There’s another reason I wear skirts. As a six-foot tall teen, no slacks were long enough and I developed a deep insecurity about pant length. My mom came to the rescue once and stitched me a pair of brushed-denim, baby-blue, hip-huggers. Before I die, I’d love to hold them just once more. And mom.
Today, girls are taller, slacks are longer and I’m shrinking so I could wear slacks that graze my metatarsals. But I’m in the midst of a fashion tsunami which beckons me to choose high water slacks. Not cropped. Not capris. True high water. My current favorites are sweetly belled, black and white ginghams that I wear with patent leather brogues.
Mom would say, “Whose daughter are you?” and smile.
Today, girls are taller, slacks are longer and I’m shrinking so I could wear slacks that graze my metatarsals. But I’m in the midst of a fashion tsunami which beckons me to choose high water slacks. Not cropped. Not capris. True high water. My current favorites are sweetly belled, black and white ginghams that I wear with patent leather brogues.
Mom would say, “Whose daughter are you?” and smile.
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