Magnify

I was wearing jeans and a crocheted sweater when Oscar had his way with me. I had no intention of letting down my guard, much less my garb, but I was seduced on the fourth floor of Bergdorf’s. I ran my fingers along his silky textures, eyed his perfect waistline, admired his well-hung pieces with their softly draping folds. He whispered, “you’d be beautiful in this,” and I believed him. I, a bra burner from way back, fell for the way his sequins would shimmer and dance upon my bosom; I swooned at the thought of his perfect pleats cradling my cleavage. And there, amid the high gloss and stately sheen of the Couture and Evening department, I took off my clothes and gave into gorgeous, sensuous Oscar.

Or at least I wanted to. But I was too intimidated by the New York sales women, with their tidy skirts and glasses perched halfway on their nose. I was sure you had to go through security clearance or show your celebrity ID before you could actually try on an Oscar de la Renta gown. Nonetheless, my daughter Sally and I must have spent 45 minutes ogling the Oscars and drooling over the Marchesas and the Armanis. Enough time to make the sales lady nervous—and so I smiled my most charming Southern girl smile when she came over to sniff us out, turning so she couldn’t see that I was wearing Lee jeans, not some swanky brand. “This might work for the Tisch gala,” I said to my daughter, loudly and matter-of-factly, tinting my voice with an air of distinction as I held a $3,800 emerald beaded-bodice gown under my chin. Sally didn’t skip a beat. “It’s a bit too much like the one you wore a few weeks ago,” she replied.

Both my older daughters adore clothes with a passion equal to my style indifference. We’re simply not cut from the same cloth. They are savvy shoppers, on top of the latest trends, while I am stuck in the 80s, a turtleneck die- hard, hopelessly bungling my skirt lengths. I suffer from accessory anxiety disorder, while they can swoop on a scarf and look smashing in seconds. They read In Style the way I read The New Yorker. When I was fourteen, I’d search my mother’s closet for her secrets on how-to-always-look-put-together; now, I study theirs. And while I took Sally, a thirteen year-old Project Runaway junkie, to New York for a dose of art and culture, I knew shopping was tops on her agenda. I just didn’t expect to be caught breathless by Oscar. I never imagined that I, too, would succumb to the fantasyland of high fashion in stores I had no business being in.

Because here’s the rub—I’ve always taught my daughters that clothes don’t make the girl. I preach a no frills, no designer brands gospel, always dressing down their devotion to J.Crew. Sure I want them to look nice and presentable, but I bristle against our culture’s shallow and skewed emphasis on appearance, especially for women. Fashion, to me, is fancy layers on the surface, and as a mom, I’m interested in the inner material. At best, it’s drama and fun, stylized entertainment, but at worst, the fashion industry objectifies women, glamorizes malnutrition and capitalizes on vanity and insecurity—taking my girls’ hard earned babysitting cash by subtly convincing them they don’t look good enough, at least not without that splashy new mango belt.

Like a no-nonsense plaid paired with a flowery silk, my feminism has always clashed with my concept of fashion, leaving me in constant conflict with my own, and my daughters’, closets. But ironically, there, in the mother of all closets—in Bergdorf’s couture Oz—this conflict loosened up, as if the Good Witch of 5th Avenue let out a tuck I’d been wearing way too tight. I saw behind the curtain, and I could begin to appreciate the value of classic elegance, the beautiful marrying of artistic form and function in fabric, the brilliant way structure and style were all zipped up in come-hither fabrics, the names of which—shantung, organza, chiffon—evoke an exotic dream. Even if the sales lady hadn’t been glaring at us, I could not fully imagine myself actually, in real life, ever wearing any of these magnificent (and magnificently expensive) creations, or having shoes to go with them, but I could understand the lure of empire waists and ballerina necklines. I could feel the pull of glamour, not as a demeaning force, but as an empowering one.

Which is not to say that I’ve since changed my tune, or my wardrobe. I still favor cheap jeans and tees, and do not applaud, encourage or underwrite my daughters’ unrelenting appetite for new clothes, but I do appreciate their taste, and the thought and care that goes into it. Yes, I’d rather they put that thought and care into feeding the hungry and clothing the poor, or wish they read good literature the way they devour the Anthropologie catalog, but I no longer shake my head in feminist failure when Sally equivocates between becoming a doctor or a fashion designer. To her, they are equally legitimate, challenging and rewarding choices.

My budding fashionistas have helped me understand that a woman with a strong sense of style is a woman with a strong sense of self, and that, to me, is the little black dress of feminism. The must-have element. Feminism begins with celebrating one’s true potential and purpose, regardless of chromosome or costume. As one who never cares much about clothes until about an hour before going out (Help! Panic!), I’m just relieved to know, way in advance, what I’ll be wearing to my daughters’ Inaugural Balls or Nobel Prize ceremonies. If I’m not wearing a Sally original, look for me in Oscar.

Stephanie Hunt is a freelance writer and proud mother of three well-dressed girls. She borrows shamelessly from their closets. stephaniehuntwrites.com