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Lessons from the non-binary clothes closet

In a moment of cultural dissonance, I stopped by a newsstand and saw, on the cover of a fashion magazine, poet Amanda Gorman in a Louis Vuitton dress with the banner: "Fashion, we missed you!"  Then I walked a block and had my hair cut by a stylist who was wearing gender-free clothes: a crew neck tee, jeans, sneakers, beanie. Both Gorman and the stylist are striking, but presented so differently.   From the park to the coffee shop, a noticeable segment of humanity is firmly in fleece hoodies, loose, slightly cropped trousers, fatigue jackets, boxy tees, overshirts. A dart is harder to find than a collar stay. The ubiquity of these clothes has sparked a consideration of how I express gender through what I wear. During my late twenties through mid-thirties, I would occasionally be mistaken for a male. I was tall, small-busted, had an Annie Lennox-style cut.  (The incidents happened when I wore my anorak, I say defensively.)  The "sirs" rolled off like raindrops on wax

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