The Red Riding Hood Coat

My sister and I never tired of arguing over who got to wear the prized loden green coat. The coat had a hood lined with red velvet and buttons of antler from a forest stag. Bought in Germany, it was a beautiful wool coat, a Red Riding Hood coat. Once upon a time the coat had a sibling, a smaller version that had been purchased for my younger sister. Once she outgrew the smaller one, the bickering began. We had arrived at our early teens and were both about the same size and height. The remaining Red Riding Hood coat fit us each equally well. I contended that it had been purchased for me; therefore it was mine. My sister pointed out that I’d worn it for two years, and now that she was the right size and had outgrown her original child-sized coat, I should let her wear it.

Something about that coat drove us both mad with the desire to have it, to possess the special fairy-tale power it gave the wearer. Inside its velvet interior, we were enchanted. When damp with snow, it gave off a wintry wool aroma—a woodland scent of mountains and moss. I can smell it now.

Then there’s my favorite shirt. Hanging on a hook behind my bathroom door is a men’s flannel shirt made by Gant—one of those safe, dependable men’s brands—that belonged to my graduate school boyfriend. Originally a rich, crimson plaid crisscrossed with dark green and black lines, the shirt is now soft from an infinity of washings. The neck facing is no longer completely attached. The cuffs have frayed beyond repair. Buttons have been replaced countless times. The red has faded into a nameless, un-red hue. But it has been with me for many years. It has kept me warm, made me feel good as only a red shirt can, especially when my mood is anything but “red shirt.” In that shirt I inhabit the world’s space on my own terms. It is practically an honorary member of my body, comforting and resolutely vintage.

This flannel shirt is a key to how I see myself: practical, sentimental, and resolute. It is an emblem, a wearable reminder of my deep love for lively adventures and turbulent times, then and now. The shirt keeps those important moments from my past close to me now in my present.

My lipstick-red scarf is another cherished item of clothing. Made of tightly woven cotton, I bought it in Mexico City on a trip I took with my dear friend Mr. B for his fortieth birthday. I always feel more confident wearing that scarf. It’s so long and substantial I can wind it around my neck three times, creating a halo of glowing red around my face. When I want to be particularly visible, in any sense, I wear that scarf.

The special green coat my sister and I fought over was a coat of fairy-tale dreams. Wearing it, I stepped into a wider world of stories and magic that I still seek in special attire, like the pair of perfectly fitting black pants in which I am immediately sexy, or the chartreuse hooded sweatshirt that transforms me into a young tomboy every time I put it on. Never fails. And my heavy black motorcycle boots allow me to stomp beyond the predictable female persona. (For that, I have the strappy green heels.) Clothing conspires with my body to enter the world in specific ways. Clothes are an immediate world unto themselves, and they also bring the external world right up next to my body. Clothes tell me how the world feels, the drape of its skin, the heft of its fabric.

Autumn officially arrives each year when I put on that faded red flannel shirt. The provenance no longer matters. It isn’t about my ex-boyfriend; the shirt has taken on a life of its own. It suits me. It feels good against my skin. It is warm and just oversized enough to be as comfortable as a shirt can be. As comfortable as an old shirt.