It wasn’t as if I was trying to find something to devastate my day and send me to my vanity to collect all things Chanel (believe me, there were a lot) and fill the garbage bin.
It wasn’t like I wanted to stumble upon this little bit of traumatizing information while doing simple research for Message to New York.
But, I did.
And now I guess I’ll need to find a new perfume, a new purse, a new pair of peep-toe booties, and put off getting that black and white dress I’ve been dreaming of. Nordstrom’s Chanel sanctum will no longer see me perusing the racks.
Maybe it’s an overreaction to something that happened 70 years ago? Perhaps.
But then I look at my husband—my dark-haired, olive-skinned, Semitic lover—and my little curly-haired, Jewess Princess, and I am reminded that my love of Haute Couture would never equate of the perfection they bring to this world.
Farewell, Chanel. You were on the losing side of history; no, not in success and prestige, but in what truly matters. You have a tarnished legacy.
What a disappointment.