Red, Reconsidered…

I know I always had shots of red interspersed in my childhood wardrobe: red handknit mittens, cardigans, and special store-bought cabled knee socks.  There was the Macdonald-red plaid jumper with brass buttons that my grandmother made me (she also knit the sweaters and mittens).  Red was also ubiquitous in high school, on me and on others.  I recall the friend who wore a chunky red necklace made of square wooden beads with her blue jeans.  Later, when I was expecting my daughter, I bought a lovely cardinal red car coat to go over my growing middle.  It had long warm black ribbed cuffs that jutted out from fanciful bell sleeves.  That coat kept me warm on the way to the hospital and long into my winter post-natal time.  I loved that coat and still remember it fondly from its happy place in my history.

But after the car coat, I lost interest in wearing the color.  I began to think of red as something too fierce, too sharp…too 80’s and I didn’t want anything to do with it.  As well, with no real understanding of “my colors”, I began to believe that red didn’t look good on me.  In my mind, there was also a “unisex” aspect to red that I found unappealing.  If both my husband and I could wear red sweaters on Christmas Eve, was I still feminine enough?

Now I have rediscovered the cheerful power of red.  Partly because a new friend who is a pretty good color expert and stellar knitter, has insisted that I am a true “Spring” when I always thought I had the proclivities of a “Fall”.  She has told many times that I am a natural for red especially because of my blond hair and dark eyes (she also showed me other colors I never considered which actually look surprisingly nice on me).  I have finally discovered that the color red becomes the soft warmth of a fading sunset, the cozy glow of autumn leaves and the steady heartbeat of love.  Red also feels like home again…those days of knee socks and brown oxfords, playgrounds, church and Sunday roasts.

I used to believe that red on a blonde was simply too much—less o

f a color and more of a warning sign – a command to Stop or Turn Back. So, for years, I left it alone, leaving that vibrant part of the spectrum to other more confident women.  But seasons change, and lately, I find myself embracing this foreign hue.

And just the other day, I found it: a soft pullover in a perfect, unblemished vintage cashmere, tucked away in a consignment shop. Its label read, “This is the sweater your 7th grade English teacher wore with her grey pencil skirt.” Sold.

I brought my new sweater home like a treasure. I washed it gently in baby shampoo, laying it flat on a towel on the patio to dry under the afternoon sun. Later, I steamed out the creases and sprayed it ever-so-lightly with the last remaining mist of my mother’s perfume.  Now, it hangs in my closet.

A beautiful, reclaimed warmth, awaiting autumn with a passion of its own.