Why We Give Advice, And Why We Take It
What makes us qualified to tell other people what they should do?
One very hot Saturday afternoon, I sat on a couch in the bridal salon of Kleinfeld, the bridal boutique from “Say Yes To the Dress” and waited for my best friend to emerge from a dressing room in a bridal gown. Around me, women stood on pedestals, their bodies swathed in satin and Swarovski and chiffon, some clutching bouquets of fake flowers to their sternums, staring into the mirror with a wrinkled brow as saleswomen dressed in black fluttered around them fussing with veils and pinning up trains.
A blonde woman stood on the pedestal in front of us, frowning at her reflection and smoothing the beaded bodice of a wedding dress over and over again. The people she’d brought to her appointment sat on a couch, offering up their opinions. The air was heavy; it was 90 degrees outside and relentlessly humid and the air conditioning was broken. Ponytails hung limp on the necks of brides in ivory satin; the occasional dad brought along to pay or approve checked their phones from velvet couches. The bride turned to us, instead.
“I need your opinion,” she said. “What do you guys think of this dress?”
We offered our advice — it looks great! You don’t need a veil! Strapless will work for you, don’t worry! — and the bride took it into consideration, brow furrowed. Ten minutes later, as we walked towards the warren of dressing rooms in the back, we passed another bride, standing on a pedestal, wearing a dress with an intricate beaded back. Powered by the rush of authority and riding high off our newfound positions of feeling like people worthy of giving advice, my friend offered his unfiltered take.
“The dress looks great,” he said. “It’s beautiful. Wear your hair up. You don’t need a veil. It distracts from the back of your dress.” She nodded. Five minutes later, a burst of applause came from her corner. As we walked past her to get water, she said, “I’m not wearing a veil with the dress! I took your advice.”
Advice, unsolicited or otherwise, is an indulgence. Unlike self-help, there are no hard and fast rules with advice. Someone who gives good advice offers a solution without stooping to pedantry or condescension. Wisdom, perceived or actual, makes itself known. A long-winding personal narrative meanders its way to a conclusion that synthesizes in the last sentences, a hell of a kicker that, if you’re lucky, makes you gasp and give you goosebumps. We seek advice because there are hundreds and thousands of questions in this world and in everyday life that need to be answered, yet most of us lack the ability to advise ourselves properly. We turn to advice, gentle and occasionally strident recommendations from a person capable of seeing the forest for the trees.
The first advice column appeared in a publication from 1691 called the Athenian Mercury, addressing the concerns of the middle and lower class. The questions ranged from the philosophical (“What is time?”) to the practical (“What is the cause of the winds, and whence do they come, and whither do they go?”) and are a standing record of humanity’s consistent and prodding curiosity. A few years later, the Athenian launched the Ladies Mercury, and with it came “Love Etc”, a column written for young women seeking out advice about love and relationships — the emotional frippery that needed to be addressed but wasn’t actually ever serious. Women’s concerns have been traditionally seen as inconsequential fluff, not worthy of actual, serious discussion, but perfectly suited to be addressed by other women, who, presumably are capable of delivering advice that works because they are women. Advice columns have been a staple of women’s media for centuries. In the U.K., advice columnists are called “agony aunts” — wizened women who contain multitudes and who will answer your question with grace, kindness and a knowing wink.
Advice columns examine closely the interior lives of the culture at large, a gut check and neat categorization of our fears, dreams and desires. Their beauty lies in specificity; for any particular set of concerns, there is surely an advice column out there, ready to dispense aphorisms and gentle exhortations for whatever problem you may be working out. Asking someone for advice and getting something in return is a precious exchange. While the advice dispensed serves to mostly slake the readers’ thirst for closure, it’s essential to remember that behind the anonymity lies a living, fallible human being.
Dear Abby and Ann Landers, the two cornerstones of the American form, are responsible for perpetuating some of our culture’s most closely held myths. The belief that rice pecked off the ground by industrious birds in the aftermath of weddings expands in their stomachs, causing them to meet a violent death, was first perpetuated by Ann Landers, as a response to a reader in 1996. Think of how many times that mental image has swooped into your mind’s eye — grass trampled by many feet, the remains of streamers, a field of pigeons with distended bellies lying as if in sleep. Ann Landers might not have known if what she was saying about the rice and the pigeons was true, but in her head it made sense. Advice is often neither right or wrong; it’s someone’s opinion and nothing more, but it leaves a lasting impression.
The best advice is specific enough to feel unique without sacrificing universality in its endeavors. Dear Sugar, a popular and beloved advice column written by Cheryl Strayed for The Rumpus, works because her guidance is timeless; Sugar speaks from a well of deep experience of just living life and that experience informs the advice she gives. Heather Havrilesky’s Ask Polly addresses what, on the surface, feel like petty concerns with caps-heavy screeds full of strident advice that cut quick and sharp to the heart of the matter. You can ask a Florida Mom about your disgusting boyfriend or a hiring manager about whether or not to quit your job without a backup plan. Like porn, there’s something out there for just about everybody.
To seek advice from an anonymous source is natural. Everyone has questions that they’re too ashamed to ask; a petty concern can grow to become so huge that it physically hurts, sending spiny prickles down your arms as you browse tomatoes at the grocery store. Advice from a neutral, trusted party imparts structure on the tangled mess of everyday life. Asking a faceless and implicitly trusted advisor a question about your deepest, darkest fears is easier than spitting that fear into a search engine and combing the depths of Yahoo! Answers for a grain of truth.
But what makes the advice valid? It could be experience, but maybe there are greater universal truths out there that sit just below the surface and only some of us are open enough to be able to see them. Some people might have no experience at all and are instead put on this earth, sprung from the womb with the all-knowing and sage like wisdom of an agony aunt, ready to dispense useful platitudes about what you should do with that boyfriend of yours who won’t get your subtle hints about marriage or how to best handle a boss hell-bent on your professional destruction. The best advice ekes out these universal truths and is dispensed in a way that feels kind and forgiving and true. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the person giving it has experience or not. Maybe it just has to be real for you, in the moment.
We eventually saw our friend emerge from the fitting room encased in a variety of bridal gowns, all beaded and strapless and satin. We offered our opinions because we were fulfilling our duties as friends. We came to Kleinfeld for a reason — to offer advice on what some see as the biggest decision of their lives. My friend left without a dress; she had already selected one in a bridal boutique in the suburbs of Boston. On our way out, the first woman we saw on the main floor of the salon passed by. “I took your advice,” she crowed, gleaming with sweat and victory. “I got the dress you picked. Thank you so much.”
Nothing about my assembled group indicated that we were experts in any way. Like almost everyone else sitting at Kleinfeld not wearing a satin dress held together by A-clamps, we were observers, experts in nothing about fit or style or function. Unlike an overly-aggressive salesperson offering unsolicited takes on how well that jacket really fits, we weren’t trying to sell anyone anything. For us, there was no gain. The advice we gave was just that — an opinion, a suggestion — based on nothing more than our own personal taste. There’s no reason that woman should have taken our advice. But, we gave it, unsolicited and honest and true. We were human beings with no dog in the game; just three people willing to connect with someone who needed it in that moment, very much like we all do most of the time.