Beginnings

Every time I start a post with when I was little, I feel like I'm meandering into Vogue territory. Near the front of the book, they usually have a story from a writer about how the lipstick color her mother wore when she was seven or her school uniform or something else equal parts sweet and annoying still informs her style today.

But I can't help it. I'm surprised by how much the choices that I made at the ages of four and five still affect me.

There's a certain fear that small children lack. They can pull off some of the most ridiculous clothing because they have no idea that it is ridiculous. Little girls walk around filled with glee at the big flowers, the bright colors, the stripes on their tights and the mismatching barrettes in their hair.

The ages of four to nine were some of my best dressed years. A long hiatus set in after the weight gain and curves of puberty made themselves known. Back then I was best described as a twig. All limbs and sharp corners. And, in some ways, very assertive and decisive. My name is Samantha, not Sam. Sam is a boy's name. I was a very serious kindergartner.

In elementary school, I had a pair of boldly patterned tights that I wore as often as my mother would let me. They resembled a forest canopy. Covered in luscious green leaves that occasionally gave a peek of blue sky. I think there might have been a bird on them. No, seriously. A bird. But in my young mind, that was the best part.

It took years for me to take those types of risks again.

But isn't that the point? Back then, I didn't see tights covered in a leaf pattern as a risk. They were simply what I liked. That reason alone was enough to wear them all of the time.

And that's why almost every post starts with when I was little. Because after the dark years, I'm finally rediscovering that what matters most about what I wear is how I feel about it.