On Fashion and Style

When my brother's oldest daughter was just two years old, I caught her standing in front of a mirror, looking herself up and down. She turned her head from side to side, pursed her lips, and finally sighed.

"This doesn't go," she said, seemingly confused about how those shoes got on her feet with that outfit. I mean, anyone could see that it was a total mistake! I half-expected her to stare at her parents while shaking her head in a slow, disappointed rhythm.

From that moment on, I knew that she was destined for life as a Fashionista, one of those well-accessorized girls who can tell you, at any moment, what is in and what is out. One who can, with a moment's glance, assess your level of fashion fitness and know if you are worth her time.

Poor dear, having me as her aunt. Sigh.

It was my weekend viewing of The Devil Wears Prada that led me to think so much about fashion, a topic that is usually far from my consciousness. The New York City world of cut-throat fashion is filled, for me, with more horror than allure...but there is a bit of allure, I confess. A tiny bit.

(That's the bit that's not passing out from the concept of a size four. You would have to remove bones from my body to make me a size four. Starving wouldn't be enough.)

When I suggest that Fashion + Alix = Quizzical Frown, I don't mean to be self-critical. It's not that I'm not particular about what I wear. Just, perhaps, not in the right way. After all, I'm the girl who bought four identical Jack Rackham pirate shirts to make sure there is always a clean one in the drawer. Obviously, I like what I like.

As with my niece, my style preferences were made clear early on. A photo of me at age 5 (shortly before I insisted my bedroom be painted a very specific shade of lilac) shows just how I expressed myself when left to my own devices. My family went to Disneyland for my birthday where the three of us kids were allowed to buy one hat each, as a souvenir. I chose mine from a shop in New Orleans Square. The huge pink tulle poufs atop my head are pure Alix-inspiration. It was a bit of nirvana to find the hat.

And then to find the purple lei, too! Oh, my surely anyone can see that the two go together! That was a fine trip.

Oh, but that's just me at Disneyland, right? That doesn't count. Well, I wish I could say it was an anomaly, but it was not. Now, as child, I was operating in a void, and I want to underscore that. These were the days when Sears was pushing polyester double knit slacks (with that huge faux crease up the front) to unsuspecting suburbanites as though it was a good idea. Dark times, dark times. My mother was my savior, because she sewed clothes for me. She was even generous enough to let me pick out the fabric and the patterns.

This, of course, was a big mistake. My mother had buckets of style which she was no doubt ready to share with me. Why she was crazy enough to let me choose my own path (with all the evidence she must have had!) I will never know. You see, my path involved lots of long skirts and gowns, faux bustles and pinafores, and fabrics like pink dotted Swiss, lilac gingham, and flocked mint green I-don't-know-what-you-call-it. Everything I chose, I loved madly, and she made the dresses. I thought I should have corsets, too, but wisely did not request that. I was a bit of a reader.

One cannot doubt that I had "a sense of style." I just don't know what the hell that style is called!

Before you try to point out that long dresses were actually popular in the mid 1970s, I need to point out that none of my classmates were wearing them. At least, not to school. Not even for the school picture; I was the only one.

And certainly not to the park! When we visited Roeding Park, the rest of my family wisely chose cool, casual clothes. The kind that is good if you're going to be paddling in a boat, as they were.

Me? I posed by the lake in an ever-practical long dress with the sky blue skirt. You can tell I was outgrowing it (love the sneakers with it) but I did not want to give that dress up. Besides, it was obviously the perfect choice for the day's activities.

As the years went on, though, and both my mother and I stopped sewing. Having to buy clothes off the rack meant leaving my own oddly-placed style behind, as I could never find the clothes that lived in my head. Everything seemed as though it was from the wrong era. There were no long coats and frilly cuffs. No velvets and silks and brocades. Everything was dreadfully... modern.

And so I just gave up. This candid photo of me in plaid pants - demonstrating such fabulous posture - says it all. Yeah.

At 15, I learned the cost of my fashion disregard. I had given my 21-year old sister one of those books of lists, where you write down the best and worst of this-or-that from the previous year. One day, I found her book and snooped through it to see what she wrote. On the page labeled "Worst Dressed" she had just one name: mine. Ouch. Snoopers get what they deserve.

At 16, I tried to leverage an early-80s fad to rectify the error of my ways. I embraced frilled skirts that revealed a flip of petticoats and diagonally buttoned shirts with subdued ruffles. But none of this was meant for an hour-glass figure like mine and I looked ridiculous.

And so, I entered the workforce and spent the next decade or so alternating between slim-skirted, two-piece suits and the ubiquitous jeans-and-company T-shirt combo. In winter, on casual jobs, I'd match my socks to my jewel-toned turtleneck, with no idea what a faux pas I was making. I rarely owned more than two pairs of shoes and my handbag was chosen based on how much it would hold.

I was never going to care about fashion, but truth is, I did care about style, and around age 29, my longing to express it became too much to ignore. I began scouring mail order catalogs to find what I needed: black velvet fitted blazers, silk knits, sharply cut military jackets and colored jeans.

None of it was exactly right, and then I met Holly Merritt, a leather designer. In a fit of extravagance, I commissioned her to make a custom made leather jacket for me, a fabulous lamsbskin and suede creation designed to fit every curve of my body. When I slipped the finished jacket over my shoulders, I felt myself stand up taller. I found myself striding cockily forward and casting coy glances over my shoulder. I felt sexy. I felt confident. I felt stylish.

Because, as I finally figured out, all I had needed, all my life, was a costumer. Not Paris designers. Not a tailor to adjust my ready-to-wear fashions. No, I needed someone to whom I could say, "Two frock coats. Burgandy brocade for one, good weight for winter, warmly lined...lightweight linen for the other, suitable for summer but weight the hems, would you?" That's what I needed!

I'm thinking my mother knew this 35 years ago. She must have known the futility of telling me what goes with what, when obviously all I wanted to do was spend the day in my royal purple princess robes with the faux-ermine trim. As I slide my custom-made Captain Jack hat on my head, I smile to think of how some things never change.

Fashionistas, enjoy your world of shops and credit cards and the sharp click of your stilettos across the pavement. While you track the trends in Vogue and Elle, I think I'll be auditioning costumers. That is, once work out how this fits with the monthly budget!

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