So I bring the sweater dress I bought a few years ago to my dear old Italian tailor for hemming.
“I no hem for you,” she says matter-of-factly when I step out of the dressing room.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Short enough.”
Now I’m laughing, recalling the time I brought her pants to be hemmed and she wouldn’t hem them because they didn’t look good on me.
“Really?” I say.
“You no 16,” she says, cracking herself up.
I take another look in the mirror and realize she just might be right. The dress comes to the knee.
Then I try on a top I want to be taken in.
“Now this is too big,” she says, pinning in the sides.
I don’t think I need to get on a therapist’s couch to realize I have found a version of my mother 50 miles from the real one. Makes me laugh the whole two blocks home.