The Little Black Dress

In the bible, black is associated with mourning and death. Christian monks adopted black robes as signs of humility. In the 14th century, the bubonic plague imbued the color with fear. In pop culture, Ninjas often wear black, as do witches.

  In my closet are 6 black dresses, 6 pairs of black pants, 6 black sweaters, 8 pairs of black tights, 10 black jackets and coats, 21 pairs of black shoes, and 23 black tunics and tops, including sleeveless, short sleeved, long sleeved and tunics. Here and there, there’s a touch of gray, white or red. But just a touch.

  I’m not in mourning, nor do I instill fear in others; I show no sign of the plague, nor am I a warrior or witch. There is no other color (except perhaps white) that comes with so many associations and assumptions. So how did my obsession with black come to be?

  I blame it all on Coca Chanel, the French couture, who designed the little black dress in 1926.

  I wore my very first black dress to attend my father’s funeral. I was 13. I have very little memory of what it looked like and I can’t recall ever wearing it again. But my second black dress is truly memorable. I was 22 and working as a secretary in Manhattan. I’d been invited to a cocktail party for a departing colleague. But what to wear? “You can never go wrong with a little black dress,” my friends advised. I went to Macy’s and found a black silk sheath, sleeveless, with a ruffle at the hem. My mother’s pearls were the perfect complement. I wore the dress to many occasions, often switching the pearls for a different necklace or colorful scarf.

  I quickly discovered that black didn’t show the dirt, was easy to coordinate with other colors, always looked professional, and made me look slimmer. From thence, every time I went shopping, I bought black. I tried hard—I vowed—not to buy black. But everything looked better on me in black. It still does.

  Black is the first color I put on in the morning and the last I remove at night. So far, none of my sleepwear is black but that could change. Whether I go out or stay in, I wear black. I answer emails, answer the door, go down for the mail, buy a bottle of milk, have lunch with a friend and drink with colleagues…always wearing black.

  It’s taken years to appreciate the many values of wearing black and I consider myself lucky to have the freedom to do so. Queen Elizabeth cannot wear black except at funerals; neither can the other females in the royal family. Though they all are required to travel with an all-black outfit, it’s to be worn only on the off-chance that a death happens unexpectedly. This rule was put in place in 1952 when Queen Elizabeth had to fly back from Kenya after her father died. When her plane landed, she was not permitted to disembark in any color but black, which meant she had to wait in the plane for several hours until an appropriate black outfit was bought and brought to her.

  Also, I don’t recall any man having to run out and buy a black suit for a funeral, though I do remember some having to buy a black tie. Nor do I recall any man having to wear black for a year following the death of a spouse, like many women have done; some still do. But, then, the rules have always been different for men and women.

  Take the case of formal men’s wear. In the early 1800’s, Beau Brummel, a British fashion icon, became an advocate of black evening wear for men…and so the tuxedo was born. It made it so simple for men: buy a tux and you’re set for life. Not only does the tux look elegant, is becoming to most male bodies, and never goes out of style. Most amazingly, it tends to make every man look like a prince.

  Maybe, one day, there will be a single piece of evening apparel that will be as successful for women as the tux has been for men. But not in my lifetime. For the time being, we women are left with the ubiquitous little black dress, in all its varied iterations. I have little black dresses from Saks Fifth Avenue, Nordstrom’s, Old Navy, Bloomingdales, Donna Karon, TJ Maxx, Marshall’s and Eileen Fisher. I’ve paid as little as $9.99 and as much as $299.99.

I’ve worn and loved them all, but none have come close to making me look like a princess.