My love affair with the little black dress began when I read Herman Wouk’s Marjorie Morningstar. I was far too young to be reading that book, and I’m sure that my desire then to wear black as the ultimate in sophistication was a symptom of a deep corruption that I have been able to suppress until now, but which will erupt the moment I let down my guard. I know that I was too young because I had to wait years before my parents allowed me to wear the coveted black dress.

 

Wearing black was a rite de passage then, as was wearing nylon stockings instead of socks. Yes, stockings. Pantyhose had not yet been invented. And those nylons had seams up the back, seams which would grow crooked though the stockings were clasped in the grips of… More…