leisure suits and neocons

70s I

The 1970s has long been my least favorite fashion decade. I can’t really blame it: I know the transition from ’60s psychedelia to ’80s Wall Street mallrat was an awkward one, but my god, the polyester! The shag! The pukey green. Some bloggers, like Julie of Orchid Grey and Caitlin of Wore Out, pull off a fabulous neo-70s look, but I’ve always felt that the era in all its original glory should be best left to Saturday Night Fever.

But I’m nothing if not (half-assedly) adventurous, and even someone as generally crotchety as I am can give second chances. I do find some elements of the sickening seventies downright enchanting: maxi skirts, bright orange, wide-brimmed hats. And I’d be a hypocrite not to at least attempt to work with what’s already in my closet.

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Look, I even incorporated utilitarian grey architecture. Don’t say I’m not committed to my aesthetics.

I read a few years ago that asymmetry is commonly considered a pretty lesbionic trait. Apparently it’s something ladies use to assess the sexuality of other ladies: side-buckled belts, uneven haircuts, lip piercings. I read that article in passing, but it’s one of those things I’ve never been able to get out of my head. I think about it every. single. time. I buckle my belt slightly to the side: is this false advertising? Am I accidentally broadcasting a Sapphic sensibility?

Fact: most of my friends in high school were gay or at least bi. I was a theater dork and I dressed outrageously, so that shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. We few heteros were facetiously deemed the “Pillars of Straightness”. My good friend Eliza even made me a pin saying so for my fifteenth birthday. Over the years, though, every. single. pillar. has come out of the closet herself – except for me. I’m the last woman standing. And Josh awaits with bated breath.

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I love that my hair always ends up queering whatever era I try to embody.

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I mentioned a few posts ago that I was sitting on a rather significant announcement. Well, it was finalized this past Tuesday, and I am thrilled to announce that I am now the official costume director for the haunted house I’ve worked at since I was thirteen. This is the first year that costumes will have their own category, rather than just falling under the general art director’s jurisdiction, so I have the pleasure of being the Haunted Forest’s very first costume director. I am beyond excited. I can’t imagine my Octobers without the Haunted Forest, and anything that marries my loves of fashion and Halloween is just about the best career I could ask for. I’ll post some sketches soon!

Skirt & Boots: Battery Street Jeans Blouse: Downtown Threads (from this past weekend’s $10-per-bag sale!) Necklace, Hat, Bracelet, & Tights: Gifted

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sally bowles junior

cabaret IX

I promised myself I was going to sell these pieces. I had them all measured and sorted to list on Etsy – really, I did. But then I took one look at myself and decided this outfit told too much of a story to sell right away. I had to preen just a little first.

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Somewhere inside myself, not-so-deep under my skin, I am a cabaret star steaming up the sordid stages of Paris or Vegas or Berlin. My ankles resist any attempt at fancy footwork, and I have too many tics for proper grace. But damned if I don’t have the presence. Stationary art is still art, right?

But once in a while I costume myself right and proper and I get to be more than just some girl who’s seen Moulin Rouge way too many times. Sometimes a certain outfit, or necklace or location or even just an angle, will spawn a character whose story needs to be told immediately. And I slip into her guise and hop along for the ride.

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I love that this setting is simultaneously grand and humble. This character seems in the vein of the 1930s shoot I did with Brent back in March: frustrated by circumstance but too itchy for beauty not to make the best of what she has. You focus for a few seconds and see only the tile and how it plays off the black and white. And then you zoom out and see ashes.

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This lapel layered over the lace is my new favorite thing.

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I look almost alien.

Romper & Jacket: Downtown Threads Boots & Necklace: Battery Street Jeans Belt: Goodwill Hat & Tights: Gifted

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deadly she-beast

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First of all, I’m very proud to announce that “punk girl meth porn” and “grandma’s special old hats” were two of the search terms that led to My Kingdom for a Hat this week. Y’know, meth porn is a damn hard genre to break into. Finally some recognition!

~

This past Saturday, I represented Wings of Sin in Crosswalk: A Fashion Show Styled by Sound. All proceeds went to the Committee on Temporary Shelter (COTS), which was pretty cool. Wings of Sin specializes in “post-apocalyptic” fashion: organic, animalistic, and eerily utilitarian. In the great pantheon of goth subcultures, it’s definitely tribal goth. Its creator, Melaney, takes things a step further by actually being a belly dancer: she performs with her troupe, the Accaliae, at underground events around the state. I saw her at Spectacle of Sin well before I knew I’d end up modeling for her shop. She’s fantastic. I want to be her.

(Does anyone else think that the use of “sin” in pagan/goth/fetishy naming convention is getting a little old? Other words exist, darklings! I don’t hear “bacchanal” used nearly enough.)

This was my second-ever fashion show. I have, however, been in more plays and cabarets and choir concerts than I can count, and I’m no stranger to infectious backstage chaos. It’s a series of pleasant little disasters. (Maybe my walk down the runway really was post-apocalyptic.) It all makes me feel so alive.

Forgive me the poor quality of the backstage shots. The lighting wasn’t exactly prime for a shoot, but I wanted to capture some of the energy anyway. My mom snapped the runway ones.

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About nine designers participated in the show, each with a distinct look. It was easy to tell which group each model belonged to. We Wings folk definitely got some side-eyes. Let’s put it this way: I had, by far, the FEWEST tattoos.

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I wore a black infinity dress, which I hiked up to my neck and left plunging in back, and a chain-link necklace. All the accessories were mine, and I did my own makeup.

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From Damaged Goods t-shirts. I loved this model.

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From my favorite designer after Wings of Sin, Scandalous Fox Paws. I absolutely loved their medieval-inspired dresses, so much that I contacted them after the show asking if they needed models. Here’s hoping they get back to me!

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Copyright Where Clothes.

wings I

I realize it’s blurry, but that’s meeeeee! The announcer introduced us Sinners as “deadly she-beasts”. I wish I could have someone follow me around and preemptively introduce me that way.

By pure coincidence, I was first down the runway. We shuffled ourselves at random, and I ended up in front. My friend Zoe tackled me afterward: “you opened the show!”

“It was arbitrary.”

“No one has to know that!”

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Copyright Where Clothes.

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Copyright Where Clothes.

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Copyright Where Clothes.

noontime ghost

cottage I

This past weekend I visited my godparents’ retreat in Wolcott. This year marks my eighteenth summer camping there, and it’s long felt like home to me. It is ragged, pristine, spectacular isolation. It’s a place where you can’t help but hear yourself  think, and I, for all the noise I pack into my poor obsessive-compulsive mind, always benefit from that.

My godparents, Bill and Betsy (which may go down as the most “olde-Vermont” couple names ever), bought the land twenty-something years ago in hopes of starting a Christmas tree farm. I don’t know the exact turn of events that made them break ground for a cabin instead and let the evergreens grow twenty feet tall, but I am glad they occurred.

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For this shoot, I wore an antique-store dress I bought to flip on Etsy but couldn’t resist a few photos in first. It has no tag; the stitching reveals it’s homemade. I’d place it in the 1930s, maaaaybe the ’40s for someone with a lot of rations saved up. It’s so soft (remarkably well preserved) and fits like it was made for me.

You know how I like my queering, though. My original concept was a basic ’30s-housewife shoot in the rustic, candlelit cabin, but it soon evolved into a mishmash of a few different themes. I decided to go for a pop of mod color and sharp angles with my hair and makeup to contrast the wistful ’30s. I like that it made the look more challenging and added another layer to my housewife character. I also really love images with obvious flaws or inconsistencies that are not addressed. It jars the eye, adds a dash of absurdity, and ultimately leaves viewers to fill in the gaps. I like my art a little hard on the brain.

Seeing the photos on my computer screen revealed another layer. The light in the ones I liked best had a distinctly antiquated, almost eerie, tinge to it. Inspired, I ‘shopped the pictures and upped the exposure to suggest a full-on ghost vibe. Nothing particularly unique about that, especially coming from me, but I’m enchanted by the idea that you can’t tell exactly when my ghost is from, what with her Depression dress and fluorescent mod hair. Ambiguity is one of my favorite themes. It’s its own kind of artifice.

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There’s something lovely about a ghost in broad daylight, unafraid of the sun.

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This one reminds me of an old Dutch painting.

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I edited some of the furniture shots just a little overbright, with just a little more oomph to sit up and pay attention to than the rest of the photos. I consider over-sharp light just as spine-tingling an aesthetic as under-sharp. It’s pregnant somehow.

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I find mirror shots so spooky.

True story: I’ve had this lifelong fear of my reflection winking at me. If I have to pee past midnight, I book it to the bathroom while trying to avoid a glimpse of myself in any unshaded windows.

Is it Halloween yet?

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I found this one so deliciously absurd. Anyone else see it?

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on creepers, slut-shaming, and badass facial tattoos

So, I really love to argue. I think y’all know that by now. This is the first persuasive piece I’ve posted here that is only tangentially related to fashion, but I was pretty damn proud of it, and I think it’s an important message. It’s long, but take a look anyway.

Backstory: this article really ground my gears.

~

It has long seemed to me that “creepy” is the male equivalent of “slutty”. Both terms, though occasionally valid, are just ill-defined enough to negatively mark a person without any proof required. Make no mistake: I wholeheartedly understand that “creepy”, when used with precision, is often an extremely useful signifier. I am criticizing here not the word itself but the privileges and prejudices that often inform its use.

 

There are legitimate reasons to designate someone as “creepy”. Repeated violations of physical space and overly personal remarks or questions spring to mind. I pride myself on my ability to nope the fuck out of a situation when it takes a turn I’m displeased with, and I have never hesitated to extricate myself from the presence of anyone, male or female, who seems to be ignoring my humanity and autonomy. This is not an apologia for intrusive bullshit of any kind, and I sincerely hope no one reads it as such.

 

But.

 

There exist fundamental differences between behaviors and traits. The difference most applicable to this situation, I think, is (from Dictionary.com) that a behavior is “anything that an organism does involving action and response to stimulation”, while a trait is “a distinguishing characteristic or quality, esp. of one’s personal nature”. Simply put, a behavior concerns one’s relationship to and interaction with others, while a trait is a statement of one’s personal tastes. I will argue that in designating a person as “creepy” (and “slutty” too, but that’s a story for a different sermon), designators often equate behaviors and traits, thus revealing their personal prejudices under the guise of preaching caution.

 

You’ve probably heard of “Schrodinger’s rapist”. While the term is accurate on a purely semantic level (technically speaking, any given man [or woman!] could prove to be a sexual predator, and you never know until the moment of sexual assault), its application, and the subjective nature thereof, proves highly flawed. When you get into the nitty-gritty of analyzing what might make someone a potential rapist, the potential for unexamined prejudices and unpacked privileges to slip into the mix skyrockets.

 

From “Schrodinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced” on kateharding.net:

 

…you must be aware of what signals you are sending by your appearance and the environment. We are going to be paying close attention to your appearance and behavior and matching those signs to our idea of a threat.

 

This means that some men should never approach strange women in public. Specifically, if you have truly unusual standards of personal cleanliness, if you are the prophet of your own religion, or if you have tattoos of gang symbols or Technicolor cockroaches all over your face and neck, you are just never going to get a good response approaching a woman cold. That doesn’t mean you’re doomed to a life of solitude, but I suggest you start with internet dating, where you can put your unusual traits out there and find a woman who will appreciate them.

 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it until the cows come home: being offended by someone’s fashion sense, personal hygiene, or facial expression will never be a good reason to shun, berate, or otherwise humiliate them. I’m hardly suggesting that you have to flirt back, or even offer more than a polite nod and smile. But explain to me why a man with Technicolor cockroach tattoos is even slightly more likely than a well-dressed lawyer with a dashing smile to rape a strange woman in the grocery store. For that matter, explain to me why the poorly washed and likely indigent fellow is inherently more dangerous than someone of a higher social standing. Go on; I’m waiting.

 

Forgive me the infamous slippery-slope rhetoric, but I think it applies here. What if we refused the time of day to everyone whose traits (not behaviors – that’s a different issue) made us uncomfortable? What if a nebulous, often arbitrary “bad vibe” trumped the basic obligation toward human decency? As commenter snarkysmachine pointed out on kateharding.net, “[o]ften these conversations have a weird tinge of class, race, ability and gender identity discrimination. People feel comfortable having certain prejudices which are not allowed to be questioned because it’s about THEIR SAFETY.” If we excuse the snubbing of unconventional men because of a woman’s potential discomfort, should we also excuse bigots’ pearl-clutching in the presence of people of color? The hostile treatment of Muslims in airports? Feeling threatened is not the same as being so. If your stomach lurches upon seeing a black man or a woman in hijab, that is your prejudice to examine, and your cross, not theirs, to bear.

 

It hits home because, fuck, my whole aesthetic is about making people uncomfortable. I would not deliberately trigger or otherwise psychologically harm an individual, but I do craft my looks with an eye toward provocation. I wear many things considered obscene by the sartorially conservative and downright sacrilegious by the faithful. I date a guy who wears top hats and pirate boots as a matter of everyday life. I have trans friends and cross-dresser friends and uber-goth friends. All of us would make someone, somewhere, some kind of uncomfortable. All of us would, somewhere on the planet, run serious risk of physical assault based on perceived threat. I refuse to continue that tradition, even in the name of combating rape culture. I consider the right of an individual, no matter how aesthetically unconventional, to be received with an open mind and considered innocent until proven guilty paramount to the quashing of an imagined threat.

 

Shaming and denigrating a person based on appearance alone is abhorrent despite the gender of the victim. I’ve noticed that many of the people willing to brush off facial tattoos or poor hygiene as “creepy” will also argue ‘til they’re blue in the face for a woman’s right to be taken seriously no matter how short her skirt or dramatic her cleavage. I am all for the cessation of slut-shaming, so it’s only fair for me to take a stand in the other direction too. My desire to cherry-pick the sights that pass before my delicate eyes does not trump the right of others to express themselves aesthetically while still being treated like humans. We cannot call for men to be aware of the “signals [they] are sending by [their] appearance” without confronting the ugly side of that particular coin: the notion that a woman’s attire makes her responsible for any negative attention she may garner. “Look at that neckbeard – I bet he still lives in his parents’ basement.” “Come on, you know that skirt is asking for it.”

 

Let me emphasize once again that I am not condoning creepy behavior. By all means holler back at that construction worker; by all means slap that hand away from your ass. But deciding who is creepy based on looks alone is so many kinds of wrong. More than that, it leaves you reeling when a threat pops up outside your projected suspicions. Who’s to say that well-dressed lawyer wasn’t a serial rapist in his college days? Who’s to say the tattooed biker isn’t the kindest soul you’ll ever meet? Ultimately, I think it’s important to strike a balance between reasonable caution and empathetic tolerance.

wings of sand

socialite I

On Monday, I traipsed to North Beach for a sunset shoot with Morgan Sweeney of Socialite Photography. My friend Rachel had modeled for her and recommended we meet. Here’s the first batch of the photos we took. You’ll have to excuse the simple outfits and repeat dresses: when I model for others, I prefer to keep the focus on my poses and physicality rather than on the clothes.

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I am a water child through and through. I can sit and watch the waves for hours; twenty minutes of swimming leaves me feeling positively drugged. A great deal of my natural anxiety falls away in the presence of open water, and I hope that shows in these photos.

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This shoot was unique in that I worked with two other models, neither of whom I’d ever met. We all took turns posing under Morgan’s lens. One of them asked me, as we were wrapping up, how I managed to put such energy into my shots. Aside from its flattery, the remark forced me to explain my process, which was useful for both me and the other model. Before I started modeling when I was eighteen, I’d been involved with performing arts for eleven years. I sang in three choirs and did every theater camp my parents were willing to shell out for. I’ve also volunteered at a haunted house since I was thirteen, so I’m no stranger to cackling, over-the-top theatrics. Modeling, to me, is quickie acting. I do my best to tell a story, however short or slight, with each shot. I think of the scenery as my stage and my body as colluding with everything around it, and I use that inspiration to invent a character to portray.

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I’m moving in a little more than a month. Since my student lease ended in May, I’ve been more or less living with Josh, with occasional trips to my parents’ house for meals and outfit pictures. I’m officially setting up shop on (knock on wood!) August 16th. Though I’ll have two roommates, the apartment is bigger than any I’ve ever had. I’m already envisioning a wall of fabric shelves, an antique dress form, and a huge-ass bulletin board to pin my designs to. I think I need to change my panties.

And I’m really going to need the extra work space, because I’ve been getting an unprecedented number of opportunities lately. On Saturday, I’ll officially begin modeling for Wings of Sin, a local goth designer! I’ll be walking in her fashion show on Saturday as part of Crosswalk, Burlington’s first official fashion weekend. If you’re in the Burlington area and feel so inclined, click here to purchase tickets and see me in my real live gothy glory.

As for those other opportunities I mentioned … let’s just say you should expect an unveiling very, very soon.

prairie luxe

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I love the versatility of this dress. The loose silhouette and the hardy fabric ground it, while the lace detailing inches it closer to formality. I couldn’t decide whether to dress it up or down, so I went with a whopping “both”. I put together a more relaxed formality than usual, though, hoping for a look equally fitting for the symphony or an impromptu bluegrass show.

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Taking pictures in this spot, about 100 yards behind my parents’ house, is always delightfully surreal. It warps perspective somehow; the backdrop seems to drag on unbroken. The trees seem far too bright for midsummer.

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Absolutely in love with these panels. Josh, you’ve got a rival.

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My pink hair never lets me slip fully into the dreamy forest aesthetic. It always seems to add an Alice in Wonderland pop, and I love it.

About this dress. I realize it’s what a lot of people would consider “unflattering”. I freely admit that this particular cut adds about fifteen pounds. I was even a little jarred when I saw the shots: “where’s my waist?!” I would not have worn this dress a year ago, and I consider wearing it now emblematic of how my stylistic outlook has evolved and matured. I’ve come to turn my eye more toward evocation, toward color and texture and cohesion, than to fit and flattery. Sure, it’s awesome when a piece fits like it was made for me and makes me feel like a bombshell. But if I have to choose between a mediocre well-fitting piece and an awkwardly hanging one that tells a story, you know which one will win. I’m doing my damnedest to quash the little “but it makes me look faaaaat” voice – because really, is looking thin more important than telling a story? Than making a statement? Than being a standout artist?

I don’t think fashion, or any art, should constantly affirm who we think we are. Let it surprise you. As a costume designer, I’m already accustomed to looking in the mirror and seeing someone radically different every day. Applying that principle to the very flesh I live in is costumery’s ultimate extension.

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I love the contrast of highly stylized Loli face above + a more serendipitous statement below.

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Dress, Belt, & Brooch: Savers Boots, Bow, & Shawl: Battery Street Jeans

Friendly reminder to cast your best-dressed vote here! Voting closes tomorrow at 5.

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hats for days (shameless self-promotion)

red hat I

Saturday’s Savers run produced a delightful heap of Etsy fodder. I thought I’d take a break from your usually scheduled eccentricity and promote a few things I thought my viewers might like. Click to buy this hat here! It’s in fantastic condition for something as old as I estimate it is. Perfect for all your vintage-vixen needs.

But first things first (well, technically second)…

best dressed

I’m thrilled to report that I’ve made the top three of the Seven Days best-dressed competition! The second round of voting closes on July 10th at 5 pm, and I would greatly appreciate your vote. It takes just a few keystrokes. Click here to vote! Facebook might require you to “like” the page to see my entry, but this app is minimally invasive and you can unsubscribe from it immediately after voting, so I think it’s worth it. Thanks in advance!

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Vintage Oscar de la Renta by Bollman Hat Company. Click here to buy.

brown hat I

Vintage Janyth Roy New York. Excellent for steampunk cosplays. Click here to buy.

blue hat I

Vintage Monseigneur. This is probably the oldest one I’ve come across, and I think the price is well worth it to own a piece of history. (Slight fraying on ribbon.) Click here to buy.

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Vintage pillbox. Comes with two real live pins. Click here to buy.

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Slinky siren cocktail dress. Leslie Fay Evening, size 6. Fits like a glove and hugs like a lover. Click here to buy.

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Vintage Boston Maid dress, size 12. I felt like a grown-up Eloise just modeling it. Click here to buy.

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Ferns ‘n’ feathers dress. Vintage M.L.S. Ltd New York, size 12. Doesn’t drape too flatteringly on me, but I’m sure one of my bloglings could give it a good home. Click here to buy.

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Vintage Evan Picone dress, size 8. USA-made by Ladies Garment Workers Union, which I think is pretty damn cool. Click here to buy.

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Fifty dresses in one! Guys, this is the one it hurts the most to part with. Alas, though, it does not zip over my rather significant bust (it’s a size 4). It deserves a good home. Click here to buy.

i am skye, the great and colorful

fifties pink V

As y’all most likely know, I take great pleasure in heavy artifice. As much as I respect the natural world (I’m one hell of a mountain girl), sometimes I really need something patently unnatural. Blinding shades and sharp, stylized silhouettes. Sometimes I just have to embody kitsch.

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“Holy shit, it’s my mother,” my mom exclaimed when I walked in dressed like this. I’ve always heavily resembled my maternal grandmother, but it became downright uncanny when I started getting into vintage, especially the nifty fifties. My mom’s been doing a lot of double-takes the past few months.

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Yesterday Josh and I drove down to New Hampshire to hit up Savers, which is basically a thoroughly pimped Goodwill with enough vintage to soil my panties. Josh, whose love of antiques rivals mine, makes a pilgrimage once a year; this was his first time taking me. For under $250, we stuffed the trunk of his car with costume pieces and fodder for my Etsy shop. And to my delight, I found this pink-and-white counterpart to my ladybug skirt. It was the first time I’d ever found a replica of an Old Gold piece in another store, though, which was fairly disillusioning. I suppose all idols must fall.

I feel like there should be an apostrophe in “Savers” and it’s literally making my skin crawl right now.

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My secret to endless flamboyance is making sure everything matches something. Pink and pink, metal and metal, cherries and cherries. I allow myself one “odd one out” per outfit: in this case, the necklace. I consider the shoes a neutral.

It says a lot about me that I consider red a neutral.

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Blouse, Skirt, Belt, Brooch, Necklace, & Sunglasses: Savers Headband: Goodwill Shoes: Danform

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There’s something so wonderfully artificial and plastic-y about hot pink and bright blue.

psychobilly (qu’est-ce que c’est)

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Sometimes you just have to go full screaming loligoth.

Despite my frequently fluorescent appearance, I’ve long considered myself goth at heart. I feel most at home in the underbelly of the world, consorting with the macabre. Pondering death, and the attendant thrill in the pit of my stomach, makes me feel alive.

Goth was the first subculture I really identified with. I’ve since found less cliche ways to indulge my penchant for the dark, but I still smile on girls tottering down the street in towering heels and loligoth corsets. I cringe to remember twelve-year-old Skye thinking her Hot Topic kneesocks were the absolute height of MySpace cool, but sometimes I like to indulge her. This is how I desperately wanted to dress all through middle school.

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So I went fully magenta. Bleach and all. You might recall that my hair used to be like this. I started phasing out the bleach about a year ago in hope of still having hair by the time I’m forty. I tried to get into more subdued hues, but I just never felt it. Hot pink is my natural color. I feel my very best topped by a mop of magenta. So after considerable deliberation and consultation with a hairstylist friend, I’ve started bleaching again. Feels so right.

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I bought these shoes when I was 11 to give me a height boost under a long dress I’d bought for Halloween.

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Dress: Hell Bunny Shirt & Voltaire Necklace: Gifted Skull Pendant & Hair Bow: Battery Street Jeans Belt & Skull Necklaces: Old Gold Shoes: Dirt Chic Tights: Sox Market

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