There is no other comparable or essential item that could showcase a woman in all her grace and splendour. The sheer number of choices available; ranging from the size, material, pockets, zippers to its brand, colour and the fashion statement portrayed in public when donning it. Irrelevant, to the majority of women out there as the only important criteria of all that they are looking for, is its compactness and functionality to stomach and sometimes hide all of her personal belongings.
It holds a myriad of secrets. From daily routine items such as her purse seaming with loose change and overdue bill statements in urgent need to be paid off; to non-essential items such as letters from lost love, credit-card receipts of things she could never really afford and a good luck charm or two.
Women would think of it as their life support system or something. In each bag, holds a mystical object which the woman carries to feel beautiful and whole. Her favourite shade of lipstick to trace the curve of her lips; a dab of her treasured perfume to punctuate her aura; a compact comb for her long, soft tresses and possibly a discreet roll of deodorant to avoid being obvious.
Despite the positive advantages offered by such versatile magic bag, it tends to have skeletons in the closet. Women around the whole universe bound to lose something in the black abyss inside the bag. House keys, forgotten appointment cards, secret letters of indiscretion, and falling tears from fleeting moments of shame and remorse.
Her confidante. Her dumping ground. Idle pet on her lap on long rides on the train. Convenient distraction on tips on her fingers while she confesses. Security when she walks alone on a dark stretch of alley. Quiet company while she waits alone for her acquaintance at the cafe that never reaches on time.
The vanity bag. It comes in the size, shape and colour of her choosing, hanging gently and humbly by her side through thick and thin. Her unconditional partner-in-crime.
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