the coat

reflections on fur, fashion and identity.

the coat in question. photo by the brilliant lorelle whittingham

Last winter, I said goodbye to my first fur coat.

I found her over two years ago at an antique mall parking lot sale, in the middle of a hot, dry Edmonton summer. The coat – light brown mink, down to my knees – fit perfectly, although I had to take it off immediately to avoid heat stroke. 

I spent the rest of summer and fall stroking the coat every time I passed it hanging by my front door, admiring how it looked among my denim jackets and pea coats. I wanted to be the kind of girl who wore fur. Why? I’d never really thought about fur – it was passe, cruel, for a different type of woman than I’d ever be. I grew up associating fur with red paint and PETA campaigns. Even Carrie Bradshaw abandoned her iconic fur coat before season 3 of Sex and the City. Fur was for the last century.

That winter, I wore it daily. Threw it on over my jeans and trudged through the snow to my serving job, warm and – I feared – ostentatious. I felt self-conscious in it – were people looking at me? Did they hate me? Did I look insane? But the piece started to feel natural, an extension of myself, exactly as I was in that moment – living the life of a waitress-writer-artist, with an account in overdraft and a stack of $100s in my sock drawer. All my glamour is second hand. I still clothe myself in thrifted designer clothes and expensive shoes bought on sale. I felt wealthy and broke at the same time, running around the city performing and drinking martinis and racking up credit card debt, my heavy coat slung over my arm in basement venues. It made everything I did feel more romantic. 

When I thanked my friend for a ride home once, she replied, “Well, it’s not everyday I get to drive Margot Tenenbaum home.” Was the coat a way to play a character more interesting than myself?

A fur coat once suggested wealth, or perhaps a wealthy suitor, a conspicuous kind of romance. I was never sure what it was signalling when I got on the bus in my mink and grey beret, carrying my laptop in a tote bag. Was I outdated, or ahead of the fashion curve? I felt like Carrie Bradshaw, but what did other people see? I never really wondered, until I started wearing the coat. 

The day of my first date with my now-boyfriend, I obsessed all day about what I would wear. I landed on a bolo tie, turtleneck, faux leather pants and black ankle boots. The coat was the easy part – of course I’d be wearing the coat. It was -10, not cold by Edmonton standards, but the coat was both signature and security blanket. I looked cool and also nothing could hurt me in the coat. 

The first tear appeared sometime that winter. I loved taking it to the tailor shop, crowded with racks of plastic-wrapped clothes and potted plants, shelves of family photos and lucky cats. The calendar on the wall showed they were booked solid for weeks. 

My good friend, who initially encouraged me to purchase my coat, was also frequently by my side with her own fur coat in need of repair. Because here’s the thing about owning a fur coat – it’s work, and it’s worth it. It can last forever if you invest in repairing it and conditioning it. You’ll never go back to a normal coat – fur keeps one so warm it’s almost unbelievable more Canadians don’t wear them. 

The fur expert at the tailor shop, who came to know both me and my coat, was the one who told me it might be time to say goodbye to the coat the following winter, that the old seams would keep cracking apart like an old vinyl sofa. Whatever was holding the coat together was too brittle; one day on a walk, the sleeve split open completely and I admitted that I had to say goodbye. I walked home with the lining exposed. 

I began dispassionately hunting for a new coat, clicking through Facebook marketplace and scouring consignment store racks. No coat would ever be that one again, that coat that became my identity. My fur coat was like Daria’s green jacket, Lisa Simpson’s pearl necklace. I felt naked without it.

The day I bought a new coat, it was -50 with the windchill. I took the train, wearing my old, ripped coat (no doubt giving bag lady chic) to a suburban Starbucks to meet someone from Facebook selling a dark brown mink coat. I bought a slice of coffee cake and an Americano and waited. He approached me with a tote bag overflowing with a glossy mound of dark brown fur. It had an impeccable lining – it was in excellent condition, well-cared for. It had clearly never been shoved in a tiny locker before a serving shift, or dropped on the floor at the public library. It didn’t have mysterious initials monogrammed in the lining, or weird powder that stuck to my hands when I put them in my pockets. But the new coat was gorgeous, and I trusted the seams. I e-transferred the man and shoved my old coat into my own tote bag. 

Walking back to the train, I felt like I was wearing a scratchy Christmas dress and mary janes that pinched my toes. This new coat was mine, but my old coat was me. 

The old coat still hangs in my front closet. Even after moving all my belongings to a new apartment, I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s a cumbersome keepsake to hold onto, taking up valuable closet space. My life changed while I owned that coat. I was recognized by that coat. I wanted letting go of it to mean something, to crystallize some metaphor about forming new identities, or growing older, or moving on. Being a writer is like that. But maybe it’s better to let it just be a coat.