As far as she (my mother) is concerned a chair is there to sit down on, and she couldn't care less whether it has pink petunias on it or purple polka dots, as long as it doesn't collapse. It's as if, like a cat, she cannot see things unless they are moving. She is becoming even more indifferent to
fashion, and strides around in improvised getups, a ski jacket, an old scarf, mitts that don't match. She says she doesn't care what it looks like as long as it keeps out the wind. ... But she isn't even aware of the chagrin this could cause. She never says What will people think? The way other mothers do, or are supposed to. She says she doesn't give a hoot.
I think this is irresponsible of her. At the same time, the word hoot pleases me. It makes my mother into a nonmother, a sort of mutant owl. I have become picky about my own clothes, and given to looking at myself from behind with the aid of a hand mirror: although I may appear all right from the front, treachery could sneak up on me: a loose thread, a dropped hem. Not giving a hoot would be a luxury. It describes the fine, irreverent carelessness I myself would like to cultivate, in these and other matters.

Margaret Atwood: Cat's Eye