GRAY IN L.A.

Me & Mom's Mink Nobody thinks about fur in L.A. But being away from the glorious warm weather and thrown right into the German winter of my homeland, a seemingly prickly topic I hadn’t thought of popped up: Can you in this day and age openly wear fur without guilt and being shamed as a cruel, unethical bitch? Not an entirely absurd question, indeed. But here’s the thing: The coat in question is my   Mom’s Mink , a 45 year old elegant beauty (just like my Mom herself was) which she bestowed on me when she died in 2010. I’m not really fond of mink, the status symbol of bourgeoise well-heeledness I so detested as a rather radical 60s chick. Mink meant gloves, pearls, scarves and crocodile bags, it was even a star in a Doris-Day-Movie called  ”That Touch of Mink” . And I would have never bought a new anything made of real fur, and never have. I despise designers who show still fur in their collections and hope they get booed on the runway and are visited in their dreams by