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Joan Juliet Buck remembers working at glamour in the late 1960s and dressing ex tically to offset a climate of political mayhem.
The summer of 1968 began at dawn on June 5, in my grandmother's living room. Andy Warhol had been shot two days before. I awoke to see my grandmother turning on the TV.
"Nana?"
"He's been shot! He's dead!"
"I know," I said, warmed that she cared about someone I almost knew, "but that was the day before yesterday. And he's alive, he's going to be OK."
"They shot another one! You know!"
The TV made that curious zipping sound as it came to life, and we were in the middle of a newscast. ...