I am comfortable in saying I lived at least 40 years without owning a scarf. As well as never wearing one.

You grow up in Southern California, and “scarf” was a word used almost exclusively as a synonym for “eat” — with a undertone of bolting food, perhaps messily.

But now? In Paris, hardly anyone leaves home, October through May, without carrying a scarf.

Including me.

In 1960s and 1970s America, or at least the Sun Belt portion of it, scarves were thought to be worn by women or fops — because they were rarely necessary. It just wasn’t that cold. Not in the fall, not in the winter.

I have a clear memory of a schoolmate from high school, as well as one faculty member, who wore scarves all the time. But those were fashion statements, because the rest of us hardly noticed the “cold” of perhaps 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

In inclement weather, any healthy person might wear a hat and a coat — and just live with a little chill around his or her neck.

Then I learned.

Some parts of the world, such as Europe north of the Alps, are cold. Short pants and a T-shirt does not work here, even when you are young. (My son wore shorts to high school every day for four years; he would not have tried that here.)

Going around without a scarf, in Paris, is like asking “may I have pneumonia, please?”

And now I own at least two scarves. One of which I have been wearing on just about every excursion out of doors since we arrived, 10 days ago.

It is a necessity, in this town.

Also, I have decided a scarf can be a bit stylish, after all.

Those guys I knew in high school had figured it out. Tying it just so, investigating this width versus that one, deciding to tuck it inside the coat our leave it out. Leave it draped around your neck at the restaurant, or hang it with the coat?

Perhaps considering a color other than dark-dark blue or black.

Scarves. They have a purpose, after all, beyond announcing yourself as a dandy.

A late-in-life revelation.