Once upon a skirt at 4, I dressed in a tutu when my Mother invited company over. Topped with a tiara and grinning dimples that seemed to swallow my whole face, I cheesed and twirled for the flashes of disposable cameras. I was elated to be called pretty, the princess of our small apartment world.
At 1o, I tore rhinestones off bedazzled jeans and kicked the shins of boys that made me blush. My embarrassed mother scolded me for fishing wood chips out of itchy tights at choir concerts. Skirts were for dolls. It wasn’t cool to be a girl.
At 16, I slipped into a borrowed pencil skirt and white button down, eyeing my blooming hips in windows as I passed through locker halls. I mocked sophistication and business interviews in high school Economics class, freshly aware that someday I might fit these roles.
At 18, the hemlines glossed places my mother would be ashamed of, as I flaunted the new power I had to make people look at me.
At 20, I make my short trek to work through Murray Hill in my favorite black a-line. Short heels chirp cheerfully on the broken pavement, and I clutch an issue of Runway Vogue to my coveted vintage Chanel jacket. Knees flip in and out of sight from behind the silky silhouette of my Hepburn-inspired outfit.
Once upon a skirt, a girl grows into a lady. One outfit at a time.
Written by Mara Strobel-Lanka. Photos by Mary Kreis. Find these pieces in store in Murray Hill and on our website, momniboutique.com .