A writer’s wardrobe gets a makeover
come from a long line of hoarders. My grandmother still has every scarf and change purse she’s bought since World War II ended — not to mention every picture I drew as a child. My father has every book and briefing he’s ever read. I have tops I haven’t touched since college, and probably a few pairs of jeans — or, worse, corduroys — that I grew out of before most people in the United States knew the difference between Shiites and Sunnis. I warned Pam Santorelli about this before she came to my apartment to help me get my life — er, I mean, my closets in order. She told me not to worry about it. Worrying is one of my fortes.
I have two closets, both about two-and-a-half-feet wide and both a bit, well, let’s be euphemistic and call them “well-occupied.” Closet organizing — though Santorelli tends to use the term “editing” — is often a personal stylist’s first step when meeting with a new client who’s ready to revamp her image. For the record, I haven’t committed to an entire rewrite, just a bit of tweaking — for the sake of research, of course. Santorelli stands, arms akimbo, and casts a gimlet eye over my stuff. “It’s not that bad,” she says, in a way that reminds me of my dentist when she looks at my xrays.
“First thing I would do is get rid of any lingerie. It doesn’t belong here,” Santorelli says, pointing to unmentionables that are stuffed in a middle compartment of a hanging canvas shelf. “Then I’d get rid of this,” she adds, fingering a hanger-shaped hook contraption from which necklaces and belts dangle. She warns of snagging and demonstrates how a belt buckle can be to an innocent sweater what a fishhook is to a hungry flounder. There are a few other cardinal rules I’ve apparently been breaking on a daily basis: black-tie event dresses are in plastic cleaner bags (the fabric needs to breathe); skirts are jammed together in two separate areas on the rack (complete categories of clothing should be kept in the same place); and delicate tops are hung up like regular shirts (they should be turned inside-out so the lining is exposed and the gauzy fabric won’t catch on anything).
Next, Santorelli quizzes me on whether I know what’s where. She seems genuinely impressed that I can identify locations without looking. Then she digs in. I’m overcome by a strange mix of anxiety, embarrassment, appreciation, and astonishment as I watch her remove most of the items from hangers and lay them out on my bed. In part I’m astonished by her assuredness.
This is her first time at my apartment, but it’s as if she’s seen this closet before. Then I realize it’s just a type: the pack rat’s vessel. She knows how to handle it. The astonishment is, in part, a reaction to what she’s pulling out. There’s a pink cardigan with a sewn-on flower à la 1944 that Santorelli suggests could be worn with jeans or dressed up with a necklace. We exhume a discolored sweater that gets tossed, and a J.Crew number that I can’t remember ever wearing (I can’t remember the last time I was in a J.Crew, in fact); into the Goodwill pile it goes.
As Santorelli sorts, she dispenses tips: get decorative boxes to store stuff in visible spaces, put black tops between colors and prints so you can see everything better.
When I’m visibly torn over what pile in which to place something, she never instructs, just suggests. “It may be something you love, but it’s not fitting. That’s why you have me here — to push you along,” Santorelli says. “I’m not here to take away your clothing. I’m here to work with the best pieces you have so when you wake up in the morning, you feel like you have something to wear."
