the feminine mystique; Sophisticated, covered-up looks from the seventies formed Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni's fashion aesthetic.

Byline: Natasha Fraser-cavassoni

Left hand in pocket, bag flipped over her right shoulder, this woman could hit the ground running-even if she does have a purring limo in tow. She's covered from neck to ankles, but sensual, direct, with a manner suggestive of independence and authority. Her large sunglasses throw off a hint of mystery.

The photograph was taken in 1975, when I was twelve years old, and it captures one of my lasting ideals: the sexy, powerful appeal of covered-up chic. By this I mean wearing restrained, well-cut, beautiful clothes in the daytime, not revealing an iota of skin and yet exuding strength, intelligence, and feminine allure.

It's a mood that came to mind during the fall ready-to-wear shows in Paris. At first I could not believe how sophisticated the catwalk models looked as they strode around in long, leather coats by Tomas Maier for Bottega Veneta, wool pantsuits by Nicolas Ghesquiere for Balenciaga, or neck-high neo-Edwardian dresses by Olivier Theyskens for Rochas. Then it dawned on me why I enjoyed the collections so much: I felt like I was meeting up with old friends I had lived with as a child, friends from the seventies who expressed women's individuality.

I thought of the feminists Gloria Steinem and Germaine Greer, of uberagent Sue Mengers and of interior decorator Diana Phipps. During my youth, these gutsy, empowered women were heroines who symbolized everything exciting about the era. I always pictured them sizzling away in their turtlenecks, midiskirts, and boots.

My own romance with covered-up chic began with childhood holidays spent in the north of Scotland. Throughout the sixties and seventies, my family would travel every vacation to Eilean Aigas, a shooting lodge on a private island in the middle of the Beauly River. It was a romantic place, surrounded by calm, black, melancholy water. The island was rife with azalea bushes, vast lichen-covered beeches, a crazy monkey puzzle, and deer intent on destroying the annual plantation of firs.

The house was decorated by my mother to express her unique sense of the Highlands. A broken golden harp greeted guests in the hallway; David Hicks's tartan chintz covered the book room's walls and windows; nineteenth-century prints of cows were hung on William Morris wallpaper; caps were thrown on a framed pair of stag's antlers; and a pink Fraser dress-tartan carpet ebbed along the two staircases and spilled into the hallways. Somehow it all worked, creating a welcoming, bohemian atmosphere. Except for uncouth behavior, drugs, peacock feathers, and thirteen at table (both my parents were extremely superstitious), anything went in our household. The same could be said of the dress code. Guests-and there were many because it was a house that became more magical when filled with people-were encouraged to be extravagant. I remember one distinguished Cambridge don being photographed in dashing cardinal pose, wearing my mother's red riding boots.