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| Amanda S. Lanzone |
I recently stopped into a new coffee shop. It was cute - the vibe was very GOOP, with refined sugar-free cookies and ashwaghanda hot chocolate - and as I sat there with my goat cheese-stuffed date and ice tea, a parade of new mums came through. It was wild how similar they all were: sleek mid-ponytail, black leggings, white sneakers, gray or black sweatshirt, little gold hoops. It was almost at the level of a dress code, or, frankly, cult member. And it made me wonder: is this stylish? Is this trendy? My baby is eight—should I dress like this?
I think a lot about style and trends. I love fashion and clothing, especially how it functions in as proxies for our social selves. Clothing creates in-groups and sends signals about how we want to be perceived. It helps create our public images. Clothing is a tool by which we create our lives.
I've been thinking about this again lately, because it had occurred to me that the people in my life that I look up to for being stylish are all wildly different. There is my bestie who dresses like a stoned woodland princess (a lot of velvet and silk and interesting headbands); a pal who dresses like a member of a 1990s girl punk band (Doc Martens, windbreakers, leather pants); a friend who is an unabashed wardrobe maximalist, who routinely wears head-to-toe neon pink and heart-shaped glasses; and a buddy whose wardrobe, despite being mostly beige, seems so luxuriously touchable that I can't help but swoon.
In trying to define what unites these diverse and divergent queens, there are a few common denominators. They all make use of texture—wooly numbers, leather and fur, lacy bits and bobs, squishable fabrics, unexpected choices. They all have great accessories, like weird glasses choices, an excess of rings, or a funny poofed hat. None of them are shrinking violets: these are outfits designed to be seen and admired, not to blend in. And while they're all attractive as hell, most of them downplay the fuckability element. These folks are dressing for the girls and the gays; the straight male gaze is an afterthought, at best.
But more to the point, each of the people has a deeply personal way of dressing that just...matches who they are. It's hard to explain: I could write a thousand words on my friend who dresses like a girl-punk, and how she's brash and sensitive and a former member of the Pillow Fight League and how she will get in your face and defend anyone's honour...but I don't have to, because her frilly socks and t-strap Doc Martens say it better than I ever could.
So: is being stylish just a matter of matching your own vibe?
I think it has to be. I think this is why I still feel like I'm discovering my own style: because my internal vibe has shifted dramatically in the last ten years. That goes along with changes to my body and budget and my willingness to be perceived and get weird. In my 20s, I felt like my style was more like cosplaying who I wanted to be. In my 30s, it was a desperate apology for getting fatter and not being as hot as I once was. Now? Now, I feel like nothing hangs together, and it sort of works anyway.
The internal-vibe thing is so interesting to me, because it answers my question of why "it" works for some people and not others. Some people's maximalism is delicious while others' feels messy. One person's frilliness is perfect, while on another, it feels childish. Some people look like a million bucks in an outfit that could be described as moderately unhoused, while others need a boiled-wool coat and a low-heeled boot. Sometimes I want to tweak someone's personal style—I have a friend I really want to see it more 1980s band tees—and sometimes it's hard to define what's working and what's not. Why does athleisure read as slobby on one person and sleek on another? Why does office wardrobe look polished on her and like a costume on her?
Again: the vibe. The vibe is misaligned, and while it's not wrong or bad, it's just not as gloriously personally perfect as it could be. This is a low-stakes problem to have, and exploring solutions is just the most fun. Does a necklace solve the problem? What about the wrong shoe? Can we bring in a statement piece? Can we make it our signature thing? C'mon people, let's try some solutions! I don't want to be part of the Legging Mom Mafia. That seems dull as hell.
I still don't know what my internal vibe really is—am I a fritzy earth mother? a hard-edged femme? an outsidey community activist? a low-key professional who still cracks jokes in meetings? the third-hottest person at school pick-up? the girl crying in the bathroom at the club?—because the reality is, I could be any one of those people on any given day. Some days, I'm all of them (those are long days). I am weird and strong and soft and shiny, and I mostly dress to reflect that. I dress as a dreamer, too: the people I want to become, trying them on for size. And I dress in order the tell the world: I am still becoming the person I am.
