While visiting my parents in Montana, I made a startling discovery.  Well, now, that’s not really true.  Maybe confirming is a better adjective than startling.  In my mom’s sitting room she has the following picture of me.  I’m guessing I was…two?

Other than demonstrating that I have never been able to pull-off bangs, take a look at my feet.  Why yes, those are black peau de soie pumps I am rocking.  And yes, I probably knew that they were peau de soie even at that tender age.

Let’s match this photo up with a handful of other early indicators.  First: one of my earliest memories was of shopping with my dad.  I must have been very young because I didn’t know my colors yet.  I did however know that I wanted a pair of red Keds. Yes, that specific.   I just didn’t know how to articulate what I wanted (I have a similar memory with an ice cream shop, not knowing how to read and a disastrous run-in with rum raisin).  At some point my father must have gotten frustrated with me and I ended up with a pair of Winnie the Pooh saddle shoes.  I HATED those shoes. Loathed them.

Exhibit number two.  About this time my mom was called into the office at pre-school. My teacher was concerned because I appeared to prefer playing dress-up to  socializing appropriately with the other children.  Didn’t she understand I had to have my outfit just right before venturing into the complicated social structure of seminal friendship?

The thing is, this isn’t something I ever grew out of.  In fact, the examples get more egregious over time.  There is the rather embarrassing admission that during kindergarten I often secretly packed a second outfit to change into when I got to school just in case I didn’t like what my mom had dressed me in (I think she gave up trying to dress me halfway through the year…battles…wars and all).  There was also my early love for all brand-named…it started in, maybe the third grade?  What third grader even cares if they have an alligator on their t-shirt?  Apparently the same one who notices flatware.

Dare I mention the period in  the sixth grade when I wore paper bags on my feet until my parents relented and bought me a pair of Reeboks (little did they know, I would have done more for less).  And can I tell you just how disappointed I was to have to come of age during the grunge era?  Smells Like Teen Spirit may have changed the world; it certainly didn’t do anything for fashion.

Returning to the photo above, it makes me feel just a little better that I’ve always been this way.  That even before I could count to 10, I felt it was important to look nice while doing it.   Because here is the deal.  I make my profession in a world where caring about cashmere is seen as an intellectual infirmity.  So maybe, just maybe, the fact that I entered the world predisposed to the aesthetic forgives me (just a little) of my materialistic tendencies.

Incidently, my mom also has a picture of my brother at the same age on an adjacent shelf.  In it, he’s wearing cowboy boots.  And nothing else.  So, I guess it could be worse.