A pair of turquoise velvet, fur-lined Gucci loafers landed at my door. I opened the box, slipped them on and was instantly smitten. If only I had not given away the same shoes in pink years earlier after declaring them an abomination. They were only the first of four pairs.
Earlier that week, during my nightly scroll routine, a pair of electric-purple velvet Celine loafers stopped me. Elegant, jewel-toned and entirely free of fur, they should have been the end of the story. Instead, they reminded me of my pink Gucci loafers, a pair I had not thought about in years. Fur-lined and, by then, a faux pas. What had happened to them? Within minutes, I was on the resale sites. The clock struck eleven. So much for going to bed at a reasonable hour.
When Alessandro Michele released them more than a decade ago, I bought the pink velvet pair immediately. They were a statement, a piece I had to own. I loved the color, the iconic gold horsebit and the fact that they made everything look fun. The brownish-gray fur came with them. Life is never perfect, but fine. Then one summer morning, the fur was all I could see. Like a flaw in an old boyfriend: easy to ignore until, quite suddenly, the whole man becomes unbearable. Nothing had happened. The shoes had not changed. It was me, not you. Once adored, now an abomination. It was over. I never wanted to see them again. They were dead to me.
When it comes to my closet, I am a killer: quiet, efficient and never looking back. With clothes, love does not always fade; sometimes it simply vanishes overnight. I can wear something into the ground for years, then wake up one morning and wonder who let it into my life. There is rarely a reason and never a goodbye. The pink loafers got neither a fair trial nor a chance to appeal. I just gave them away. I do not remember to whom. You might call it an assassination. In my world, it is a closet edit. Poor shoes.
Back on the resale sites, I scrolled through the obituaries. Pages of the dead, all available to purchase. I did not see any red flags. I saw inventory. The turquoise pair was my first act of redemption, but one pair was not enough to make things right. Purple and black followed over the next few days. They came from Germany, Texas and Boston, all at very competitive prices, which made stopping at three borderline irrational. Three pairs for the one I had killed. We were even.
In case you were wondering, the first three pairs now live peacefully in Olyland, my walk-in closet, where the dead are welcomed back in color. Last night, I found a mustard pair in Barcelona and added it to the family. They are mustard velvet, covered in colorful patches and impossible to find twice. They are also one size too small. And yes, I knew that before pushing the Buy button. This minor inconvenience was not going to keep us apart. Four pairs later, am I pardoned? I bloody hope so.
Only after slipping into the turquoise pair did the question of hygiene come to mind. These were, after all, secondhand, fur-lined shoes. I had spent a week examining colors, prices and international shipping routes. Their previous occupants had somehow been spared from the investigation. From now on, they will be worn with socks. Resurrection, it turns out, comes with a dress code.
Bisous,
I have been there! My crystal embellished Alaïa Mary Janes that I got not in one, not in two, not three but in FOUR colors can attest to that