Nicole Wolkov

On picture day, seniors run in and out of classrooms wearing crazy hats, rainbow shirts and even fat suits.

I, too, dressed crazily that day. Who wouldn’t want to be part of the fun?

I wore my mother’s orange cocktail dress and a bright pink headband.

I didn’t look too out of the ordinary, although perhaps a bit vibrantly dressed.

But for me, this was a complete 180, and I did not recognize myself. When I look in the mirror, I expect to see a long black skirt, black top, black sweater, black stockings and black boots.

I’ve been told that I dress like I’m about to attend a funeral in 1885.

Why?

Surely it’s to express the morose nature of my soul and the ache of my heart.

Actually, no.

1) It’s simple. Everything matches. I never have to worry if clothes don’t “look good” together, as everything I own goes with everything else. Then why not choose another color? Well, white and gray become dirty and stained easily, and brown is just an awful color.

2) One load of wash. I never have to worry about anything bleeding through the wash. Although it’s quite irritating when my blacks don’t match.

3) Shopping becomes easy. As someone who’s never enjoyed shopping, I’d like to reduce the time it takes to buy new clothes. If it’s not black, I don’t take it off the rack.

My favorite stores are the ones that sort clothing by color (usually consignment stores). It cuts my shopping time in half, if not more!

4) Fashion. Just as I choose to paint my nails or cut my hair, I choose to wear black.

Surprisingly, although my wardrobe has remained monochromatic for six years, I still endure questions about my choice of fashion and family members attempting to coax me into wearing color.

“Why don’t you wear red? It’s your favorite color. You used to wear color when you were little.”

Now I have a compromise with my family. I’ll wear color (my mother’s clothing) if she will wear my clothing for the same extent of time.

I don’t mind the questions. After all, I admit that with all of the long black-lace skirts I own, I do look like I belong at a Victorian funeral – but a high-fashion one.

By Nicole Wolkov

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