Sometimes I confuse the closet space out of my minimalist self when I see that strange Diana Vreeland-esque creature staring back at me in the mirror. “Style—all who have it share one thing: originality,” she said. Clashing colors, themes, and odes to adventures not yet taken. It feels so right; for a day or two. How fun, free, and me. And then I sigh contentedly back into my own personal classics. But I might keep wearing the yellow hat.
We talk about knowing your style, and shopping appropriately. It saves so much time, money, and results in a much more satisfying fashion plate. But who says you can’t spice it up, adopting a maverick piece of fashion to create wonder and mystery? It’s like taking a trip. I like to go there, and then I come back. But I’m so glad I went. I usually bring some of that experience back into my regular life, like my beloved biker jackets, because my mother in law lives that life, but I only visit her and come home with beautiful, black leather sweet something- without ever actually getting on a motorcycle.
I certainly don’t identify as Audrey Hepburn (But who didn’t love her?) I am 100% myself, in a less-is-more, striking-to-my-own-eyes kind of boldness. Audrey was of course, the quintessential gamine, perfectly poised, unstudied, and every hair in place. (My hairs are never in place. Ahem.) She clearly didn’t care to dress up for the world, because obviously, what she wore to cook her pasta was certainly good enough for the paparazzi. Her essence was that she didn’t even try, and cared even less, yet it was perfectly whimsical and Everywoman of her. We all have that LBD (or a variation of it) that comes out for special occasions.
Marilyn Monroe, and other sirens like Angelina Jolie, and Kim Kardashian are examples of the hardest-working looks I can imagine. Personalities aside (I would have loved to meet Marilyn and be a friend to her) the looks are so high-maintenance, it scares me. Every hair is in place in the most glamourous way. The garments are so perfect and fragile I would be afraid of a sneeze. Every detail is the work of a team of professionals to ensure that she is the woman of minute, the hour, and that the countless photos captured will be admired forever in their sultry perfection. I never channel this look, but if I do, please send help. Also, if you are in this category, I love you to the moon and back.
Bohemian queens and sisters of Olsen Twin fame, and the acclaimed high end fashion house The Row, always show a luxe line of laid-back comfort that is beautifully free and refined. A host of other boho-chic women flounce through my brain, including imaginary medieval minstrels, peasants everywhere the way they are supposed to look, a young Cher, and my own mom in the wedding dress she designed and sewed. I can’t tell you how much I long to hop on a camel and ride toward an oasis with a flowing caftan with little dangling mirrors along the hem, my hair wild and free and in my face. Oh wait, I can’t have hair in my face. I reserve my bohemian style vacations for special occasions when I’m really relaxed. Also, trippy dresses are gorgeous, Grecian things that don’t belong around my busy feet. I’ve got things to do already. But still, it is the thing of dreams… and sometimes I dream.
Whose style is more ruggedly beautiful than a woman in uniform? Every female soldier, police officer, road construction worker, farmer, doctor, factory technician, and chef is a Rosie who is working her butt off to save people, provide for herself and her family, and do her part. She’s tough. She’s awesome. I want to be her when I grow up. Sometimes I get on my work gear to do a hard job. It’s so unfancy, strong, and fearless, like a million bucks walking around on top of the world.
There’s no place like home. I like visiting sassy-sophisticated Paris, rugged mountain ranges in Colorado, and hip Scandinavian destinations. It’s OK, and a good thing to experience something different, and switch up your style. You will almost surely come home; and most likely you will keep forever a souvenir to remind you of where you frolicked. I’m looking at you, purple tattoos. I love the memories that are not who I always will be, but I keep them as part of my home-base style to remind of where I’ve been, or where I want to go someday. I think I will take an adventure in pink next, channeling my inner teenager. But no tattoos this time.