SHOPPING MY MONIKER
It was the lipstick. My friend Audrey was wearing the perfect not-too-red-butstill-red-enough shade from Nars. “And, it’s called Audrey.”
I wanted the Audrey too, so I took myself to the Fillmore Street shop in Pacific Heights, but before I got to the Audrey, I realized all shades were named after women. I saw the Anna — more muted, less brassy. Subtle. More me. Less Audrey.
The salesman, a friendly guy outfitted in a black smock, showed me one more.
“That’s nice, too,” I said of the pale neutral hue he helped me test out. He told me the name. “This probably sounds weird, but that one is my partner’s ex’s name. She’s nice but, you know …”
We agreed I could not get that lipstick, even if it was slightly more flattering with my coloring.
When people compliment my Anna shade, I thank them and then add that my cosmetic and I share the same moniker. The first reaction is always the same: Do they have my name?
Two-plus years later, Anna is the only lipstick I wear. Not so much for its lovely, slightly berry-esque color, but because of the name. It’s not just the lipstick. I’ve long felt a narcissistic connection with clothing and accessories with my name, as if the company were saying, “This is made for you.”
In my eBay days, I did exhaustive searches on my name under clothing categories, once landing on a J.Crew swingy A-line cashmere sweater jacket with two perfectly placed, slightly oversize buttons. Ideal for walking our fox terrier in the San Francisco fog. I spent late nights online until I found the Anna jacket in black, size medium. Score — or so I thought.
It arrived days later with random cat hair and a dry, crispy feeling. It was itchy. I looked at the tag to see if someone had just sewn in a J.Crew label. It was a possibility. The thread was loose. I put it on anyway. It was not a medium. More like a juniors’ extra-small.
“New sweater?” said my significant other with too much of an upswing at the end, indicating what I already knew: It did not look good. l wore it around the house for a couple of days (working at home does have its advantages) so as not to feel too guilty for buying before giving it to an extremely petite friend.
Unlike the consistent and sophisticated category of clothing named Jackie — what you’d expect, O-esqe cardigans with petite pearl-like buttons and simple yet chic sheath dresses — Anna items are all over the place and a possible recipe for a fashion crisis. The Sundance catalog alone at one time had the investment-worthy $428 Anna Gore Tall Boots made by Frye; a drippy unflattering white Wyatt Anna tunic (why the Wyatt?); and a gauzy Anna’s Song dress with a smattering of flowers that I went back and forth on for weeks (it’s a wonder I make deadlines!), knowing darn well its length and handkerchief hem were not a fit for my 5-foot-1 stature.
I wondered, could I rock a Lovers + Friends Anna Romper — chambray with a halterlike-crisscross back that hit high thigh? Something I wouldn’t have worn even as a teenager? Answer: Definitely not. At least I hadn’t lost all my senses. At a birthday lunch this year, my friend Diane gave me a lovely clutch from a popup shop with a leather zip and a dangling tag announcing it as Anna. “I had to get it for you.” I practically jumped across the table to hug her.
But where did the pursuit for all things Anna come from? I remembered visiting beach towns with my parents and obsessively scouring tourist shops for magnets, key chains, pencils, anything with any versions of my name (I went from Annie to Ann to Anna as I grew up). “You’re lucky,” my mother would say each time I found something. With her multisyllabic Greek name, and an unpopular American translation, she could never get something “personalized” by mass production.
For a short while in my 20s I had a plum temp job as the special-creations coordinator at Louis Vuitton in New York. Those with means and celebs who wanted LV status and quality but desired something no on else had would put in a request for a “special creation.” My amateur, well-meaning sketches and notes were faxed to the workshop in Italy for review and approval. They had strict guidelines and would often come back with a no or a yes, but with modifications and an estimated time frame for the item to be handmade (many months) and price (marked up a percentage from “pedestrian” store Louis).
I often analyze my shopping habits, and once I realized that as a woman who thinks a 30 percent-off sale isn’t that much off and does most of her shopping at Nordstrom Rack, my “special creation” was finding all things Anna. Once I figured this out, my narcissistic obsession for my own name subsided.
And then I spotted a jaunty, trendy pom-pom beach tote handmade in Mexico sitting on a table, on sale. The Stella.
Our dog’s name.