Ha, my friend writes about cashmere. Well why not? This time last year my mother was alive with still some pleasure to be had from life and from buying cashmere. The expense justified by the redundancy of a lifetime's self-denial. Why postpone the cashmere and all the luxury it represents when the body's spirit craves soft warmth? She never wore it. She took mine instead. Her's wasn't enough. She wanted mine.
Let youth embrace crisp fabrics, sharp and sparkling. Age requires brushed cotton, washed linen and cashmere soft enough to kindly fold itself around about, cradling not crackling wisdom's edges. Buy the cashmere. In every colour - there's an art to it.