Running Afowl of Fashion

My siblings will tell you I’ve never been one for conventional fashion.  As a child I paired purple with vivid orange, mossy green, royal blue, because, as we all know, purple goes with everything.  I also wore “corresponding” patterns: toile and tartan, herringbone and hounds tooth, paisley and polka dots.  Sure they might only correspond via Transatlantic Cable in some instances, but they spoke to me in any event. 

As I matured I dabbled in new looks involving vests, ties, saddle shoes, scarves, wide brimmed hats, my father’s over-size Hawaiian shirts, a 30 yr old pair of authentic Argentine gaucho pants...not always at the same time.  On the occasion of my Junior Prom, my date was rendered speechless at my entrance.  I wore a simple white gown with a pale pink sash.  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a bad speechless, it was an I-Can’t-Believe-She-Isn’t-Baggy-and-Technicolor speechless, which, under the circumstances, was a good thing.

In my 20s my hair got into the game courtesy of my mother.  After some 30 years of coloring her own hair with varying degrees of success, she decided I was a blank canvass in need of an artist’s touch.  Never having been content with the natural red highlights in my otherwise brown hair, I was a willing victim as she applied the temporary Henna coloring, which promised to give me the rich auburn mane I’d so long desired.  And it did.  We determined that in light of our success we would apply a longer lasting color product once the Henna faded a week or so later.  It was only after I blew dry my then jet black hair with deep purple ends that Mom shared with me the name of the color she’d chosen: Burgundy.  Not quite the mane I’d hoped for, but as it was purple and would wash out over the ensuing three months, she got off pretty easily with a verdict of “No Harm No Foul.”  (I do, however, go to a licensed professional for my hair coloring now.)

I have over the years learned to tone down my fashion idiosyncrasies.  As a woman in my 40s, I have decided that when it comes to my personal flair, less is more.  And so my wardrobe is fairly functional and conservative as is to be expected.  Gone are my Blossom hats and Boy George vests.  Gone are my 50s saddle shoes and my Hawaii Five-O shirts.  Gone is my purple paisley big shirt paired with the hounds tooth leggings.  When I enter a room I no longer dim the neon, nor am I reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock original.  No, now when I walk into a room full of people, all they think is, “Wow! Where can I get a rubber chicken purse like hers?”