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story of a scarf

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

tied loosely around her neck were all the colours the sky refused to show



featuring: emilio pucci paris scarf, mini chanel, tabio polka dot tights, boohoo black cape coat, tally weijl gold sandals & zero uv sunglasses


A Parisian ex-boyfriend of mine taught me the art of the neck scarf. He weighed less than me, took almost artful care of shoes and ironed his shirts in a way I could never find time for. I once gave him a copy of my favourite Hemingway book and he told me it was boring. I refused to eat roquefort and his disappointment in my inability to enjoy this cheese was practically catastrophic. We were so different, add in the fact that neither of us were proficient in each other’s native language – and it was almost comedic. But dating your polar opposite does have educational benefits, mine came in the form of sporadic scarf lessons here and there, and his? Well he probably resolved never to date an American girl ever again. So when Pucci asked me represent the Paris heritage of the brand here in this city, I couldn’t help but think of him as I tied this scarf around my neck in the best way I could, in the way he taught me so long ago. And with all those colours wildly whipping around in the wind, set against the grey angry skies underneath Pont Alexandre, I felt happy in that simple way that happens quickly and unremarkably. You see, now at 26, I enjoy and savour this city but loosely and carelessly quite like the way this scarf sits restlessly around my neck. I get to see all the colours, but then I get to leave. I come and go and whip around the city and take off elsewhere when the wind is too strong. Paris was home, my world – and now nowhere is, wherever I am right then and there is where I belong…and today that happens to be here, Paris.


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