to mention nightmare scenarios involving spilled wine or broken zippers. I
learned, too, that it was important to always, no matter what, pack a dress suitable
for a funeral, because Barack sometimes got called with little notice to be there as
soldiers, senators, and world leaders were laid to rest.
I came to depend heavily on Meredith but also equally on Johnny Wright,
my fast-talking, hard-laughing hurricane of a hairdresser, and Carl Ray, my soft-
spoken and meticulous makeup artist. Together, the three of them (dubbed by
my larger team “the trifecta”) gave me the confidence I needed to step out in
public each day, all of us knowing that a slipup would lead to a flurry of ridicule
and nasty comments. I never expected to be someone who hired others to
maintain my image, and at first the idea was discomfiting. But I quickly found
out a truth that no one talks about: Today, virtually every woman in public life—
politicians, celebrities, you name it—has some version of Meredith, Johnny, and
Carl. It’s all but a requirement, a built-in fee for our societal double standard.
How had other First Ladies managed their hair, makeup, and wardrobe
challenges? I had no idea. Several times over the course of that first year in the
White House, I found myself picking up books either by or about previous First
Ladies, but each time I’d lay them down again. I almost didn’t want to know
what was the same and what was different about any of us.
I did, in September, have a pleasant overdue lunch with Hillary Clinton, the
two of us sitting in the residence dining room. After his election and a little to my
surprise, Barack had chosen Hillary as his secretary of state, both of them
managing to set aside the battle wounds of the primary campaign and build a
productive working relationship. She was candid with me about how she’d
misjudged the country’s readiness to have a proactive professional woman in the
role of First Lady. As First Lady of Arkansas, Hillary had kept her job as a law
partner while also helping with her husband’s efforts to improve health care and
education. Arriving in Washington with the same sort of desire and energy to
contribute, though, she’d been roundly spurned, pilloried for taking on a policy
role in the White House’s work on health-care reform. The message had been
delivered with a resounding, brutal frankness: Voters had elected her husband and
not her. First Ladies had no place in the West Wing. She’d tried to do too much
too quickly, it seemed, and had run straight into a wall.
I myself tried to be mindful of that wall, learning from other First Ladies’
experience, taking care not to directly or overtly insert myself into West Wing
business. I relied instead on my staff to communicate daily with Barack’s,