coat check

November 3, 2017

My introduction to fur came early in life, at about eight-years-old. My father used to take me with him to his fancy parties and I’d hide in the cloakroom fawning the furs all night. There were minks, sables and chinchillas, some jackets and gillets, others long to the ground. This was Gstaad in the 80s –– decadent, flashy, over-the-top. The chinchilla was the softest thing I’d ever felt. Then came the lessons from my grandmother. Yiayia loved fur coats and she had plenty of them. Hats and cuffs, too. When I was in my mid-20s, she sent me a mink in the mail. She’d picked it up at a consignment store at the plaza near her apartment in North Palm Beach. It was beautiful, but I was never sure how to wear it. I’m still not sure. The truth is, I haven’t loved fur since my cloakroom days. I don’t feel comfortable in it. Maybe if ever go to the ballet in St. Petersburg, I’ll bring out my mink. It even has my name stitched into the lining.

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