Pale As Hail Buys A Black Coat

As far as genetics go, my husband won the big prize. His genes gave him great hair, a strong brow, and the metabolism of a 5 year old. My genetic pool gave me the family chin, a hot chocolate intolerance, and chronic, paralyzing toe cramps. And although my genes also gave me fantastic calves and pretty clear skin, it was my stepmother who helped shape what I look like on the outside. Because she let me express what I felt inside. Sure, there were moments when she rolled her eyes and even more moments when she panicked at the length of my short skirts, but she never made me feel discouraged by having my own look. One of my first memories of her support was at the mall when she and my father were seriously dating. My dad complained about me wearing my hair up with two long strands of hair in front of my face. Mama Liz (who was “Dad’s attractive lady friend Liz” at the time) told him it was in style and I was just fine. Even though it was so not 2000 and it was so not in style, she defended my choice and made a lasting impact. When I accidentally dyed my hair a mortifying dark purple she said she liked it. To which my dad replied after hearing her response, “Was she lying?” And she may have been. But she let me be me while teaching me how to properly match patterns and how to follow basic clothing rules. Rules I would never have learned on my own. (For context: when I was living with a single father I wore an XL Elvis Presley T-shirt almost every day.) She was quick to compliment and even quicker to remind me that if my father didn’t like something I wore, that I was to remember he had once worn a shirt covered in pictures of salmon on one of their dates, because she had mentioned she liked to eat fish. Meaning, he had no say. It was her acceptance and guiding eye that let me find out how much I enjoyed expressing myself with statement pieces. Even though our looks are drastically different, I credit her for helping me discover my drive for personal fashion. Even if I may have taken that drive far too far.

I’ve recognized while living in Iceland that the basic attire is all black. I’ve avoided that at all costs, preferring black to be a statement as opposed to a mandatory “cool but conformed” choice. Because of this, I brought a bright yellow rain coat to Iceland. Apparently that was the wrong choice.

A few weeks ago Christian gave a presentation to a board in charge of the development of Reykjavik’s harbor. I went to cheer him on and add another body to the room in case few people showed up. The presentation was with members of his class and a few other students from Lístahaskóli Íslands who came to support. The event itself went well. Christian was introduced in Icelandic by a man who kept the crowd in peels of laughter–we sure wish we knew why–and ultimately it seemed people responded well to the ideas Christian's group designed. To celebrate, we all went to a cafe for brunch. I was on a social high. It’d been a long time since I had been around that many people and I absorbed personal stories with vigor as I heard about people moving here from Mexico, South Korea, Italy, and Ireland because they shared an interest in Iceland. During our brunch (which was on the top floor of a fishery) we ran into the American Ambassador. Cool.

Our numbers began to fade as people left to continue their day and we soon became a small group of four. Let’s set this stage properly: a German, an Icelander, and two Americans sit inside a coffee shop. One of them does not belong… the punch line to the story is that guess what guys I was that one. Having been distracted by the silliness of living in a country small enough it only took a month to run into the Ambassador, I phased my way halfway into the conversation the three were having. They were complaining about tourists. Humorous, I thought, considering the German and American (my husband) were definitely not Icelandic. This is the common snobbery I expect from the design-minded. Because they make the world look better they find fault in many things. Today, the fault was about foreign tourist fashion. The Icelander said tourists would bother him less if they didn’t all wear the same coat. As far as fashion goes for this kind of people, it’s all black or else. And I’ve done all black–I get the appeal. Everyone looks good in black. It’s sleek, bold, and dramatic. It is not, however, unique. After years feeling like a cool kid in my black wardrobe I realized I was missing out on actually making an individualized wardrobe. I wanted my fashion to be personalized and patterned. And to this day (although I still seem to get a chill of intimidation down my spine when I see the hoards of black-clothed students at the design school) I realize that I expect more originality from a designer’s wardrobe.

But black is still the rule for anyone not trying to look like an “annoying tourist” I learned as their conversation continued. The German girl agreed stating, “If only they would try to look less like tourists all in their bright colored water proof coats.” At this point I pushed my neon yellow waterproof J Crew jacket farther down my lap and under the table. Dread setting in as the German and Icelander stood up, put on their identical unisex coal black jackets, and invited us to go to the cheese shop across the street. I wanted cheese. But I stood up with not one ounce of pride or humor as I slipped on the yellow cheese colored jacket that made me look like the tourist I apparently am.

This spurred my black coat goal. With not a lot of money but more than enough gumption I began stalking thrift shops waiting to find the perfect long, black, normal coat. It needed a hood and it needed to be good in the wind and it needed to look like everyone else’s. I have glasses that are larger than life, that’s certainly enough personality. The rest can match those around me. And finally, after weeks of looking for a sophisticated conservative coat I could afford, I went inside a store called Nostalgia. And I found it. My perfect, sensible, similar black coat...