Dear Anthropologie Cambridge,
It was me.
I’m the one who wreaked havoc on your Modern Art meets Hipster Home Goods store display on Sunday. I was twirling around in front of your full-length mirror when, concluding I just cannot rock a bucket hat, I whipped it off a bit defeatedly and unwittingly tangled myself and the hat in all that thread swooping down from the ceiling.
The indignity! I turned right. I turned left. I was trapped in a web of whimsy! I craned my neck around, praying I wouldn’t meet the steely, bespectacled eye of the shop hand that patrolled the area.
Looking down at my Technicolor straightjacket, I made a desperate calculation. I rustled through my purse, fished out my keys, and lifted it into the light: the Swiss Army knife given so solemnly to me by my father a decade before.
How the hell to open it?
But within seconds I found them—the scissors—and I snipped my way free, wondering if my father (or indeed, the Swiss Army) could have anticipated such peril. And then, I confess.
I did it: