The other day I was walking through Beverly Hills and I had several men and women compliment me on what I was wearing. I love when someone appreciates the effort it takes to make an outfit come together. I love it when I rock my wardrobe.
Call me shallow. Call me vain. I like dressing up—always have; always will. As a little girl, I would parade around my mother’s bedroom playing dress up in her finest clothes. I'm amazed she let my grubby little hands touch her Mad Men era custom-tailored Shantung silk dresses and matching satin shoes. I certainly wouldn't let a child anywhere near my closet, but my mother had strict rules, so I imagine I had clean hands. We were raised with manners and social graces. When we came home from school, we changed into clean clothes and washed up before dinner. On Sunday evenings, or whenever we had dinner guests, we dressed for the occasion. To this day, when I see little children wearing their Sunday best, it puts a smile on my face. I think to myself “that mother is doing something right.”