Married to a Frenchman, it’s true that I’m a francophile, but my love for this classic hair style began when my mother finally relinquished her beehive teasing for a more sophisticated Brigitte Bardot french twist. I was mesmerized by this new look and anxiously awaited her return from the beauty parlor every Friday. You see, Friday was the day she “went into town” to “get her hair fixed.” In the south, we fix everything, including our coiffures, it seems. And when we aren’t fixing something, we are “fixin’ to” DO something. When I was nine, my mother taught me to sew. And because I was fixin’ to be a world famous fashion designer, it was necessary to hone my skills intensely and passionately. And one day my designs would make their way to a Paris runway on a beautiful model donning what else… but a french twist.
It was my grandmother’s foot pedal Singer machine on which I practiced my craft, my mother’s hands from which I learned it, but it was my father’s savvy that truly fueled my creative itch. He bargained that every Friday, after my mother had her broken hair fixed, she would stop by the fabric store to purchase my next Project Runway undertaking, only if I had the garment from the week before completed. That was my father’s strategy…to bribe me into making my own clothes. I wonder what Tim Gunn would say about that?
I loved those Fridays. The smell of ironing out crisp cotton seams and the idea of curating my own wardrobe (consisting mainly of jumpsuits and bolero vests, mind you) made me happy. So that’s my quest. Not to bring back the fashion trends of the seventies but to return to the things that made me happy. The act of creating. Things. Hopefully, beautiful ones.