It’s been many years since I’ve had the pleasure of watching my mother get ready for the day, but when I close my eyes, I can see it so clearly.
I’m criss-cross-apple-sauce in the doorway. The air is sweetened by the powdery scents of luxury makeup, the kind then only available at department stores.
My mum, Joanna, draws two big “3s” in Estee Lauder’s Bronze Goddess on each side of her face, a technique she learned from the artisans who commanded those fabled beauty counters. Her jumbo Lancôme makeup bag is ruptured from rummaging through varying cylinders and squares, all samples or heavily staff-discounted products — one of the big perks of being a Sears store manager. As my mum glides a stick of Clinique’s Black Honey across her pout, she takes extra care to line her deep-set cupid’s bow, a souvenir of a minor plastics operation from her modelling days.
To complement her beauty look, she selects an outfit of inky pinstripes and sleek navy, paired with a heel that’s never lower than five inches. The song of her footwear clicking the floor softens as she strides out the front door. It’s a sound I could pick out anywhere.
Then, I open my eyes and I’m 24 again, rummaging through the same Lancôme bag that I stole from my mum in middle school, thinking I’m reinventing the wheel.
Like many women before me, I have an ever-evolving relationship with my self-expression and the influence of my mother. In my early childhood, before I took any notice of my physical form, my mum delighted in my dress-up years. My mum displayed her runway expertise as I toggled closely behind, with matching jet-black tresses and angular bangs, always wearing the same colours — if not my mum’s exact outfit shrunk down to kiddie size.
But when I was in kindergarten, my mum started a new job several provinces away. While she did her best to create a nest for us, my dad did his best to keep up with the esthetic reputation my mother crafted — a battle in which he quickly accepted defeat. My hair bows became tousled tresses; tights became jeans; ballet flats became sneakers. My mum lived in ignorant bliss until our first Skype check-in. When she witnessed my carefree appearance, her reaction was immediate, “What the hell did you do to Savannah?!”
To which my dad replied, “She doesn’t want to wear that stuff!”
As I got older, and reached the stage when your parents suddenly become embarrassing, my style changed too — for the worse. I looked like whatever was in the sale section of Pacsun: cheap chiffon blouses, florals, that chevron pattern. In my defence, I think I was the last generation to have an “ugly phase”; no one was buying me Drunk Elephant and Lululemon as a kid.
When I was 15, I raided my mom’s closet for a job interview at RW & Co.
My whole life, I watched my mom walk into her stores and instantly command the room. Borrowing from her closet, built from years of sleek yet casual dressing, almost felt like I was cheating. I got the job.
That first retail gig set half a decade of sales jobs into motion. My closet reflected each new position like book chapters. My style took the shape of whatever store I was peddling inventory from through staff discounts and dress codes.
While my style was forming, my mother’s was morphing. Multiple ankle traumas rendered her joints incapable of sustaining glamorous footwear daily. Her stilettos shrunk inch by inch until she finally settled on her beloved Kate Spade block-heeled loafers. That cheery influence eventually enveloped her whole world. Today, people joke that my mum’s place looks like an Ikea x Kate Spade collab, with her polka-dotted everything meticulously displayed in her kitchen — toaster included. In my mum’s closet, you’ll find the influence of the brand’s signature whimsy everywhere, from optimistically embroidered cardigans to pearled berets.
I used to think that my style was something utterly unique to me; I was hell-bent on carving my own path in a sea of microtrends. I don’t know what to call my style now, but when I see my mum, she’ll often exclaim, “I used to have that same outfit!”
Peering now into my closet — a smorgasbord of thrifting labour, sleek tailoring, eclectic patterns, Clinique’s Black Honey and even the odd cheery accessory — I realize that my taste is not entirely my own. My style is a beautiful mélange inspired by the woman who raised me. How lucky am I?
