Scarfed for life
Or am I? Read on to find out in this gripping 10th instalment of my Substack...
“Parisians can never have enough scarves on their person” has been a phrase that’s been stuck in my head ever since my uni friend Ruth and I spent a very down and out few months living in Paris (drinking cheap wine and watching the SATC box set with French subtitles, mostly).
The Parisian stereotype of being over-stimulated in the scarf department, no matter what season, still holds firm today. Scarves are everywhere. They’re a way of life. And, as a diehard francophile, I’ve been collecting and wearing scarves for the last two decades - everything from giant mohair numbers that leave those little white threads everywhere, to vintage paisley neckerchiefs in summer, and every gauge of merino, cashmere and lambswool in between.
But for some reason this year, I’ve been holding off.
There’s something slightly fussy about a scarf. They add a fringe, a pattern, an extra pop of colour, something that I used to love, but for some reason it just feels un per too much.
I really can’t explain it. Somehow a scarf just feels wrong now. It felt so right last year, what’s happened?
This sudden change of heart (sorry, I can’t bring myself to say “vibe shift”) can, y’know, just happen. Part of your own evolution, perhaps, as a person. When my Dad died 3 years ago, I remember likening my process through grief as being like being hungover. There’s a moment in a really bad hangover, when you’ve been on the sofa all morning, sipping at a pint glass of water from under a blanket and watching whatever the TV throws at you, when you suddenly realise: I could eat. Like I’m hungry.
(I won’t be trauma-sharing my grief with you, unless you really want me to. There is no worse feeling, and I’d prefer to keep it light here. Substack isn’t therapy, for me.)
It’s a relief, a market of a new era, a feeling that - finally - you’re ready to move forwards. Inch forwards, really.
And so it is with scarves.
So I think I may have moved on to a new scarfless era. A collar pulled tight around my neck instead. Perhaps a rollneck. It might be that it's too soon in the season, but even in the frozen-fingers feel of the last few weeks, a scarf has still felt wrong. (See the header image, from this weekend. Fuchsia with khaki, like does that work?)
I’ve got a feeling that, along with my more minimal, sober (grown-up? idk) colour palette and dressing style, or embracing imperfection, maybe an insouciant strip of fringed cashmere just isn’t quite right. Whatever it is, I’ll be sure to bring you all the latest on this *fascinating* story as it develops in the next few weeks across my travels to Amsterdam, Brussels, Antwerp and London. And with that, back to the studio.
Some other stuff that I’m into this week:
Avoiding Black Friday, almost completely. I only bought a Ron Dorff speedo (that I needed (kinda) in a very fetching eau de nil colour)
Eating the first mince pies of the season with an afternoon cuppa.
Clinique face soap, the original bar! Discontinued in stores apparently, but you can still get it online.
A wooden-handled, half-size umbrella, just in case.
Champagne and omelette for lunch (with Emily in Paris, of course - but not that one).