A Needle in a Haystack

Mrs. Zaharou, my mentor, was the best seamstress in the village. She
made her living from sewing and renting the next-door apartment. Her
sewing workshop was also her bedroom and living room, a cozy space
filled with the hum of creativity. She lived a simple life, yet her brain was rich in the knowledge of fabrics and stitches that she generously shared with me for three unforgettable summers.

Holding needle and thread in her talented hands, she dressed the local ladies for years, crafting and altering clothes that were as much a tribute to her skill as they were to her love for her craft. Her only sewing equipment was a Singer straight stitch treadle machine, a relic that she treated with the utmost care. A measure tape always hung around her neck, ready for the next project. An ironing board stood against a wall; its surface worn from multiple uses. A few Burda magazines and fashion catalogs were stacked on top of her table. Customers flipped through the pages to look at the models, dreaming of the dresses Mrs. Zaharou would bring to life for them.

A customer would point to a page in a catalog, saying, “I like this dress.” She would hand us her luxurious silk fabric, trusting us to bring her vision to life. I would take her measurements with precision, noting every detail. On Monday, we would spread the fabric out on the kitchen table, ready to transform it into something beautiful. No pattern was needed; we would draft our own, guided by the customer’s measurements and Mrs. Zaharou’s expert eye.

“Measure ten times, cut once,” she would advise me, her voice calm and steady. This mantra became my guiding principle, a reminder of the importance of precision and care. We would baste the pieces together, the first step in turning the fabric into a dress. The customer would meet us for three fittings, each one bringing the dress closer to perfection. With each adjustment, the dress would fit the customer like a glove, caressing all her curves. It was one of a kind, so unique. I would marvel at how beautiful she looked in it, like an Indian princess.

On Saturday, I would deliver the dress to the customer. Her eyes would be filled with joy as she saw the finished product. She would tip me generously, a gesture of her appreciation for the care and craftsmanship that Mrs. Zaharou and I had dedicated to her dress. These moments were the highlights of my apprenticeship, each one a lesson in patience, precision, and the satisfaction of making something beautiful with my own hands.

Sewing a dress is not difficult. But making the woman who will wear it feel beautiful–that is an art mastered only by the most capable seamstresses, like Mrs. Zaharou. To sew such a dress, one must first understand that clothes are not merely for covering the body, keeping warm in cold weather, or hiding one’s nakedness. A dress has the power to change the mood of the woman who will wear it. It dresses the soul first, taking her on a voyage, transforming her. It makes her feel beautiful and unique, and then, she becomes beautiful and unique in the eyes of others too. It’s not enough that the seamstress knows how to sew well, but also to understand what story, what fairy tale the woman, who entrusted her with the fabric, wants to live. The seamstress knows how to make the fabric one with the woman’s skin.

Mrs. Zaharou taught me that sewing a dress is about understanding and fulfilling the emotional needs of the person who wears it. It’s more than just sewing it, but also creating art that resonates with the soul. She really was a needle in a haystack.

This post was emailed to DearReader members on November 13, 2024.