Looking the picture of elegance, infamous party girl Holly Golightly was spotted in downtown Taos this past Sunday morning. Outfitted in chic blackout shades and corresponding form-fitting black cocktail dress, I must attest I personally spotted her on my way to work the brunch shift at Lambert’s.
Mesmerized by the brilliantly-colored birds dressing the window of the charming shop Chocolate+Cashmere, paper coffee cup cradled in her supple hands, she was absorbed in her own thoughts, longingly gazing at the exquisitely-crafted cashmere scarves lining the walls, as if peering at diamonds through the window of Tiffany’s. “Good morning,” I cheerily offered as I passed in the golden amber light. “Good morning,” she replied, adding a dazzling smile, going from self-absorbed to immediately-engaged in a heartbeat (the girl is, after all, a professional). I stopped briefly right next to her to see what she found so engaging in the window, when she abruptly added, “You know those days you get the mean reds?”
“Mean reds,” I parroted, “You mean like the blues?”
“No, the blues are because you’re getting fat, or maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all,” she said dreamily, still gazing intently into the shop window. “The mean reds are horrible.” She went on, “Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re 
afraid of.”
“Do you ever get that feeling?” she casually asked, now turning to look intently into my eyes. “Sure,” I shrugged. “Well, when I get that feeling, I come to Chocolate+Cashmere,” she said. “Why’s that?” I asked, now a little perplexed. “It’s like walking into a huge cashmere sweater. Everything is soft and supple and feels like you’re walking into the arms of an understanding lover. It’s all a girl could ask for. Not to mention the chocolate. Nothing like a piece of chocolate to chase away the mean reds.”
“I see,” I replied, now peering into the window as well, wholeheartedly agreeing with her — about the chocolate and the mean reds, that is — “Say, you’re not experiencing the mean reds right now, are you?”
“Oh, no! Well . . . I was . . . I mean, I feel a little out of sorts, and inappropriately attired these days. This is definitely not Manhattan.” “No, you’re right, it’s not Manhattan,” I quickly agreed.
“I think I need a new image,” she said meekly, her eyes intently scanning the shop’s interior.
“You look fine to me,” I said, trying to cheer her up, as it seemed she was again becoming consumed by the mean reds. But by then she was already lost in the back wall of the shop. She seemed to be particularly taken with the #575 Hip Skirt, a form-fitting number that would accentuate any girl’s assets. I could see she was imagining outfits with the skirt as the centerpiece, her eyes glazing over with the possibilities.
“What do you think of those lovely cashmere skirts on the back wall?” she nonchalantly asked, eyes still glued to the window. “A little more Serena van der Woodson than Holly Golightly,” I remarked. “Serena van der Who?” she incredulously asked. “Never mind,” I perfunctorily said, “You wouldn’t know her. She’s a little younger than you.”
“She sounds like a rat,” Miss Golightly nastily shot back. “Well, yeah, she sort of is,” I agreed. “Don’t worry Holly, she has nowhere near the class you have.” “Of course not,” she retorted, waiting a beat before adding, “You’ve a penchant for stating the obvious.”
Realizing it was time to get to work, and taking that as my cue to move along, I wished her a good day and turned to go, but as I did, she asked, “Which of those featherweight scarves would look better with that lilac-colored skirt, the magenta or the bougainvillea?” “I’m sure you could pull either off, Holly,” I said as I turned and said a goodbye over my shoulder, leaving her staring through the window, waiting for the shop to open to get some chocolate . . . and definitely some cashmere.