“Fashion fades; style is eternal.”
Yves St. Laurent
There is something in youth which is both tainted and untainted with adulthood.
I am one of two conflicting glamours. The first is the glamour of my youth: glamour of show business and glitter, the glamour of alcohol and late nights, the glamour of excess.
The second is the glamour of an adulthood to come: the glamour of responsibility, of an urbane and cosmopolitan view of life—the glamour of wordly education.
I am stuck with one foot in the pop culture of this generation and the call of carelessness. It is less innocence and more ignorance. I feel cheated. I long to stand for something: I am a rebel without a cause. I wear my hair long in a superfluous show of youth, rather than a Swing Kids-era act of defiance. I wear my jeans as a second skin, peeled off every night before bed like a snake in its eternal cycle of rebirth. I long for revolution and uprising, without knowing the consequences of either. I am drawn to the obvious: the sparkles, the shine, the GUESS ads with their in-your-face bombshell sexuality, the six-inch stilettos. My stick-like body is what I perceive to be an object of jealousy for other girls. I long to see the brightness of city lights in every rear-view mirror, every store window. I have not even lived two decades, yet I have everything figured out. The world is a huge tattoo I want imprinted on me like fame on a celebrity.
I have yet to appreciate the versatility of neutrals, the functionality of a tan cashmere sweater, or the brilliant simplicity of a Calvin Klein dress. I have yet to learn that a life exists beyond what I yearn for: a life of culture. I don’t yet see that adulthood brings real value into light: a return of the classics, of Audrey Hepburn’s little black dress and Coco Chanel’s suits. I have yet to value elegance over extravagance, minimalism over magnetism. I have yet to understand what it is to be a woman: a full figure, empowerment.
When I reach the age that I can stop bleaching my hair, remove pounds of jewelry and mascara, erase profanity from my language and stand for something rather than anything, when I reach the age that I can appreciate spirituality and long-lasting friendships and maturity—this will be when I realize who I truly am: not just a byproduct of culture, but the creator of it.
Yves St. Laurent
There is something in youth which is both tainted and untainted with adulthood.
I am one of two conflicting glamours. The first is the glamour of my youth: glamour of show business and glitter, the glamour of alcohol and late nights, the glamour of excess.
The second is the glamour of an adulthood to come: the glamour of responsibility, of an urbane and cosmopolitan view of life—the glamour of wordly education.
I am stuck with one foot in the pop culture of this generation and the call of carelessness. It is less innocence and more ignorance. I feel cheated. I long to stand for something: I am a rebel without a cause. I wear my hair long in a superfluous show of youth, rather than a Swing Kids-era act of defiance. I wear my jeans as a second skin, peeled off every night before bed like a snake in its eternal cycle of rebirth. I long for revolution and uprising, without knowing the consequences of either. I am drawn to the obvious: the sparkles, the shine, the GUESS ads with their in-your-face bombshell sexuality, the six-inch stilettos. My stick-like body is what I perceive to be an object of jealousy for other girls. I long to see the brightness of city lights in every rear-view mirror, every store window. I have not even lived two decades, yet I have everything figured out. The world is a huge tattoo I want imprinted on me like fame on a celebrity.
I have yet to appreciate the versatility of neutrals, the functionality of a tan cashmere sweater, or the brilliant simplicity of a Calvin Klein dress. I have yet to learn that a life exists beyond what I yearn for: a life of culture. I don’t yet see that adulthood brings real value into light: a return of the classics, of Audrey Hepburn’s little black dress and Coco Chanel’s suits. I have yet to value elegance over extravagance, minimalism over magnetism. I have yet to understand what it is to be a woman: a full figure, empowerment.
When I reach the age that I can stop bleaching my hair, remove pounds of jewelry and mascara, erase profanity from my language and stand for something rather than anything, when I reach the age that I can appreciate spirituality and long-lasting friendships and maturity—this will be when I realize who I truly am: not just a byproduct of culture, but the creator of it.
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