The Style Council

With all the running around from Nike to Reebok to Zumiez to Gap to Aero, I have passed the Kenneth Cole outlet 7 or 8 times. It is hard not to be magnetically drawn to the open door, but so far, I’ve resisted. But there is a magnificent shoulder bag in the window and it is calling to me. Like the Sirens.

I am praying I don't cave.

Pat goes off, new shoes in hand, in an effort to placate me by at least looking at and trying on a few shirts with snarky cartoons and slogans on them. Cheaper by the dozen at 40% at the Gap. I am convinced that if he gives it a try, he’ll find something that appeals to his finicky taste, and maybe even armloads of things, which will alleviate the need for painful hours of shopping just before school starts and the deadline looms.

Hil, still riding the crest of her retail high, wants to accompany me to Banana Republic where I am sure to try on 1,000 articles of clothing like last year. (Inclusive of the shirt I wore to the ill-fated Girls Weekend, which I was wearing in my replacement FB profile pic – the one to replace the one that was nefariously tattooed onto J.’s thigh, which was later discovered by Scott – the new pic not the tattooed one. I also bought the fabulous pants, the ones that I naively wore on my also ill-fated date with Casey, aka Death Breath, the ones that also made my butt look extraordinary, a topic which has also been covered in this blog, filed under Casey’s Rude Preoccupation with Making Comments about My Butt.)

This year, much like last, Hil wants to be my stylist.

And I am suddenly reminded of her earliest days as my stylist. I knew I could trust her opinion when I’d take 3 dresses into a fitting room and ask her opinion and she’d actually ask to see one of them on me again before deciding. And she never ever steered me wrong.

Once, I had been working at a prestigious law firm for a few months when I’d been invited to the Chairman’s party. It was a Firm ritual. The Summer Associates social event. The Chairman would host a party in his home, invite the Summers, their mentors, and a select few partners and administrators of his choosing. An elite guest list, for sure. I was thrilled and petrified to have been included.

I did my homework. Relied on a few trusted girlfriends who’d attended before to help me navigate. I desperately did not want to misstep handling the delicate issue of who was “in” and who was “out.” And I would die if I didn’t nail the wardrobe.

The invitation read “casual.” I know better. I would need an outfit change. I wanted to look effortless but absolutely flawlessly pulled together in something interesting and noticeable, in the right ways. Don’t want to blend, don’t want to make a spectacle. Why can’t the invitation just say, “Noticeably fabulous but not overdressed?”

I shopped and got a smart fun casual dress and had it tailored to perfection. Bought shoes and a purse to coordinate. Found interesting pieces of jewelry to make the statement stick.

Two nights before the event, I put it all on. Shoes, bag, jewels and dress. If it missed the mark, I still had time to shop for adjustments. I liked the look but needed an unbridled, objective second opinion (and Lars would have been useless even then). I turned to 6 year old Hil for an assessment.

“Hil, I need your opinion. I am thinking of wearing this outfit to a very important party. What do you think?”

She turned, put her hands to her face, drew in her breath and gasped, “Oh! Can I have your autograph?”

I knew I had a winning outfit, and a great little story to tell about a great little girl with a fashion sense way beyond her years.

I am in good hands as I cross the threshold into Banana.