… sayeth a stranger on the recent re: my outfit as I procrastinated in the library! What a squire.
Tuesday’s ensemble: vest with bespectacled dogs clad in ski gear overlaying purple Urban Outfitters bra, high-waisted (+ high-water) “space pants,” rhinestone’d/sequined/netted floral jacket double-knotted ’round my waist, BirkenSOCKS, baseball cap, consignment-shop sunglasses I categorize as “John Lennon meets aviator meets funky plastic animal print.” All save sandals/underlings were thrifted.
Vibe (a pilfered Halseyism) — motherfucker, don’t play with me. Or “flamboyant preschooler whose parents let her dress herself.” Prolly choice B. (Glancing at my reflection in a public bathroom mirror, a malicious mental-minion phrose, You look like a ’90s wannabe kid rapper.)
Yo — younger me thought carin’-about-what-you’re-wearin’ was frivolous/shallow. Now I view fashion as a medium for experimentation & expression! … and I am all about it. Despite, or perhaps bolstered by, my dad’s snide asides concerning mine mien.
I procure my spanglings primarily via secondhand scavenger hunts, t’witch I’ve ascribed the tag “Goodwill hunting.” God, I’m witty.
Foraying into cheap couture was borne of boredom with my drab server uniform at the Crimson Bird — black shirt (tucked in!) with belted dark-wash jeans, nonslips and a plastic magnetized nametag. Très sexy.
In juxtaposition with Wednesday’s visage. Yellow UO bra, vintage ruched-waistband jeans and flowery nightgown, new/used $3.29 army green jacket decorated with cartoon stamps/postcards. I am a pioneer of pizzazz. I drove to Maryland to-day-to buy a long, curly turquoise wig for everyday use (& 1 in purple! JAZZED) (sublime for “sweaty-dancing-sans-coordination-or-inhibition-à-la-Lorde-in-my-dorm-room-to-The-Wombats’-Glitterbug-album-on-vinyl”); I am wiggin’ out. A saleswoman at Beauty 4U asked, “… costume?” HELL-O-WEEN, NO.
My hair has raced the gamut from purple-streaked to henna-red to auburn to pixie cut to black-underneath to pink-streaked to brunette to highlighted to bleached to buzzed and beyond. I’ve just added a pair o’ artificials to the repertoire. Which begs the ?: WAR PAINT??
When tinting my facial palette with ze maquillage tickles my fancy (a rarity), I rim my blues w/ eyeliner dramatique. I view “no-makeup makeup” as the decaf coffee of cosmetics — what’s the point? Although steamroll onward, subtleties, if that’s your groove.
At 15/16, I composed a self-righteous opinions article for my high school newspaper, The Bulldog Tribune, titled “Beauty doesn’t come in a bottle,” in which I effectively criticized girls who wore makeup for its superficiality. ICK. (Demonstrative of how mortification at Prose Past means ya’ve evolved as a writer? Nah, ’twas narrow-minded and judgmental.)
Clarification: I am critical of companies that create/exploit insecurities in young women. Namely, the totalitarian “beauty” industry and its twisted parameters. But I’ve grown (eh?) to appreciate, por ejemplo, green and yellow cream eyeshadow that I once failed to coat my lids with in a way that feigned deliberateness … and subsequently stashed in my parents’ garage with my oil and acrylic paints.
To sum up, I dress/aesthetize how I dance(/write). Weird.
Speaking o’ visuals, criss-a’cross my Inst-a-gram handle @laralavel for snapshots of my teenage journals/handwriting (FIELD NOTES … recounting boy-aggravation, as per use) and textual iPhone evidence of “straying from my laptop when inspiration thunderbolts.”
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!