When I made a decision to put rural life in the rearview mirror, one of my first considerations was what to do with my hats. They weren't the kind of possession you can consign to a moving van but, as they're all in individual boxes, they take up a fair amount of space. My friend Sonia immediately came to mind, as she would understand the significance of the hats, and she had a house to store them in. Each hatbox has a hand-drawn sketch of the hat on the outside, for easy reference, in case I can't be bothered to read the accompanying label.
There aren't dozens of hats, by any means. but I'd estimate there are ten of them, felt and straw, some custom made to my own design, others ready made, and all cared for with the same attention I give my shoes.
Ivaan understood the significance of a hat. He had just purchased a new navy fedora in December 2002, before he fell off his bicycle and embedded his face in the asphalt on Queen Street West. Next morning he had to go to the funeral of a longtime friend. He really should not have gone anywhere, but he wore the fedora to the funeral, to disguise his black eyes and swollen face. Me? I didn't attend, because I was pretty sure when people saw him they would bury the wrong person.
The day after the funeral, he suffered a massive stroke brought on by the collision of his face and the road, and I finally won the argument about whether he should ride his bike or not. That's when the wheelchair entered our lives.
Twenty-two years later, I marvel that over the next six years he never developed a single pressure sore from sitting in that wheelchair, and I attribute that to the superb skin care routine I established for him early on: full-body massages with lotion, weekly pedicures that had staff in the rehabilitation hospital marvelling at his well-cared-for feet, and an over-all attention to detail that he normally reserved for his jewellery. He always screamed when I approached with a basin of warm, soapy water, claiming that I was going to torture him again, but he proudly shared with me the compliments he received about his pampered state.
Back to Sonia: I'm kind of amazed that Sonia, who is a marketing wizard, did not put my hatboxes up for sale in the time that she stored them in a corner of her living room. She sold practically everything else I owned, and she was ruthless about it, too, because she knew I'd never again have 3000 square feet of space to squander on material possessions. If you ever want to break up with your furniture, guilt-free, get yourself a Sonia.
Now that I'm no longer in my bucolic paradise, it's true: I'm living in a tiny space that I can renovate to my wallet's content. As a matter of fact, much of that renovation is already complete. New oak floors throughout, new 8 inch baseboards, new white paint, new through-the-wall air conditioner, new kitchen appliances, except that they're sitting in my dining room, uninstalled, as we're awaiting the arrival of a beautiful, huge white fireclay apron sink with a bowed front. It'll be the pièce de résistance in the world's smallest kitchen.
I'm slowly getting out of the habit of wearing jeans, mismatched socks and boots, year-round. The other day, I was spotted wearing a leopard-print silk skirt with a crinoline, black stockings, and Thierry Rabotin shoes with heels. And I have an appointment with my hairdresser next week. One day soon, I'll break out one of my excellent hats and the transformation will be complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment