Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a slight obsession with neck “bling.” And, I’m not talking gold oversized jewelry. I’m talking scarves. It is a very rare occasion that my neck is exposed—about as rare as the leap year that will be happening tomorrow or the eclipse that happened last week.
I would like to say, I have no idea why I am so enamored by my little throat-hugging friends and that maybe I am always just really cold. But the fact is, I am quite aware of why I covet scarves so much. And, it has nothing to do with the chill in the air.
I recall with fondness the first scarf that sparked my instant love affair. It was a cheap striped red, orange, grey, and purple winter scarf that I bought in Ireland while studying abroad. A couple weeks after I bought it, I was elated when an Irish family stopped me on the street and asked me for directions because they thought I was a native. Now it could have been the freckles all over my face but, at the time, I attributed it all to the scarf. I felt like it instantly gave the air of sophistication and exoticism that is Europe. I wore that scarf for years after I came back (I still have it and wear it from time to time.)
I look at my vast collection of scarves and they tell me the story of where I’ve been. I am reminded of the many phases/transformations I have gone through. The places I have seen. I have my European scarves that remind me of writing in my journal and sipping tea in Ireland, Paris, London, etc. I have my pseudo “fancy” scarves that I used to wear bar hopping in college (“Were those pretzels I was wearing?”) My “thrift shop find” scarves from Baltimore that I bought because I was so poor and hanging out with my “hipster” artsy friends while entering the dark abyss known as inner-city American life on a daily basis. I have my scarves from Asia. I swear I can smell the streets and open markets of China when I put them on. My African scarves—beautiful native prints that elicit visions of that sunrise over the Indian Ocean. And, then there are my pseudo-hippie scarves that I donned in Utah. The one from my best friend that she knitted while doing Peace Corps; which is about twenty feet long—a testament to how much time she had living in a small African Village. I wore it almost every day I bartended in that quaint mountain town. And, my current scarf collection. . .what says artist more than a decorative scarf?! Perhaps, it’s because scarves are more form over function just like art, itself. Or maybe artists are just colder than the average person. (Probably not.) Regardless, I wrap my scarves around my neck every morning and it makes me feel like I am about to go my artist’s studio and create all day as light filters in through windows with sills covered in old bottles stained by paintbrushes. (Not going to my mind-numbing administrative assistant job answering phones and staring at Excel all day.)
My scarves are my life. They are my past. They are what I hope to be one day. So, much more than an accessory--they are a part of me.
I would like to say, I have no idea why I am so enamored by my little throat-hugging friends and that maybe I am always just really cold. But the fact is, I am quite aware of why I covet scarves so much. And, it has nothing to do with the chill in the air.
I recall with fondness the first scarf that sparked my instant love affair. It was a cheap striped red, orange, grey, and purple winter scarf that I bought in Ireland while studying abroad. A couple weeks after I bought it, I was elated when an Irish family stopped me on the street and asked me for directions because they thought I was a native. Now it could have been the freckles all over my face but, at the time, I attributed it all to the scarf. I felt like it instantly gave the air of sophistication and exoticism that is Europe. I wore that scarf for years after I came back (I still have it and wear it from time to time.)
I look at my vast collection of scarves and they tell me the story of where I’ve been. I am reminded of the many phases/transformations I have gone through. The places I have seen. I have my European scarves that remind me of writing in my journal and sipping tea in Ireland, Paris, London, etc. I have my pseudo “fancy” scarves that I used to wear bar hopping in college (“Were those pretzels I was wearing?”) My “thrift shop find” scarves from Baltimore that I bought because I was so poor and hanging out with my “hipster” artsy friends while entering the dark abyss known as inner-city American life on a daily basis. I have my scarves from Asia. I swear I can smell the streets and open markets of China when I put them on. My African scarves—beautiful native prints that elicit visions of that sunrise over the Indian Ocean. And, then there are my pseudo-hippie scarves that I donned in Utah. The one from my best friend that she knitted while doing Peace Corps; which is about twenty feet long—a testament to how much time she had living in a small African Village. I wore it almost every day I bartended in that quaint mountain town. And, my current scarf collection. . .what says artist more than a decorative scarf?! Perhaps, it’s because scarves are more form over function just like art, itself. Or maybe artists are just colder than the average person. (Probably not.) Regardless, I wrap my scarves around my neck every morning and it makes me feel like I am about to go my artist’s studio and create all day as light filters in through windows with sills covered in old bottles stained by paintbrushes. (Not going to my mind-numbing administrative assistant job answering phones and staring at Excel all day.)
My scarves are my life. They are my past. They are what I hope to be one day. So, much more than an accessory--they are a part of me.
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