The bow is back, and it’s not asking permission. It’s tied around ponytails, wrists, ankles, the straps of ballet flats, even the handles of tote bags stuffed with paperback copies of *Bonjour Tristesse*. Coquette dressing has moved…

My closet is a black hole. Literally. Sixteen black t-shirts, four black blazers, three pairs of black jeans that I swear are all slightly different washes, and enough black turtlenecks to outfit a mime troupe. And yet…

The cranberry sauce is going to stain something. That’s just a fact. Whether it’s your grandmother’s tablecloth or the front of a cream-colored sweater dress, Thanksgiving has a way of turning outfits into casualties, which is exactly…

The cork footbed has a scuff on the left strap, right where my big toe sits. Three summers in. Zero regrets. I’ve worn these Arizonas with linen shorts in Lisbon, over wool socks in a Brooklyn snowstorm,…

The belted camel trench hanging on the back of my door has outlived three relationships, two apartments, and one very ill-advised bleach experiment. It still looks better than most of my newer clothes. That’s the thing about…