Piper Weiss - My mom, style icon

For my mom, and all the mothers in this book, who put up with us as teenagers.

And for my dad, who knew a style icon the minute he saw one.

ENTER ANY DEPARTMENT STORE CHANGING ROOM, AND youre bound to hear the same two phrases: Try it on and I dont want to, Mom. As humans, were hard-wired to rebel against our parents and control our children. And this species malfunction is most obvious during shopping trips. At least that was my experience. I never wanted to dress like my mom. She didnt know me or where I was coming from and so on and so forth.

And then one day, everything changed. I mean everything.

I had a wedding to attend, and I needed a fancy pursethe kind without strings or straps that you have to hold in your palm all nightthe kind that can only fit a few nickels, andif youre luckya tampon. The kind only moms own. Rifling through my mother Marilyns closet, a collector of these props, I accidentally pulled out a crocheted belt from the 60s. I dug a little deeper and came across a suede fringe vest. Both were items Id been coveting in storesthe knockoff versions, of course. And here I was in the presence of the real thing. I asked my mom when they were from. Her replies: Oh, thats from a SoHo boutique. I used to wear that when I was an art student at NYU.

That? I wore that to a party in the West Village in the late 60s. I remember Barry Gibb was holding court by an indoor swimming pool in the middle of the living room. Lots of pot smoke.

Waitwhat?

My digs through the years eventually led me to the mother lode: two white photo albums stuff ed with pictures that I found tucked in a cabinet in my parents living room. When I slipped the first one from its hiding place, a brittle, faded snapshot fell out. Mom?

Oh, thats when I went to Jamaica for the weekend with my friend.

For the weekend?

My rent was low; things were reasonable back then. If there was a great last-minute deal, my friend and I would just take off. We stayed at the Playboy Club in Ocho Rios. It was a total party scene.

Is that an arm cuff youre wearingand a cigarette in your hand?

Oh, yes. And I remember I just picked up that hat from a little store in the town there.

Who is that soldier ogling you?

There were always guys just hanging around.

Who is this woman, and what did she do with my mother? I wondered. And more to the point, can I borrow those bell-bottoms?

With each picture I examined, I found more treasures: caftans, chained belts, hair pieces, fake round-framed glasses, false eyelashes, embroidered blazers, mod minidresses. Camels, even.

When were you in Morocco, Mom?

Oh, I dont know67? 68?

Its not that I didnt know my mother had a past; I just didnt realize there was so much of it. And that it was so good looking. Id been trying for years to acquire the femme fatale hairstyle she flaunted in the pictures. I collected bracelets for months to pull off the kind of arm accessory she let dangle in front of the camera effortlessly. And the men? I didnt even know they made them like that.

I realized then that I will turn into my mother. If Im lucky.

Let me reassure you that Mom and I werent always on the same page when it came to style. Here is a brief history of our relationship:

Age 5: I cut off all my hair to play Hansel in an impromptu staging of Hansel and Gretel in my bedroom. Mom flips out, taking complete and permanent control of my follicles. Teaches me her age-old technique of hot rollers and bobby pins.

Age 7: Moman Annie Hall doppelgangerdresses me like she dresses herselfred and blue turtlenecks, oxford shirts with popped collars. Id rather wear pink tutus.

Age 13: Mom and I battle over my bat mitzvah dress but come to one agreementpinning gym socks into the bosom so it fits.

Age 15: We engage in a period of mutual hatred stemming from polar visions of what kinds of clothing I look good in.

Age 18: Moms silk scarf collection now requires two drawers. Meanwhile, as a freshman in college, I cultivate a single dreadlock and pierce my eyebrow. Big mistake.

Age 19: Thrift stores have become my way of life. Meanwhile, as Moms modern wardrobe grows, her collection of vintage fashions are lodged in an unreachable closet shelf, unbeknownst to me.

Age 25: I discover her vintage scarves, belts, and jewelry. Her stuff is more authentic and in better shape than anything in a store.

Age 30: I find her old pictures and covet everything in them. Dressed in the pieces Ive adopted over the years, looking like a more attractive version of me, our relationship boils down to a fashion page in US Weekly: She wore it better.

Those pictures triggered a life-altering revelationthe kind that compels a daughter to start, and more importantly maintain, a blog. Id spent the past few years editing fashion and lifestyle articles for the New York Daily News, where Id insert the term style icon in stories about Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, Angelina Jolie. Finally, Id found my own. The blog My Mom, the Style Icon began as a tribute to Marilyns buried fashion past. But everyone I showed it to would insist that his or her mom had some incredible style, too. They werent exaggerating.

Submissions piled up from around the world, including Canada, Iran, Ireland, and Chile. While the countries, eras, and fashions varied, the subtext of the submissions was the same: awe. It was as if people were emerging from an apocalyptic cloud of smoke, each holding a picture of her mom, saying It all makes sense now.

One of the first e-mails I received was from a daughter whose mother grew up in Croatia in the 60s. In addition to describing the schoolgirl wool skirt and sweater getup she wore, the writer added: My mother had a turbulent relationship with her mom, so she moved to Canada when she was just twenty years old to make a new start for herself. Another submission showed a mom flaunting her long legs in high-waisted shorts in 1968. The story goes: She sent this to my dad when he was stationed in Vietnam right after they were married. It kept getting stolen from his stuff , so she had to keep reprinting it and sending it again. One mom was a dancer on The Dean Martin Variety Show. Another ran away from her strict Texas family to get hitched.

Photo submissions became homages, memorial tributes, boasts, and, in some cases, apologies to mothers. Its hard to imagine your mom as a person, even less a teenager, unless you see photo evidence. Its like meeting a different personone you may have been friends with. All of the pictures in the following pages were submitted by people who made that monumental discovery and learned a valuable lesson in the process. Style isnt just about the clothes; its about the way they are worn. Thats to say, with no regrets.