It’s radically different from the hard-partying Moss who I fell in love with when I was a teenager in the early ’00s. That was the second coming of Kate, about a decade after she had her mercurial rise as the infamous waif. I discovered Moss in this form on a French Vogue cover tucked away in the international magazine aisle of a Barnes & Noble. In the November 2004 issue, Moss wore a ridiculous green fur coat on top of a Nike sports bra and a pair of short white gym shorts. Maybe the image was so out of my world that I became transfixed. Or maybe it was because she was super flat-chested—just like me at the time!—yet had an electrifying confidence. (I was very insecure about my nonexistent bra size.) That cover gave me hope, a curious peek into another dimension.
By the mid-aughts, it appeared as if Moss had come into her own. I wasn’t so much a fan of her now immortalized ’90s wardrobe, like the sheer slip dress that she wore with Naomi Campbell or the matchy-matchy grunge-inflected outfits she wore with Johnny Depp. She seemed too quiet back then, too young. I liked her noughties energy. (Watch this grainy cut of Primal Scream’s “Some Velvet Morning” to get a visual feel). Plus, in 2005, she carved out a new name for herself in the fashion-verse. Moss had just begun a relationship with Libertines front man Pete Doherty. Her style became wild, bad-to-the-bone English rock ’n’ roll. She’d attend Glastonbury hanging off the arm of Doherty in tiny dresses with mud-caked Wellies and a cigarette dangling from her lips. On a regular day in London, she was effortlessly cool in a pair of black skinny jeans, ankle boots, a leather jacket or army jacket, and a skull-print Alexander McQueen scarf. Even if she wore these outfits in the back of a car, half asleep after a rough night out, I thought she looked amazing.
I gravitated toward her not only because her getups appeared easy and attainable but because she wore her out-of-control behavior well. At the time, I was a teenager with problems at home and school. Moss’s blasé, even tumultuous attitude resonated with me. I tried to re-create her style. I still have a tiny black dress from American Apparel and a low-slung, circular medallion belt floating around my parents’ house. I even wore ballet flats, as an ode to her Repettos. I also scooped up a pair of rosary beads, like Moss had worn in 2005 at Glastonbury with a vest and short shorts. (Fun fact: I’m not even Catholic.) And somewhere in my childhood bedroom shoved in the back of a bookshelf, there is a half-smoked pack of Marlboro Lights.
Then, Moss went to rehab. Soon after, I slowly started to grow out of my bad-teenager phase. Toward the end of the late 2000s, she dropped off of my radar. It felt as if she had lost her mojo. Years later, in 2015, she was photographed while playing a caricature of herself in Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie. She was waist-deep wading out of the River Thames wearing a body-skimming sparkling aquamarine dress with a glass of Champagne and a cigarette. And though it was an act, the image simply seemed too real.
And yet, suddenly this past month, Moss has come back on my radar. It’s not for falling on her knees exiting the club or zonking out on the seat of a black car. In recent weeks, she has really hit her stride, whether she was celebrating her 45th birthday or at Paris Fashion Week. The newswires show her looking incredibly chic and put-together. After all, she isn’t only a model but owns a modeling agency now and is dressing the elevated part of someone who makes decisions. Think: all-black everything, like a wide-leg pleated trouser that is polished or a velvet jumpsuit with a silk placket. She is glowing. It is almost as if she wants people to see the new her.
Coincidently, I have taken on a similar uniform in my own life, along with a more responsible attitude. There’s no more drinking, going out late, and, funny enough, no more sloppy outfits. (Though, I admit I never could pull of a chicly disheveled look à la Moss in her party years.) The other day I joked to my friend that even though I am not as fun because I go out less and that I dress like I’m attending a funeral in head-to-toe dark colors, I have never felt or looked better. I actually, probably like Moss now, thoughtfully consider what I am going to wear for a day at work or to a dinner. Do I sometimes miss those paparazzi images of Moss perpetually with a cigarette in her mouth, hanging out of a window at a party, or simply hanging off of Doherty while wearing something so down-to-earth and yet effortlessly fantastic? And do I miss my own crazy moments? Of course. But we all have to grow up at some point. So why not make it look good?
