Which is how I was able to walk into my salon and say to my wicked and wonderful hairdresser, John, "I want to look like I just got out of bed after the best sex ever." ("No problem," he responded.) It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
A few weeks after that appointment with destiny, I was walking through the airport in L.A., on my way back home from a party, with a black satchel (Pink lining!) slung lightly over my shoulder. An attractive younger man stopped me—he looked a little hesitant and I thought maybe he was lost. But no; he wanted to know if he could carry my thimble-weight bag for me. Now for the best part: that damn closet. Looking back, the solution that presented itself was so obvious I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. The gray sweaters are still in there, waiting for another home. But the new me lives in a much smaller, freestanding wardrobe that I originally chose for my kids. This is a door I open with pleasure. No regrets—or, as Madame Vreeland might have said, Je ne regrette rien! I couldn't save that old relationship, and I didn't want to fight anymore. So I just moved out.
Katrina Heron, a contributing editor for GQ, is a director of the Chez Panisse foundation in Berkeley, California.