I never used to be one to accessorize. I was always the girl in the black dress, pearl earrings, minimalist makeup. Whenever I bought a pair of earrings, I'd put them on and they'd stay on?until the next time I bought a pair of earrings, which was usually a year later. And even though I loved shoes (I'm human, after all) all of my shoes were either black or brown, and they all went with one outfit or another. And I carried the same purse with every outfit -- far be it from me to take everything out of one and put it in another just because a camel-colored bag looked better with my outfit. Too much to think about, I said.
And then one day I bought a hat. Prior to that occasion, the only hat I'd owned said "Stanford Basketball" on it and was usually found crushed under a pile of dirty clothes in my dorm room. But this hat I bought was no run-of-the-mill hat. This hat was Audrey Hepburn, it was Grace Kelly, it was Jackie O. -- manifested in fuzzy creme wool and angora, and perched on top of my head of hair, which could now only be referred to as a coif. When wearing my new hat, I felt confident and poised, even when scurrying through the Financial District to catch a bus. And I felt as though everyone was admiring how well-put-together I was (though in reality they may have just been wondering what that fuzzy thing on my head was).
Suddenly accessories started appearing everywhere. A bracelet here, a necklace there. Changing my earrings daily became a small, but infinitely important, task -- instead of the unnecessary chore it once was. Boots made of olive leather -- which matched not one thing in my closet and whose only purpose would be to call attention to my feet - began mysteriously showing up alongside red pony-hair mules, camel-hair coats and purses in every hue.
A remarkable transformation had occurred. Suddenly the girl who lived for minimalism and basic black had realized that even the most low-maintenance deserve a little accessorizing once in a while. And I determined quickly that I could no longer do with bare arms and fingers, and monochromatic ensembles. I was finally in control of my fashion destiny, and all silver silk stiletto"ed" feet and bejeweled ears that came with it.
Soon I was accessorizing as though it were second nature, as though there had never been a time where I might have stepped out sans jewelry and matching coat. And then, of course, tragedy struck. One night at the movies, my beloved creme hat -- the one that had led me to fashion rapture -- was stolen (proving that, among other things, other people both accessorize and have good taste). I was distraught, for the hat was more to me than just a head-warmer -- although it was great for that, too. The hat for me was inspiration, it was confidence, it was taking pride in oneself -- and being able to laugh at oneself too (no one said I didn't look a bit silly in said hat). And how much of that can be said about basic black?
