A tale in two pairs
I am not good (as most stylists aren't) at getting rid of things. Knowing full well that what is out of fashion today will in time come back around tomorrow. However, needs must and I have had to cull some of my 70 pairs of shoes. This as you can imagine is tragedy in and of itself but alas the fact that I can't close my closet I have had to be brutal.
One of the tragic habits I have is that I place my memories in my shoes. The hardest thing has been to part with two pairs of shoes that should have gone to the cobbler in the sky years ago. The first - my first hippy dippy pair of black suede Arizona Birkenstocks. I bought them when I was 17, young, bright and full of promises. They have seen me walking through my first festivals, first boyfriends, several houses and much misadventure. They are sadly now stained, damp, well worn but oh so loved. For sentimentality I should keep alone but tough decisions have had to be made.
The other - my first pair of Manolo's. The heels are shot, the toes worn through, yet the leather is still as soft as a baby's bottom. Mr. M does take good care when he designs shoes and if Evangelina saw me running around in them now (give the state they are in). I would surely be banished. The loving boots - walked me through my first seasons as an assistant, survived the brutal regime of Paris streets (and all that gravel in the Tulieries) and have come through like a retired general in the battle field. They were re-soled more time then I care to think, the heels rebuilt more than once, and yet they still soldiered on.
I will miss you both but after many years of duty and services rendered and hand you over to the pedicured feet in the sky my friends. You are gone but never forgotten.
