Lately, I’ve been pondering coolness. Noting how outfits that are unbearably chic on women in magazines look like misguided games of dress-up on me. Acknowledging that certain of my blogging peers can don outlandish clothing, shoes, and accessories and make them appear artfully amazing. Seeing how some garments that exude coolness on their own suddenly become awkward and strange when worn by a person with a less-than-cool personality. Such a strange and elusive beastie, this coolness.
I’ve never been cool. Never felt cool, anyway. And I remember being 13 and feeling CONVINCED that cool was all about object and image. So I decided that if I could just get the same trendy, expensive clothes that all the cool kids were wearing, I’d immediately be cool, too. I was surprised and crushed to find that hypothesis false.
Originally posted 2011-06-22 06:32:38.
I sat in on a friend’s class the other day. It was actually the last lecture of the semester, so many of her students were just a leeeetle bit zoned out. I, of course, was paying strict attention to the subject matter … except when I was ogling the unbelievable hairstyle of the girl seated in front of me.
She had taken her short bob and pulled it back into what can only be described as a sunflower of hair at the back of her head. Bobbypins and hairspray were definitely involved, as was a big heaping helping of SKILL. I was in awe.
Originally posted 2009-05-15 05:58:00.
My e-mail conversation with reader Lianne – the one that sparked a post on dressing with a touch of butch – unearthed a very personal issue for me. Personal, surprising, and definitely relevant, so I wanted to share my quirky little epiphany with you folks.
I hit puberty in the late 80s, and went through high school in the early 90s. Girls my age didn’t really do skirts and dresses back then, at least not in my area. It was all about jeans. Over-sized jeans. Baggy tops, too. And that suited me just fine because pretty much the moment I became aware of my body, I became self-conscious about it. I wasn’t slim or traditionally pretty, I couldn’t afford the schmancy baggy jeans that the popular girls wore, and even if I could have I wasn’t popular anyway so I’m sure I would’ve just taken flak for being a poseur. Boys mostly avoided me … or adored me from afar, then expressed their feelings in obnoxious and infantile ways that just irked me. And I was a smart, driven over-achiever, which made me the target of teasing from all sides. I did everything I could to be invisible, and over-sized clothes were instrumental in my quest to go unnoticed.
Originally posted 2011-06-27 06:25:21.