Steeling beauty

Winning a pageant takes more than curves, a great tap routine, and a plan to save the world. You also need a good coach.

by Kristen Lombardi

It would be a sleepy Sunday morning at the Holiday Inn in Mansfield if the Ms. Massachusetts United States Continental pageant were not passing through the lobby. A line of immaculately dressed women is hustling toward the ballroom with luggage carts in tow or garment bags hoisted over their shoulders. By 9 a.m. the contestants, all three of them, have gathered in an empty meeting room and claimed their corners, gingerly handling velvet gowns and rayon suits, scrupulously positioning the tools of the beauty showdown: rhinestone earrings, curling irons, lipstick tubes, hairbrushes, cans of hair spray. Their focus, though, is on the one accessory they can't see: the glittering crown, nestled on the seat of a plush red throne in the ballroom.

Before I arrived in Mansfield, I had never been to a beauty contest. I'd watched Miss America and Miss Universe on television a few times, but like many Americans, I had never read Pageantry and Pageanteer magazines, had never heard of the pageant-coaching industry, and didn't know that beyond the handful of famous ones, nearly 3000 beauty pageants are held each year at hotels and shopping malls across the country, mostly in the South and West.

When outsiders peek into this world, they usually end up as critics; they find the glitzy affairs degrading, and complain that they objectify women and set unrealistic standards of beauty. I had heard of beauty contestants' wrapping their breasts with duct tape; getting nose jobs, collagen injections, even chin implants. And so I left for Mansfield expecting to find a kind of mad pursuit of physical perfection.

What I found, though, were everyday women -- smart, talented, ambitious, with careers and families -- who delighted unabashedly in glamour and believed completely in pageants. For the women I talked to, the draw of the pageant was not about showing off in front of a crowd, but about challenge, ambition, and the very American ideal of self-improvement. This could be because pageants themselves are changing. It could also be because the women I met had all been coached by Barbara Lavallee.

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Before Barbara Lavallee, the director of the Ms. Massachusetts United States Continental contest, got into pageants, she'd led a long and varied professional life, working as a daycare instructor, as a salesperson, and as a waitress with her husband, Donald, at his family's now-defunct diner, Zip's Truck Stop. Born an only child in Worcester, Lavallee, 59, says she grew up lonesome, which probably inspired a youthful desire to "get out and be in the business world." She took a job as a secretary at Norton Company and enrolled in courses at Assumption College. Pageants never crossed her mind until her teenage daughter Karen, now 31, entered the Miss Venus Swimsuit competition.

Lavallee walked into the hotel ballroom, absorbed the colors and charm, and was hooked. "I thought, `Wow. I should do this,' " she recalls. So when a pageant director suggested that she compete in the 1984 Mrs. Massachusetts United States contest, Lavallee applied. She still remembers that first performance -- how her bathing suit bulged in spots, how her gown featured a tacky flower and sequins (a no-no for older women) -- and, in retrospect, she says it's no wonder she lost. But she had so much fun being on-stage and dressing up that she entered another contest, and then another.

Lavallee has competed in seven pageants so far; she even won the 1992 Mrs. Massachusetts United States title. Before pageants, Lavallee said, she suffered from a poor self-image: she came across as mousy; she disliked her hairstyle; she didn't know how to apply makeup. Pageant life not only taught her the magic of mascara but enabled her to conquer fears and boost her self-confidence. "It was the best thing in my life, going into pageants," she often says.

Today, Lavallee is a short and shapely brunette with olive-colored skin and lipsticked ruby-red lips. She dresses carefully, in fitted, color-coordinated outfits. Even her jeans appear brand-new. She has a loud, infectious laugh, and when she talks about fashion, or fabrics, or fancy gowns, there's an effervescence about her that tends to put people in a good mood.

This isn't to say that Lavallee is all bubble. She's also self-possessed and self-reliant in a way that makes others take notice. After winning her first pageant, she devoted herself to the business, setting up a company, B&D Star Productions, in her Auburn basement. On weekends she directed contests across the state, including Mother/Daughter New England States, Baby New England, and Mrs. Massachusetts Globe; soon she became an at-large director for 12 other states. She branched out into coaching and judging, spending $1000 for the certificate course at the prestigious Barbara Kelley National Judges Institute in Atlanta, Georgia. In seven years, she has trained 150 women and judged 250 pageants. She even founded her own pageant, the very inclusive Ms. and Mr. New England States, which is held in Mansfield and accepts children as young as three and adults as old as 60. She hopes to expand it nationwide within the next two years.

Lavallee enjoys the indulgence of pageantry, the chance to luxuriate in getaway weekends, hotel pool parties, and fine dining. This is, in part, why she keeps returning -- be it as coach, contestant, director, or judge. As she puts it, "Everyone deserves a luxury. Pageants are mine." But even without the frills, she'd remain in the business, especially the coaching business, because it's in this capacity that she helps students feel good about themselves. "I bring out personalities," she says. "It's rewarding to watch my students grow."

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As any pageant person knows, beauty contests aren't simply about beauty anymore. The industry has had to contemporize, catch up to the liberated woman. Pageantry now focuses on attitude, character, inner strength. Winners have the "whole package" -- talent, intelligence, self-assurance, poise, sparkle, and, of course, a pretty face. "Anyone can make themselves beautiful," Lavallee explains. "Pageants are about beauty from within, the way a girl speaks, the way she carries herself on-stage."

Lavallee, who believes her best feature is her personality, draws out her students' strengths in a cellar studio designed to look like a contest stage. A banner reading B&D STAR PRODUCTIONS. PAGEANTS. COACHING. JUDGING. PRODUCING. dominates a wall full of modeling photos, dress sketches, and fliers for her company. Brilliance is everywhere, from tiny flashing lights strung around a homemade runway to shimmering silver tinsel curtains to mirrors reflecting the gleam of spotlights.

One Thursday this spring, Deborah Bernier of Uxbridge stands in the midst of the splendor, turning and gazing at her mirror image. Bernier, a 35-year-old mother of two, has come to Lavallee's studio to prepare for the Ms. Massachusetts United States Continental -- a title, she assures me, she is itching to win. She figures that to do well, she needs six hours of training; Lavallee has coached her for two years, so all that's required now is a "quick polish." Bernier, who has chestnut-colored hair and fair skin, wears a royal blue sleeveless leotard, matching spandex shorts, nylons, socks, and sneakers -- the outfit she plans to wear for the contest's "aerobic" competition.

"I look better in a bathing suit," she mutters. Bernier has spent $70 on the custom-made outfit, but she isn't satisfied with the finished product. She grabs at its waistline, her lips pressed, her brow furrowed.

The ever-diligent trainer circles her student, pats Bernier's slight tummy, and says, "You've got to lose this."

A beauty pageant ultimately comes down to the panel of judges, and Lavallee has strategically placed six porcelain theater masks along one wall of her cellar to remind contestants of the one thing they can never forget. She puts on a twangy country tune and stands beside a porcelain mask.

"Now do the routine with rhythm; this is aerobic wear," she says. "And remember the judges."

Bernier prances down the runway, her smile fixed, her step bouncy, while Lavallee calls out commands. Keep your head still. Don't swing your hair. Earlier, she voiced disapproval of the "Southern style of coaching" -- the flamboyant hat-throwing and cape-swinging you sometimes see on TV. Lavallee teaches proper pageant moves: eye contact with judges; the pivot-and-turn; the "lineup" pose, right heel pressed to left instep, toes up. The simple steps can make a difference. Mindy Bateman, a Winchendon teen who's been in nine contests, used to get anxious in front of a crowd, surrounded by her opponents. "If you don't do it right, you feel humiliated," she says. Lavallee taught her how to "model with poise," and now she feels comfortable and collected on-stage.

Lavallee reminds her star pupil: "Now, Deborah, you want the judges to remember you."

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Another Thursday, and Lavallee is sitting by a porcelain mask, stern-faced, riffling through a book titled Pageant Questions, Volume Five. She has just explained to Bernier that the stage interview at Ms. Massachusetts US Continental makes up 50 percent of contestants' scores. Bernier will have to speak clearly and concisely.

"Answer only what the judges ask, then move on," Lavallee says.

Bernier, in a sharp blue suit, black nylons, and black pumps, stands motionless, her arms at her sides. She has stumbled through an introductory speech that she's been trying to memorize, reciting it over and over in her car. This prompted a bout of laughter, but now Deborah clears her throat, raises her chin.

"What is the best advice you've ever been given?", Lavallee asks.

"To believe in myself," Bernier replies.

"A better answer is, `Don't take life too seriously.' "

Contestants lose points by pausing or by giving long-winded answers and unsolicited opinions, so Lavallee also coaches her students in effective interview techniques, including voice projection and enunciation. Karen Bernard, who won 1997 Ms. New England States, had been in pageants for years before winning a title. "I was placing in the top five but couldn't go further," she recalls. Lavallee taught her the value of "precise answers," and in a year, Bernard earned two trophies (the other was 1997 Ms. Vermont).

Lavallee has coached national, state, and local winners, and Bernier, who entered her first pageant at 18, is one of her favorite pupils. She was overall winner at the New England Model Show, as well as first runner-up at Mrs. Massachusetts Globe.

Bernier attributes her success to the dedication of her coach. "Barbara," she says, "works for the girl, not the buck."

When Lavallee works, it can sound like a catechism:

"You're on the cover of Time. What are you wearing?" she asks.

"More than Demi Moore," Bernier replies, bursting into laughter.

"Don't say that. Don't say names, ever. What motto best describes you?"

"If you don't succeed, try, try again."

"Good answer. What is pageantry?"

"A self-exploration that enriches life."

"If you could be any pet, what would you be and why?"

"A horse, because it's strong, beautiful, and runs like the wind."

"Good. You just opened a fortune cookie. What did it say?"

"Deborah Bernier has been crowned Ms. United States Continental."

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Lavalee brings the same thoroughness to her role as pageant director. This requires lots of time, energy, and money. Months before the scheduled date of Ms. Massachusetts United States Continental, Lavallee began preparing: she paid the owner $720 to host the contest, then sought corporate sponsors; bought trophies, a sash, a scepter, and a crown; booked the ballroom; published a program; selected judges; recruited contestants; and purchased prizes, such as a $600 modeling scholarship and a $350 overnight stay at Foxwoods Casino.

Not every pageant organizer is as scrupulous. In the 14 years she's been in business, Lavallee has heard of operations that took contestants' registration money and then split. Some have gone bankrupt before paying prizes, hired judges who were related to contestants, or flat-out fixed the results. Lavallee says she's never experienced the "bad stuff," that she tries to put on fair, legitimate pageants. She chooses qualified judges who've never met the contestants; at events, she keeps a safe distance from the judges' table; and if her husband, Donald, who usually tallies the scores, knows even one of the contestants, she asks someone else to add up contestants' points. "I don't want anyone to get the wrong impression," she says.

In Mansfield, Lavallee maintains an up-front, open manner. She calls her contestants -- all three of them -- into the hotel's ballroom for rehearsal. In the previous week, three of the six registered contestants dropped out; they were too nervous to go on-stage, or too petrified of losing. "It happens a lot here. Girls get scared and quit," she says.

This pageant, which costs contestants $350 to enter, is one of her smallest; the Mr. and Ms. New England States, by comparison, attracts as many as 65 contestants. Which still isn't large by national pageant standards -- New Englanders, it seems, are a little reluctant to embrace pageant life.

This used to bother Lavallee, especially once she realized how popular beauty contests are elsewhere. Nearly every Sunday, lower-profile pageants like All American Ms., Ms. Southwest Pageant, and All American Woman are held at Holiday Inns and Best Westerns in places like Orlando, Florida, Scottsdale, Arizona, and Lubbock, Texas. Lavallee, who was an assistant director of the Texas-based Sunburst USA pageant, has worked innumerable shows at which the contestant-registration lines would start in hotel lobbies, then curve through hallways and out front doors.

In directing Massachusetts pageants, however, she's had to battle what she calls the "New England attitude." People here tend to view beauty contests with condescension, even disdain, as if glamour and spangled finery were somehow depraved. "If I tell people I'm in pageants, they say, `Oh.' That's it. They don't want to know anything about pageant life," she explains. It's not that Lavallee expects pageants to be as popular as, say, golf; it's just that the average person will try playing golf before objecting to it. Those who have never attended beauty contests, though, are inclined to dismiss them outright, without ever witnessing what pageant people see -- how thrilled women are to win the crown, and how people in the circuit treat one another like family.

The New England attitude has made it so difficult to find competitors that Lavallee has learned to appreciate small pageants -- as long as she doesn't lose money. For this contest, she could have broken even if all six competitors had shown up (I later discover she is $1600 in the red), but as she stands before the remaining three, Lavallee shrugs off disappointment.

"This is a small pageant, and I blame myself," she says. "But we're going to do it like there were 1500 people here."

None of the contestants, each sitting with legs crossed and hands folded, appear to mind the news. They smile brightly as Lavallee reads off stipulations -- you must be born female; age 24 to 60; single, divorced, married, or widowed -- then offers up suggestions. The winner, who will represent the state in the Ms. US Continental national contest, in Reno, Nevada, this November, should be a good spokesperson, someone who not only looks comfortable on-stage but takes volunteerism and community involvement seriously.

"All of you are strong contestants, but you need to be prepared," Lavallee warns. "The judges can only choose one winner."

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An hour or so later, 30 people sit bunched together in the first few rows of an auditorium set up for 100. Husbands, parents, and children hold bouquets of roses, clutch throwaway cameras. Two little boys sit beside me with their father, fussing and squealing; the youngest keeps demanding, "I want to see Mom." In front of a 24-foot runway, three female judges sit stiffly, with solemn expressions, while a fourth scribbles on paper. Lavallee has given them the contestants' applications and has encouraged them to think of insightful interview questions. As soon as the last judge lays down her pen and nods, upbeat music comes over the speakers:

One singular sensation.
Ev'ry little step she takes.
One thrilling combination.
Ev'ry move that she makes.

The crowd hushes, leans forward. The first contestant, petite and curvaceous, glides across the stage: "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Kathy Lauer from Chestnut Hill." Lauer stands in line-up pose, in white shoes and a magenta suit. Her blond hair is scooped into an elaborate bun; her face is round and gentle, as if it belonged tucked inside a bonnet. She has a quiet confidence, and when she speaks she ends sentences on a high note.

Then comes contestant two, a tall, wafer-thin woman: "Good afternoon. I'm Clare Boyle from Shirley. . . . Today, I'm wearing my grandmother's suit." She stands in a blue outfit that hangs off her slight shoulders. Her blond bob, flipped up at the ends, gives her a lively quality. She has warm eyes that soften her sharp features, and when she talks, she punches words animatedly. Soon the third contestant eases across stage, her steps slow, deliberate: "Good afternoon . . . I'm Deborah Bernier. . . . My hobbies and interests include sewing, writing, and antiques." Bernier stands in her suit, arms at her sides, her broad shoulders pushed back. She directs a wide smile at each judge, addresses them with a firm and steady voice, but her eyes reveal a hint of hesitation.

Once, at Lavallee's studio, I asked Bernier why she enters beauty contests. She responded with the same answer as every contestant I spoke with: pageantry gets in your blood. It is, no doubt, nerve-racking to perform before an audience, and there's no way to anticipate what judges want. (As one woman said, "You never know if you'll remind a judge of someone she hates.") And all of this explains, at least in part, what makes pageants a challenge. Karen Bernard, the 1997 title holder, said pageant women "are striving to better themselves. . . . It makes you feel good to know you have the courage to get on-stage." And if you're fortunate enough to win a title, you feel even better.

By the time the evening-gown category begins, the audience is impatient. It has been only a half-hour since the pageant started, but because the contestants had to change outfits, there have been unanticipated empty stretches. The boys next to me squirm with greater intensity. Some adults whisper, some yawn. A gray-haired woman leans over and asks the boys' father: "If she wins, what does she get? Just the glory of going to Las Vegas?"

The man shrugs. "It isn't $100,000 or anything."

As soon as Kathy Lauer appears, the audience quiets, and when she smiles, everyone smiles back. She is wearing a sleek red gown with rhinestones bordering the top. Cameras flash, the stones sparkle, her eyes twinkle. One judge picks up her pen, but the rest of them just watch Lauer walk the runway, do a pivot-and-turn, then retreat. Clare Boyle follows, in a shimmering silver gown that plunges low in the front. She gives off an intense radiance that keeps everyone grinning. The littlest boy beside me bolts up, waves, and whispers loudly, "Hi, Mom! Hi!" Deborah Bernier then emerges, in an elegant brown velvet gown that sets off her complexion. She moves with a forceful grace, holding the edges of a chiffon train up and out; she seems like an angel, ready to fly away.

During breaks in the show, I asked a handful of pageant people why so many Americans object to pageants. Kathy's husband, Buck, said at first he cringed at his wife's interest in pageantry, but now he likens it to his golf-playing: "These woman are normal people; this is just how they compete." Lavallee's husband, Donald, instantly recognized the industry's "meat-market qualities" -- how a lot of directors do pageants for the money. (In the South, particularly, directors can make tens of thousands of dollars at a state final.) When Lavallee went into business, Donald advised her to be different: "I told her to pay attention to the girls, help them out. And she does." After all her years in pageants, Lavallee still has relatives who refuse to discuss the contests, and this sort of stubbornness leads her to one conclusion: "People won't admit it, but I think when they object strongly to something, there's one word for it. Jealousy."

Deborah Bernier doesn't win Ms. Massachusetts US Continental. But she is first runner-up, which means she gets to lug home a sizable trophy. She loses by a mere point; Lavallee later says that to improve, Bernier will need to work on speaking skills, and possibly change the interview suit. As at-large director for the national organization, Lavallee must find contestants to represent Pennsylvania, Maine, and Washington, DC (which don't hold pageants) in the November nationals, and she promises Bernier one of those spots. This isn't as exciting as winning your state title, no doubt, so when I ask Bernier how she feels, at first she responds viscerally: "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride." Later, though, after considering that she has given her best performance yet, she says she feels "absolutely great."

As for the winner -- well, the pageant's last moments seem a surreal blur. The contestants line up, gripping each other's hands, while their husbands wait, cameras ready. Thirty seconds turn into an eternity. Finally, the winner is announced: "Ms. Kathy Laauuer." Cameras flash, relatives sigh, and as soon as Lauer assumes the throne, a swarm of people move in around her. Suddenly, all I can see floating above them is that dazzling, diamond-like crown.

Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi@phx.com.