In Style with Monsieur Henri

I am always astonished when I get compliments related to my appearance these days. I used to work in a women's boutique. Occasionally I still browse through a copy of Vogue. However, recently I've pretty much adopted the late Gilda Radner's fashion credo: I base my wardrobe around what doesn't itch.

When your daily toilette takes place before the crack of dawn, you're lucky to make it out the door wearing shoes that match each other let alone the rest of your ensemble.

That I ever leave the house looking at all presentable is due to the eternal vigilance of Monsieur Henri (aka Henry Aloysius Willis), the resident stylist at The House Where the Black Cat Lives.

Henry, I've decided, is French. Well, actually, he decided. I just acknowledge it. Not only is he absurdly handsome (well, all my cats are), he has that je ne sais quoi quality that comes from being comfortable in his own , um, fur.

If Henry actually wore a shirt, he would be way too sexy for it.

Now, Henry, like many good-looking guys, can be a bit shallow. If he were human, he'd be one of those rock stars who dates only supermodels. When I hang around the house in ratty bedclothes, dirty hair, glasses and no make-up, Henry doesn't want to know me. Dress me up and make me up, however, and he's all snuggles, purrs and tender nibbles on the elbow.

He is such a guy.

I'm not sure when Henry's obsession with his looks switched over to mine. It may have been right after Hurricane Katrina when my personal style -- and hygiene -- went out with the power and water. Henry stayed meticulously groomed throughout the whole ordeal.

His styling instincts kicked into high gear when I started getting up at 4:00 am. No doubt alarmed by some of my fashion choices that first week, he staged an intervention that has yet to end.

When I get out of the shower, Henry's waiting on the bath mat. As I flip through my closet, Henry rides shotgun on my vanity, giving each possibility an up and down scrutiny. If I am tempted to skip the makeup, Henry knocks over my cosmetic case, forcing me to reconsider as I pick up dozens of make-up brushes and mascara wands.

"You're looking a little washed out," his twitching whiskers suggest. "Would it kill you to put on some lipstick and blush?"

Henry is there through every flick of the hairbrush, every stroke of the blush brush and every slick of lip gloss.

What can I say? I am Henry's creation.