This long weekend I will be streamlining my closet. Scarves, shoes, bags, clothes – all to be assessed and sorted. Like Moses I’ll be parting the sea into Keeps and Peeps, casting out the oversized Goth-Pirates, the Maya Angelos, the ghetto Kate Lanphears. I’ve always blamed my enabling seamstress mother for my costume dressing; her nimble fingers churning out miles of handkerchief hems during my Stevie Nicks phase, and later, yellow plaid pants and shoulder pads when I was all about the Talking Heads. But as July was rather revelatory, I must now take responsibility for my own sartorial poutine.