Ten Minutes With Gigi Galore

Gigi Galore arrives exactly four minutes late, which she informs us is “on time for a queen and early for a diva.” She is wearing a cream silk blouse, black palazzo pants and a strand of pearls long enough to jump rope with. She orders sweet tea, tells the waiter he has “a beautiful speaking voice, baby, use it,” and turns to us. “Ten minutes. Go.”

Your first pageant. What do you remember?

“My shoes. They were half a size too small and I had borrowed them from my cousin Denise, who still brings it up. I was nineteen. I could not walk in them, so I decided I would glide. Everyone thought it was technique. Baby, it was survival. I placed third and I cried in the car like I had lost a war. My mother said, ‘You walked like you owned the building.’ I have been walking like that ever since.”

You came back thirty years later.

“They asked me to crown the new girl. That’s all. Hand over a sash, smile, go home. And then those darlings dragged me back out and made me walk one more time. Did I protest? Briefly. For the cameras. Then I hit that stage and, honey, the body remembers. I still got it. I’ll always have it. That’s the secret. It doesn’t leave, it just waits for you.”

The outfit you’d save from a fire?

“The opera coat. Black satin, the collar up to here, gloves to the elbow. Somebody told me fifty-four was too old for it. I said, baby, I am the opera. I wore it to the grocery store the next day out of spite. Spite is an underrated accessory.”

Who taught you how to dress?

“My mother, and the church ladies of southwest Atlanta. Sunday was a runway. Hats you could land a plane on. They taught me that getting dressed is a way of saying you showed up on purpose. You don’t need money for that. You need intention, and a good iron.”

You’re coaching a young woman for her first pageant this spring.

“I am, and she is going to be magnificent, and she does not believe me yet. That’s fine. Nobody believes it at the start. My job is to make her practice so much that her feet stop listening to her nerves. We walk, we turn, we walk again. I take my heels off and show her. When she gets it right, I don’t tell her. I just nod. When I nod, she knows.”

Will Gigi be in the front row? She looks at us like we have asked whether water is wet. “Baby. I’ll be in the front row, the back row and the wings. I may also be backstage with a steamer.”

Best advice for someone posting their first moment?

“Post the one where you look like you’re having a good time, not the one where you look perfect. Perfect is boring. Joy is a cover.”

Lightning round

• Gold or silver? “Gold. I’m not a monster.”
• Heels or flats? “Heels to arrive. Flats in the purse. I’m glamorous, not stupid.”
• Most overrated trend? “Beige. Baby, beige is a wall color.”
• Who on WHATAQUEEN is dressing best right now? “Miss June in that fuchsia hat. And Malik. That boy plans a look like a general plans a war.”
• Your motto? “Mentor, mother, menace. In that order, unless provoked.”

Our ten minutes are up. Gigi checks a gold watch she is clearly not wearing to tell the time, leaves a tip larger than the bill, and tells us to “stand up straight, you’re in a magazine now.” Then she glides out. Not walks. Glides.

Follow her on WHATAQUEEN at @gigigalore, and follow her student’s road to the pageant in the storyline Gigi’s Pageant Student.