better than the skeletal look I had in the pits of my last major depressive episode when I just stopped eating. Be body positive, right? I look fine. I feel fine. I’m happy. I like how I look naked. I just avoid glancing towards the mirror when I’m getting dressed. Everything seems to sag and roll alarmingly when I try to put clothes on it.

The woman in the mirror looks great. I love the bra. I love her. Nothing is sagging or rolling. If it was it wouldn’t matter, because the boobs are fantastic. 

“What else did you want?” asks my bra lady, with a quiet touch of smugness. She knows she’s good.

“Something darker?” I say. “Uh, I have quite a lot of tops with low necklines -”

“Something pretty,” says the bra lady firmly.

She disappears into the midst of the cardboard boxes. When she reappears she is holding three black bras. One has a deep blue-green peacock design, subtle; one is lace; one has an adorable cherry bow. They’re all gorgeous. You can’t buy all of them, I tell myself firmly. I already know I’m going to go for at least two.

She puts them on me one after the other. Square neckline. Scoop. Deep v. The peacock one is possibly the most gorgeous thing I have ever put on my body. The cherry bow is adorable. The black lace only loses out by comparison. My magic bra lady looks satisfied. She’s no fool: she’s brought out two really expensive ones and the black lace one for a cheap option. I resign myself to the inevitable. I am going to spend a lot of money here. Cost-per-wear, I tell myself. Also apparently I have to throw out and possibly burn all my current bras, because it’s very clear from these that I’ve been wearing completely the wrong size.

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Are there knickers with these?” I ask.

“We’d have to order in from Germany for that one,” she says, gesturing to the peacock bra.

I walk away with three new bras: nude t-shirt bra, cherry bow v-neck, and the peacock one. I also have a matching pair of knickers for the cherry bow one and the peacock knickers on order. I wince at the bill. Two hundred quid, wow, that is a substantial chunk of my budget for the next few months. It’s worth it. I go two years at a time between bra shops so that I can afford to come here when I need new underwear.

My magic bra lady won’t let me wear my old bra home. “You can throw it in the bin here if you like,” she offers. I protest. It has served me well. It deserves a honourable burial in my own personal bin.

I walk home wearing a new bra. It’s comfortable. It fits perfectly. It makes me feel happy about how I look. And I have never been so supported.

Anyway, they are so old-fashioned they barely have a website, but if you are ever in north London and find yourself in need of slightly-pricey-but-genuinely-perfect underwear placed on you by experts in an atmosphere of total soothing competence, you should definitely visit.

So I’m getting married a week today, and I walked into Leiberg’s with my dress and the sentence ‘can you -‘

And now I have a perfectly fitted bustier which matches the dress like it was made for it and fits perfectly and makes my cleavage fabulous and my waist tiny and is SO comfortable.

Magic bra ladies, you guys. There’s nothing like them.