Most of us have had the what-to-wear experience in the morning. You stare at your closet looking for inspiration. And then, if you’re like me, your eyes dart over to that pile of clean clothes fresh from the laundry. You think: I really should hang those up at some point. But really you have no time for distractions. You’re five minutes late getting into the shower, which means you’ll only have five minutes to waste time reading your bath product labels again (I can’t be the only one that does this). So instead of making a decision about your outfit, you head into the shower to kill two birds with one stone. But when you emerge fresh and clean, your mind still isn’t made up, so you grab what you know works because there’s no time for experimentation.
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In high school, I had fashion balls. The majority of my hair was dyed blue and I smeared my face with the brightest jewel tones Wet ’N Wild made. And my clothes—geez—I spent hours scouring vintage stores for the loudest, most one-of-a-kind (code for: kind of nuts) pieces out there. I didn’t discriminate by decade—I was equally in love with my polka-dot tulle skirt that would have made young Madonna squeal and my silver-and-acid-green ’70s maxi dress that might have single-handedly killed disco. I wore both to school regularly, sometimes paired with a cap of peacock feathers that stood a full foot over my head.
And my favorite item in my closet? An ’80s wedding dress with jumbo shoulder pads and an overlay of Chantilly lace that was procured during a trip to Goodwill. I wore it to parties. Back then, I loved being the center of attention. When I walked down the hall, I wanted everyone to notice. I couldn’t stand to be yet another girl in a sweater set.
Fast-forward 11 years, to me now. Keep reading »
I’m the type of person that has a difficult time getting rid of stuff, especially clothes, shoes, and accessories. I’ve had the experience too many times of something coming back in fashion the season after I’ve donated it to charity. So even though my closet is literally bursting at the seams and I have several stacks of shoe boxes crowding my room, I refuse to get rid of anything that still fits. One item I know I’ll never give up, unless I’m being held at gunpoint, is my vintage black leather jacket.
Back in the ’70s my cousin’s father worked at a leather jacket factory and made this black jacket for her. It was passed down to another cousin when she outgrew it. And then, I got it when I was 10. It was a little big for me, especially in the sleeves, but I rocked it anyway. I still remember what I wore with it the first time — a pink sweater with thin beige stripes and black wide-wale corduroy pants. (I have this strange ability to remember the outfits I wore on certain occasions, including what I had on down to my underwear when I lost my virginity.) I felt so stylish and adult because I’d never owned a leather jacket before — my usual outerwear was a down coat from London Fog, courtesy of my dad or grandma. It was NYC in the early ’90s and a child wearing a brand-new leather jacket was asking for trouble. Keep reading »