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I discovered a little bit of magic the other day. There it was at the back of a musty corner in a dusty old thrift store — a real, no fooling, honest-to-goodness satin hanger cover. Not the sort sewn onto the hanger, but a padded sleeve with a silken ribbon. I hoisted it up; suddenly I was 10 years old again, ransacking Grandma’s closet as if it were Narnia.
This wasn’t only a matter of preventing clothes from slipping. That small satin hanger cover had a job — and it did it expertly. It protected delicate clothing, it eliminated wrinkling, and it stuck clothes to prevent slippage. It used to mark you that there was something hanging there that meant something.
