straying from pink, librarian chic, and other style revelations
I have the kind of personality where, unfortunately, I can’t just like something. I develop a fixation that becomes difficult to shake. For the first decade or so of my life, I was obsessed with the color pink. Bubblegum medicine, pink fruit-flavored flouride at dentist appointments, prizes at gimmicky arcades, bedding, school supplies, and, most notable of all, clothing. My attachment to pink and its various hues was met with an equally frustrating stubbornness. If anything was bought for me that didn’t have pink in it, I refused it. My mom dressed me until second grade, when she enrolled my younger brother and I in a private school that required uniforms. It was then that I was bitten by the rhinestone-encrusted parasite that was Limited Too, which drove my parents insane.
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I tested emergence from my rose-tinted bubble. I started borrowing clothes from my mom’s closet (much to her chagrin). A majority of the girls in my class at the small New Jersey charter school I attended wore Converse, skinny jeans, and graphic t-shirts. When I tried to adhere to outfits of that nature, I didn’t feel like myself. Not to mention skinny jeans and slim-fitting t-shirts made me feel self-conscious with my puberty-stricken body. Seizing an opportunity, my mom took me into the city for a full day of shopping, or rather, wardrobe reconstruction. As silly as it sounds, it was a defining moment in my young adult life, deciding to eliminate exclusivity from the way I dressed. I was only twelve, but I wanted to grow up. Walking to school the following Monday, post-shopping trip in one of my new outfits, one of the Converse-clad girls said “Well aren’t you something.”
With some guidance, I realized that style is something that separates you from everyone else, and something that you can make your own. My breakup with the color pink has resulted in several aesthetic experiments and transformations with my outfits throughout middle school, high school, and college. But there have been consistent elements. In seventh grade, during one of my walks home, I discovered a small church-owned thrift store, where I used whatever spare cash I had to buy cardigans, blazers, and blouses. In eighth grade, I was nicknamed a “hipster librarian.” And to this day, at twenty-two, I’m still going to thrift stores, whether it be Saver’s with my maternal grandmother (the other day we reached for the same shirt while we were there!), Value World with Arbela, or the local consignment store in the downtown area of my town where I occasionally sell clothes that I’ve grown tired of. I’m a firm believer in the fact that you don’t need a lot of money to dress the way you want. If I’m looking for something specific, I utilize Poshmark (after two months of price-comparing on different websites, one day I stumbled upon a brand-new pair of Doc Martens in my size for sixty-five dollars. Good things do come to those who wait). Anything that I buy new is either from Marshall’s, H&M, and sometimes Old Navy, for jeans, dresses, and basic staples like t-shirts, or if I really like a blouse, I’ll suck it up and buy it new if I think it has enough versatility.
While I don’t consider myself to be a “girly-girl” the way I was in my childhood, I still embrace my femininity with the way I dress. But I feel that now, the femininity is more selective. In high school I loved wearing dresses with cardigans and oxfords, skirts and blouses, and pullover/collared shirt combinations. I still wear those things now, but I’ve incorporated shoes with stacked heels and more flattering skirts and dresses. And despite my short stature, I’ve acquired a couple of jumpsuits.
Looking through my closet before and after moving into my new apartment made me realize that I’ve been accumulating more color into my wardrobe, and I’ve unintentionally created a color palette of greens, whites, blues, light pink, black, and an occasional pop of red. When it comes to style inspiration, I admire the street style of actresses like Dakota Johnson, Emma Roberts, and Emma Stone (I scour Pinterest just like everyone else). Or I get influenced by characters in movies or television shows—after binging YOU on Netflix, I’ve been lusting after the green suede motorcycle jacket that Beck wears in a few episodes, and I admire the subtle feminine touches of her outfits—floral dresses that aren’t too loud and simple jewelry. I’m really intrigued by minimalist fashion, but I don’t have the discipline to have a capsule wardrobe. Although winter in Cleveland makes it difficult to experiment with fashion and I’ve been recycling the same few pieces this winter:
a thick green grandpa-style cardigan that I got from Saver’s
a green blazer from Anthropologie that I got for Christmas freshman year of college
high-waisted straight leg jeans that cost me less than $3 at Value World
a maroon embroidered cardigan from Value World
a green scarf from H&M
a blue v-neck H&M sweater
my favorite camel-colored coat that I thrifted in December 2017 (a staple piece that I was so happy to track down)
my Doc Martens and black block-heeled Chelsea boots
alternating button-down shirts
I’ve had my style described to me, ranging from “mom” (especially when I wear my New Balance sneakers) to “grandma” to “librarian.” Ex-boyfriends have told me I have the “writer look” locked down and that I’m “too put-together to look like an art student.” But when it comes to describing it on my own, I can’t find the right words. I flirt with preppiness and playfulness. I like being comfortable, and there isn’t a specific aesthetic I model myself after. I like to believe that my style is evolving, that it’s dynamic rather than static. Although sometimes I get stuck in a rut, especially during the winter when it’s too cold to want to wear thought-out outfits. But when it all boils down to it, I want my clothes to exemplify my confidence and sassiness, and most importantly, my individuality. And I think I’m achieving just that, one outfit at a time. It’s all trial and error.