The other day, I somehow found myself in a humorous (and quite compelling) discussion about style with a couple friends of mine (Ben Krupp, this is for you). They were making fun of me a bit, which is totally fine, with remarks such as, “Oh, so you hate Tess ‘cause she wears Uggs” (Tess was the other friend). What really hit me, though, was when Krupp asked if I don’t like people who don’t dress like me. I immediately laughed at the ridiculousness of his question, but then realized that this may be the image of myself I have been inadvertently projecting. So, on behalf of myself, I would like to clarify. I do not judge people whose styles are not like mine. For a while, I believed in the provincial definition of style; that to be “stylish”, one had to dress like a model and mirror the images in Vogue. While aspects of those ideals may be ones that I encompass in my own style, I don’t deem them necessary to a stylish existence. Example: my good friend Christina (god, so many shout-outs in this post) recently has done this crazy cool thing to her hair where she’s braided all this cool felt-y material into a thousand hair wraps and there’s all this crazy colored coolness. I admire her for her ability to be so, for a lack of a better word, ballsy. While it’s not my look, it’s hers, and I admire her for knowing what she wants and flaunting it with such ineffable confidence.
I also don’t judge people who may not have found a style at all. Like wine, I believe that style is a taste one acquires with age. Some find it earlier than others. My family often tells me I was born in the wrong era, that I’m an “old soul”. At age 12, my grandmother was buying me hardcover photography books on Audrey Hepburn, my everlasting muse (my collection now stands at 17 books). I soon became enamored with the expressiveness of personal style, and that love lingers in me everyday. WOW, THAT WAS SO CORNY ALEXANDRA!!! That’s all. Just wanted to get all that out there in the open.