AS A BABY EDITOR at fashion magazines in the 1990s, I was raised on a steady visual diet of the chicest black clothes. The office grown-ups at Harper’s Bazaar, W and Vogue would glide down the halls in form-fitting knits or svelte Helmut Lang pants that grazed their Manolo Blahnik BB pumps. Their sleek black Jil Sander suits and pencil skirts were constructed with care. My middle-aged years, it seemed, were going to be sartorially amazing: Choosing an artful black wardrobe would give me license to ignore lesser trends, signify maturity and fill my closet with essentials to rely on for decades—especially once I had the financial leeway to splurge on quality pieces. My commute is 30 feet to an office above our garage, my co-workers two terriers that shed shamelessly, leaving anything I wear covered in hair.

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