I haven’t always dressed like the unholy spawn of Sweeney Todd and a can-can dancer. It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I developed the confidence, sense of self, and budget to fully realize my froufrou-goth aesthetic, fueled by inky Comme des Garçons, 19th-century top hats, vintage Alaïa, and Schiaparelli (both by Elsa and Daniel Roseberry). Long before I was Katharine K., a red-lipped, bitchy-bobbed caricature of a New York fashion editor, I was Katie, an awkward kid who yearned to fit in with her Abercrombie-clad peers.
Katie promptly learned that the black bowler hat, red blazer, and pleated wool skirt she wore on the first day of fourth grade attracted more bullies than besties. So, for many years, she adopted the uninspired, ill-fitting uniform of so many popular girls in suburban Michigan during the late 1990s and 2000s: low-rise flared jeans, too-tight T-shirts, and Steve Madden platforms. She was often uncomfortable, both because all the clothes in the early aughts were deliberately three sizes too small, and because she was constantly suppressing the quirkiness Katharine K. would eventually come to embrace.
The exception was at the barn. I rode horses competitively through college, and relished in the haven of the stable. I loved the formality of competition clothing: a uniform of stiff, high-waist breeches; dandyish shirts with detachable monogrammed collars; tall black boots; and handsome wool jackets in a host of patterns that looked to have come straight from Savile Row. I also adored my schooling chaps, which I was allowed to design myself. Rendered in supple chocolate leather, they were trimmed in tan snakeskin and garnished with a long fringe that would shimmy as I cantered over jumps. Surrounded by other oddballs and eternally understanding horses, and garbed in my equine attire, I could be my weird, young, innocent self, free of ridicule and the peer pressure to conform.
I hadn’t thought about Katie in years. But last month, as I spiraled into a nostalgia-fueled midlife crisis ahead of my 40th birthday, she returned. My two selves—Katie and Katharine K.—met atop a little Arabian horse while cantering through the gardens of France’s Versailles Palace.
I’d like to stress: I am not a “horse girl,” a moniker for one of the cheesiest, most inauthentic trends in recent memory. On Instagram, myriad accounts have urged me to embrace something called Horse Girl Fall. I’d sooner go full Lady Godiva. The term “horse girl” is centaurian at best, infantilizing at worst. I abhor it. As for the fashion, no actual horse-riding human would be caught dead in the scratchy, synthetic, old-money-core-meets-athliesure garments being pushed by viral brands. I assure you, ill-fitting checkered breeches with a slippery faux-suede seat are not conducive to staying mounted—or escaping saddle sores, for that matter.
Likely inspired by the aforementioned midlife crisis, I’ve recently returned to riding. I quickly found that equestrian style has become almost unrecognizable over the last 18 years. On my first day back in the saddle, in an attempt to prove I was a “real” horse person (and not a “horse girl”), I bragged to my new trainer about my robust former riding wardrobe. He told me I could “burn it all.” (Ouch.) Today s riding wares, he told me, come in breathable, high-performance technical fabrics that are better suited to movement than their rigid predecessors. I did no such thing, but I did enjoy delving into the new world of riding clothes. Mostly. I’m completely confused by the crystal-studded breeches and helmets, and the lacy show shirts befitting figure skaters or Vegas brides, which have become perplexingly popular. But thanks to my new equestrian friend, Florent, I discovered the French brand Dada, whose high-waist breeches and elegant collared shirts are a modern, less-sweat-inducing take on the traditionalism and clean, classic simplicity that Katie so loved.
However, as I soon learned with my return to competitive riding, there are only so many bona fide riding brands. At my first horseshow with my dapple-gray Zangersheide gelding, Canonboy, I realized that everyone looked disappointingly similar, sporting identical bibbed, white-and-navy shirts; quilted leather or elastic belts; second-skin tan breeches; and standard black tall boots. For a sport that is so personal, there was so much conformity and so little flair. And after spending the last two decades cultivating a look that truly represents who I am, I had no desire to dress like a horse-show sheep.
Fittingly, I identified the remedy at Versailles, the former home of Marie Antoinette, who was among the first female aristocrats to ride in breeches and an ornate tailcoat rather than the more acceptable, unwieldy skirts that most horsewomen wore.
My ride across Versailles was something of a bucket-list experience—a dream I’d had since I was young that I didn’t realize was attainable until I started googling “horse-riding holiday, France,” for a potential 40th-birthday adventure. I stumbled upon Nomad Riders’ “The Palace and Its Gardens” excursion, which I thought would be a perfect respite from the grind of covering Paris Fashion Week. So I skipped a day of shows and escaped to Versailles for an equestrian escapade.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any 18th-century garb for my ride at Versailles. I made do, combining black Dada breeches with a black shirt, a zipper-laden, Noir Kei Ninomiya leather jacket, tall black boots, a vintage Hermès Collier de Chien belt (whose gilded studs would probably break my pelvis if I fell), and red lipstick. It was no Marie Antoinette ’fit, but, in my personal and professional opinion, it was comfortable and fabulous. What’s more, it was a strangely reassuring combination of Katharine K. and Katie who I realized—while cantering down an enchanting, tree-lined path—could coexist, sartorially and otherwise.
Since Versailles, Katharine K.’s eccentricities and Katie’s classic equestrian wear have melded together. At competitions, my wild belts and affinity for unorthodox embellishments set my outfits apart, while, at the barn, Canonboy is determined to eat the fluff on my various Gigi Burris mohawk hats. More than once, I’ve worn my riding gear to drinks at the Waldorf or dinner downtown, garnished with some surreal Schiaparelli jewelry. And at a recent New York fashion presentation, I paired my olive Dada breeches with a Barbour coat, riding boots, a vintage 1991 long-billed Chanel baseball cap, and an obliterated 1963 Hermès box-leather Kelly bag. Once the models had retreated backstage, I said hello to a former colleague. At first, she didn’t recognize me in my equestrian attire. But for the first time in a long time, I’m able to recognize my whole self.
