A red coat with giant silver grommets on its side pockets that my mom chose for me just before she died. Gone. A pair of two-tone tap-like shoes secured with grosgrain ribbons. Gone. And, I rarely pine for any of the rejects.
But one category defies my routine molts: Scarves.
Silk. Rayon. Pashmina. Fringed. Oblong. Infinity. They are all immune. When on a cleaning rampage, I don’t even open the scarf drawer to disrupt that shrewd nest of accessories.
My scarf drawer is the place I start when closet inspiration fails. It’s a place I turn a pleasant-enough outfit into enchanting. Even those squares of challis which festooned my ponytails 30 years ago make delightful head wraps. With all the cool dividers available, now one glance settles any fashion conflict.
And, honestly, the feast of color in my scarf drawer is a pleasure all onto itself.