This past Sunday’s New York Times has a review of A Privileged Life: Celebrating WASP Style by Susanna Salk. The review mentions some of the touchstones of WASP style: boat sneakers, Truman Capote, gin, L.L. Bean, and dachshunds. The review drew forth the world of chicken salad luncheons overlooking stretches of perfectly manicured lawn. Add wafts of Estée Lauder Private Collection, and the vision is complete.
When I grew up, Estée Lauder was the height of elegance. The worlds of Crème de la Mer and wildly expensive, physician-certified skin care didn’t exist yet. My mother’s mother treasured her tiny bottle of Youth Dew bath oil (“It’s Estée Lauder,” she said meaningfully), and I was well into college before I felt worthy of approaching an Estée Lauder cosmetics counter with its efficient, uniformed saleswomen and rows of lipsticks in ridged gold tubes. In my hometown, the best women wore Estée Lauder makeup and perfume. The best of the best had a bottle of Private Collection on their dressers…
