I spotted this magenta beauty strutting around Paris, solo, celebrating the end of one job and the beginning of liberation as a consultant. The coat stopped me in my tracks, ‘Mon dieu — M O T H E R!’
It's the Sandro, high-end version of her silver fake fur (before fake was chic, sisters) worn by Mother, not mom — she was Mother with a capital M. Each morning at 6:15, Mother donned her coat and wrap-around shades, threw her hair back dramatically on her way out the door to drive dad to the train. She projected GLAM, POWER and — do not talk to me, children, until I've had at least 2 cups of strong coffee. Style — to Mother — was all.
She was smart, funny, intuitive, bossy and gave everything to her kids. She could have ruled a corporation. Instead she ruled our house. But even as a kid, I noticed the imbalance — why did this powerhouse have to ask dad (dominated by her in most ways) for spending money for groceries and cold cream? When she was refused, it broke my heart.
At the age of six, I made my own Scarlett O'Hara vow — to be empowered, bad-ass, and independent. No asking for ‘spending’ — I would have my own money, and have somebody drive ME to the train …
When I swaddle myself in this fuzzy chicness, bought in a city she’d never been to, with spending money I earned, I think of Mother — and wonder who she may have been if born decades later. Am I just a modern, updated version of her? If so, I’ll take it — and thank my glorious Mother for the hard-won lessons of love, values — and bad-ass fashion taste she bequeathed me.”
Originally written for @UnderHerCoat