My family would never make it onto a cereal box, but–despite lacking excessive designer clothes and expert contouring skills–we’d probably give the Kardashians a run for their money on reality television.
We are constantly letting the fear of seeming too into anything (especially those people we like to see naked) turn us into overly anxious, over-analytical people.
Society has built up a problematic narrative where the ideal woman acts in a very particular way: she doesn’t care about superficial things (make-up, fashion), yet always manages to look and feel perfect despite that. Call it Jennifer Lawrence syndrome, if you will.
“I always say that if you can’t get inspired in New York, you can’t get inspired anywhere.” Rebecca Taylor is one of the few designers who manages to tap into my girlier proclivities, and one who succeeds at designing for every shade and shape of woman. I jumped at the opportunity to pick her brain, and, not surprisingly, she’s as cool as I expected.
These moments aren’t tangible—they haven’t made me rich or afforded me the freedom to travel to my heart’s content, but they have made the last year of my life so much more rewarding than it would have been otherwise.
A recent post on Man Repeller declares that belly buttons are the new nipples on the scale of shock-worthy body embellishments to reveal in public. While that may be the case for your average woman, it was laughable to me, because guess what? I don’t even have a belly button.
“Maybe I have a lack of imagination when it comes to my own life, but I found just about everything in my twenties to be surprising. My career has been so much more fulfilling and exciting than I would have ever imagined.” Picking the brain of fashion-force-to-be-reckoned-with, Hillary Kerr, cofounder of Who What Wear, on what she learned throughout her twenties, the advice she has for us newbies, and how she would spend an ideal day in LA!
When fashion week (on week-on week-on week) rolled around last month, I found myself dreading it. This, despite the fact that I’m not directly involved in it in any way.
The Sephora perfume shelves have beckoned to hordes of young girls since my own middle school days, when ones choice of perfume began to connote something more than just simply what they reeked of. My friends and I spent ample time spraying ourselves with various scents and hoarding perfume tester strips that would build up at the bottom of our purses. A detritus of aspiration, if you will—for the seemingly glamorous womanhood that was just out of our grasp.