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In the back of my closet hangs a dress that I last wore in 1972. It is a shapeless shift, made of crushed blue velvet with red, yellow and green embroidery embellishing a v-neckline. The same embroidery edges the flared sleeves and matches the ankle-length hemline. It has an East Indian motif. I imagine three decades ago a dark skinned Hindu woman sat at an ancient foot pedal sewing machine matching seams together and hand stitching the flowery trim.  

I bought the dress at a head shop on Samson Street in Philadelphia. It hung on a rack in the store between cotton tie-dyed t-shirts and batik bedspreads. A tape of Ravi Shankar playing the sitar wailed in the background. Incense swirled around my head and patchouli oil seeped into my teenage nostrils.  

I put the dress on and I don’t remember taking it off for the next three years, although in retrospect, it seems that I must have. I wore the frock everywhere between 1969 and 1971. 

I donned it for my senior prom, freshman chemistry class, family Christmas gatherings and the single fraternity party that I was invited to my first year of college. I wore it shoplifting, hitchhiking, panhandling, to bed and to see Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and The Doors. 

I wore it in the early morning hours when Jackie Wiler got drunk on a gallon of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and threw up in my lap. 

I accessorized it with 10-inch platform heels, monstrous lace-up leather work boots, fringed rabbit fur moccasins and flimsy Indian sandals that caused a tropical rash between my toes. 

I wore it to Be-ins, Earth Day, anti-war marches, peace rallies, summer and winter solstice celebrations and nude beaches, where I blithely flipped it over my head and dropped it onto the sand as I raced to the Pacific’s edge. 

In winter I matched it with lime green tights, red knee socks and yellow opaque panty hose. In summer I wore it bare legged and unshaven. I put on hand-made bead earrings, mood rings, eight pounds of turquoise bracelets and a large leather peace sign that dangled between my braless breasts on a loop of burlap twine. 

I looked especially good by the light of an undulating lava lamp. 

I had my picture taken in that dress, a skinny pink feathered boa wrapped around my neck, wire rim, rose-colored granny glasses shading my dilated pupils. My hair stuck out from the sides of my head. There were definitely flowers in my hair. 

Now it hangs limp and sad in the closet on a hanger that is starting to bend under the weight of a dress that hasn’t moved in almost thirty years, except to be hauled twice across the North American continent in the back seat of a Super Beetle and shoved into a series of miserable little basement apartments, drafty communal cottages, storage units, teepees and trailers. It’s been stuffed into trunks and duffel bags, backpacks and shopping carts. It’s been borrowed by ex-sister-in-laws and a drag queen who long ago died of AIDS.  

I took it out of the closet the other day to see if it was suitable to wear for Halloween. I thought I could wear it with long shimmering earrings, thick mascara, a headband, and Easy Spirit walking shoes. But although it has no waistline, drawstrings or any shape whatsoever, I’m not certain I can still squeeze into it. 

Undaunted, I went up to Telegraph Avenue to buy a mask. 

As I got out of the car and mingled on the sidewalk with students and residents of the avenue, I realized that my dress was right in style and that it wouldn’t look like a costume on someone young and hip. Before I tried on a mask of Hillary Clinton, I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was the face of someone I barely recognized. I looked as if I was already wearing a mask.