I like flip books. I also like clicking through my Facebook pictures and watching myself change; it’s like a flip book, except weird and creepy.
Seriously, though, it’s interesting to watch your own looks and style and all those shenanigans morph over time. (Okay, it’s not, I just wanted an excuse to say, “Shenanigans.”) My face is pretty much the same, but my hair went from a long stick-straight middle part, to a stick-straight side part, to straight with side bangs, to shoulder-length, to messy-wavy with side bangs, to now (medium-length wavy). (ALSO, WASN’T THAT FUN TO READ? OBVIOUSLY THE INTERNET LOVES TO HEAR ABOUT MY HAIR. OBVIOUSLY.) As for my clothes, phew. It’s like a style clusterfuck.
So that got me to thinking. If someone from Teen Vogue ran up to me and asked me to describe my style, what the fuck would I say? “Eclectic,” probably, because that’s the clothes equivalent of a crazy old rich man who everyone calls “eccentric.” I.e., “I have no idea, I just buy things.” I think I finally have started to put together something that could be described as “a look” instead of “a closet full of random shit,” but it’s like three different people live inside me when I go shopping.
Sometimes, I am preppy Hollister girl. Which explains why I own six pairs of Hollister jeans, a Hollister miniskirt, Hollister shorts, and way too many shirts and tank-tops and hoodies to count. And some Abercrombie, which is exactly the same except more expensive and less colorful. And yes, Hollister is lame and blah-blah-blah and the only people that buy clothes there are blah-blah-blah yawnnnnnnnnnn. (Who gives a fuck? It’s a store, like any other store. Do I judge you for buying hideous man-like capris at Banana Republic? Actually, wait, I am calling you mean names inside my brain when I see you in those pants, so feel free to retaliate; it’s only fair.)
Other times, I dress like a Playmate. As in, cute slutty pink things. It is the bomb dot com, since I feel like a sexy little tart but it is retarded comfortable. Knee socks, short skirts, little Hello Kitty t-shirts. I know this “style,” if you can even call it that, is about as adult as, um, a very young thing. But never underestimate the comfort level of short-shorts and thigh-highs. And the Guy likes it, so it’s a win-win.
I guess the last element of the ol’ closet would best be described as “hipster,” although any time someone calls me that I kind of reflexively gag. I dunno why, I don’t really care one way or the other about hipsters, but it just makes me feel like I’ll look down and have a triangle tattoo on my wrist and be ironically wearing a bow tie, or something. (INSTANT HIPSTER.) Think skinny jeans, fringed scarves (I fucking love scarves), plaid button-downs, and lots of cardigans.
But I mean, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I like all of those things, right?
Or not. So now you know. I am a style schizophrenic. I have let you, the Internet, in on my dirty little secret. Don’t tell anybody or I might just choke you with a pair of leggings.