My Fashion History
The author (right) with sister Marlene and mother, in a typical outfit of rolled up corduroy slacks, saddle shoes, and a well-loved hand-me-down-jacket.
I did not know to feel shame when Mrs. Barmatz called me to the back of the line, presented me with a large paper sack filled with hand-me-down clothing, and whispered to me that I should wear these to school. Mrs. Barmatz was my kindergarten teacher, and her own daughters had worn and outgrown these garments–it seemed an honor to have been chosen as recipient. When I got home, I searched the bag eagerly, pulling forth polo shirts with horizontal stripes, softly laundered corduroy slacks, and a thick navy blue sweater with the name “Harriet Barmatz” stitched in side. Then I found the prize–a dress whose top was of sheer white nylon, and whose skirt was a silvery gray taffeta embossed with black poodles, tiny black poodles whose raised shapes you could feel, like braille, by running your fingers over them.
And as if that weren’t enough, there was a red velvet vest. The velvet itself was plush and elegant, worthy of a monarch’s robe. But the red–it was a red so bright, you’d call it crimson–the rich, cheeky red of a movie star’s lipstick, an arresting and impertinent red. The vest was wrapped about the blouse of the dress as though they were meant to be worn together, but anyone could see that the vest was in a class of its own. It was so magnificent, I wasn’t sure what it could be worn with, or who even could wear it. One had to earn this cloak of color; someone like me would vanish beneath it.
But the next morning, when I asked to wear the lovely dress to school, my mother insisted that the vest be worn with it. And when I discretely removed the vest along with my coat and left it hanging in the wardrobe, Mrs. Barmatz, who had never before seemed concerned about my lack of fashion sense, was alarmed. “The vest is a part of the outfit,” she explained, and I was required to retrieve it from the closet and wear it all day. “And stop slouching.”
I think it was a theory based on contrast. The red vest was the perfect counterpoint to the subtle non-colors of the dress, and perhaps the plainness of me. But it was just a mismatch, jangly, wrong, and conspicuous. My face was hot, and I wanted to hide, but I was as hard to ignore as a neon sign. I learned that clothes don’t make a person, but they sure can ruin your day.
So I may not have been a red vest kind of girl, but I did enjoy color. My favorite dress was a cotton print of small multi-tinted squares, like little rainbow windowpanes, and I fondly recall a lemon-yellow blouse with a Peter Pan collar that I paired with green slacks. But most of the time I wore clothes that my brothers had outgrown–dungarees folded three times at the cuff, polo shirts, or plaid flannels of the sort Paul Bunyan might have worn to chop wood. My mother did not believe that gender was a factor in clothing selection, and these were perfectly fine, utilitarian garments, all the better if they were too large, since that would ensure more years of wear.
Maybe that’s why I resisted the army shirts and construction boots that were popular when I started college in the late 1960s. All those years in my brothers’ baggy clothes made me crave something more feminine. I wore embroidered peasant shirts, and I stitched elaborate flowers on my jeans. For dressier wear, I went for short skirts and tall boots, topped by ribbed turtleneck sweaters and a long navy blue coat. I even did some time as a sex object–I can still recall my salmon knit minidress and ankle strapped heels. In time, I discovered my ultimate favorite–Grapes of Wrath dresses, often vintage, always flower print. They had nice open necklines and were of thin and sometimes sheer fabric, the kind that clings to curves. If it was a dress a barefoot Sophia Loren might have worn to hitch a ride out of war-torn Naples, then I’d definitely try it on.
In time, I acquired a master’s degree and bought a few obligatory suits to wear on job interviews. I hated those suits–they were plain and stiff, but I figured once I got a job, I could wear something else. I began to cultivate a kind of 1940s look–loose cuffed gabardine trousers of the sort that Katherine Hepburn might have worn, with elegant silk blouses in cream or French blue. But I still wore high heels, thinking that they made me look slimmer. It was many years before I realized that elevating a body doesn’t necessarily make it appear thinner, just higher up.
Which brings me to fat clothes and skinny clothes, a pathetic phenomenon that I suspect every American woman understands. For years, a section of my closet was filled with clothes that had fit me once, were too snug now, but which I still believed I would someday wear again. I’m happy to announce I’ve gotten over this. But it doesn’t get any easier. I’m nearly fifty* now, and still looking for clothes in the juniors department. I can’t seem to relate to that older women’s stuff. My husband gently counsels me: “Anne Taylor, yes. Wet Seal, no.” Sometimes the music they’re playing offers clues, too. And if the tops all stop short of your midriff, keep walking.
The truth is, I’d rather not think about it anymore. I once knew a very stylish European lady who prided herself on dressing well. Of her own daughter, she said disdainfully, “She thinks clothes are just to cover her body.” I fully relate to that daughter, wherever she may be. These days, I’d just as soon sit around in sweats, enjoying the comfort and invisibility they afford. Maybe this is a sign of true liberation. I think I will wear whatever I damned feel like. Before you know it, I’ll be going to town in a red velvet vest.
Author’s note: I wrote this when I was “nearly fifty” and now I’m nearly seventy. The trend to comfort and wearing whatever I damned feel like has certainly continued, especially during this pandemic time. But I still have a weakness for whimsey–an embroidered detail, a flower print, a certain gauzy, feminine vintage-ness, and my judgment falters.