Leandra Medine's Blog, page 639

A Letter to My Curly Hair

In March I confessed that I hate my hair, freed my curls for the first time in ten years, and haven’t straightened them since. After that post, Dove Hair sent me a clip of young girls talking about how much they, too, hate their hair. The video, shot for Dove Hair’s Love Your Curls campaign came with a link to their self-love-promoting curl-worship book by Taiye Selasi, which I promptly dedicated to myself. All of this got me thinking about what pro-curl encouragement I’d give my younger self, if I could. And since I’m incapable of not sharing, here’s what I wrote:

Dear Leandra,

Hi. It’s Leandra. I know that seems weird. You’re Leandra, but I’m you too. Just a few years older, a few hairs kinkier — possibly a few experiences wiser. These time capsule letters — written notes from future self to former self — are supposed to extoll the virtues of learning from your own experiences. Well, self, I can assure you that there are years of screwing up ahead. Be excited to drown in them. You will get especially graphic with your words — drawing out scenarios in which you poke your own eyes out or pop your knee caps. It is weird, I don’t know why we’re like that, but so far our eyeballs and kneecaps are fine. I do have to tell you something, though. It’s kind of about vegetables.

You know how mom cooks her mushrooms even though we’ve asked for them raw a million times? I want you to start thinking of our hair in those terms. I don’t know why we prefer raw mushrooms, it’s a simple matter of taste, but consider this: if I had to guess, you’re sitting on the floor in our bedroom, right? The closet door is open and you’re staring at our reflection (you should know our boobs have not grown at all, by the way). A popular 90s drama is on in front of you. You’re watching the dialogue between Angela and Ray-Ann but you’re not listening. You’re seeing yourself in Ray-Ann but wishing you were more like Angela. Not emotionally, or even by demeanor, but simply because Angela has something that both you and Ray-Ann do not and that is straight hair.

But why? Why are we so hell-bent on beating the character out of our hair? Mom isn’t lying, you’re beautiful as you are. But if the beholden (that’s you) doesn’t know it, does it matter if someone else does?

I can practically see you plugging that hot tool in. Letting it get so hot before you begin to comb through your curls with your finger tips and then eventually with that mobile ironing board. And there they begin to go. The curls. You’re piecing apart your hair and some strands are beginning to fall out. It’s getting straighter and flatter as you comb. You’re becoming the permed version of us. Why did we think it took straight locks to feel like us? What’s us is us. Does this sound confusing? I’m sure it does. I get it, I was there.

But now that you’re finished and your hair is all straight and you look more like an Angela than you do a Ray-Ann, do you feel better? I mean actually feel better?

I want you to do something.

Get in the shower and wet your hair. Come out and let it dry. Don’t do a thing to it. Just let it be. Now walk outside. Let the wind breeze through it. Say hello to whoever crosses your path. Get to school on time. Miss period one. Spend some time in front of the bathroom mirror acquainting yourself with that reflection — your real reflection. Smile at it. Tell yourself you look great. Believe it.

Now go.

How does that feel? Likely not so different, right? And that’s the thing of it. Here we’ve spent so many hours sitting in front of that mirrored closet door effectively homogenizing our personality, and for what? If I knew then what I know now — that hair, like style, is what we make it, a reflection of divine honesty, a talisman of authenticity, the truest emblem of self-confidence, I’d have never tried so hard to change it. It’s been like three months since I last straightened our hair (I’d show you a picture but you’ll see in due time) and I keep coming back to those raw mushrooms. The state of our curls, it seems, has become the most salient metaphor of them. Untouched and exquisite just as they are, it boils down to an intimate matter of taste.

In partnership with Dove Hair. Dedicate your own Love Your Curls book here.

The Only Summer Wine Guide You Need

Pack up your cable knits and stow away your Cabernets because summer is coming!!! Yes, with that many exclamation marks. The sight of myself in sweatpants throwing back Burgundies and complaining about the bullshit new releases on Netflix was starting to get depressing. It’s time for cold wine, hot concrete, cut-offs, and endless afternoons outside. Here are seven of my seasonal favorites to break out along with your SPF 70.

For Your Friend That “Doesn’t Like White Wine”

Arca Nova Vinho Verde, Portugal, $9

First, tell them to shut up. I know that sounds harsh, but I’m allowed to say it because I used to be that person and I wish someone would have told me sooner to shut up and embrace white wine. Vinho Verde is my favorite white wine. Cheap and fun, this effervescent and easy-drinking treat is perfect for your friend who claims to hate light grape. Very light and dry like a Pinot Grigio, but zippier with grapefruit-lemonade flavor, it’s impossible not to like.

For Impressing a Date With an Amazing but Unexpected Seafood Pairing

Mourat Collection Val de Loire Chenin Blanc Chardonnay, France, $17

This medium-bodied white wine is like Elvis Presley: sexy but old fashioned, familiar but energetic. There are few things that turn me on more than “Don’t Be Cruel” or a dinner of a million oysters, but you can take both of those up a notch with the zesty J. Mourat. This natural wine is crisp and striking like a Chenin Blanc, but with the depth of a Chardonnay. And if you don’t like Chardonnay, hey, I didn’t think I did either. TRUST. And if you don’t like oysters, this also compliments nearly everything from the sea. Basically, you have no reason not to be drinking this on your date. Because even if you’re not having seafood, it pairs really well with making out. IDK, it just makes me really want to make out! Like I said, GREAT DATE WINE.

For A Backyard BBQ

Tendu Red, California, $18.99

Steve Matthiasson is one of California’s most respected vintners, making some its most revered wines. And if I could afford drinking $80 wines a night, his would be a part of the line up. Sadly, I am a freelance writer so that is out of the question.

Thank god for his Tendu Red: an effortless and affordable blend of Aglianico, Montepulciano and Barbera fermented in stainless steel, aged in neutral barrels and bottled with zero sulfur. It is one of the freshest wines you’ll ever have, tasting more like newly squeezed cranberries than grapes that have been sitting in a cellar. It comes in a liter, making it perfect for parties because you can share it. But also, you can get in a good couple glasses for yourself. Chill it and serve with anything off the grill or Chili’s To-Go. You think I’m joking but honestly I would Postmates the fuck out of a bottle of Tendu Red and some Chicken Crispers if that was an option.

For Hanging Out Braless

Lelievre Gris de Toul, France, $17.99

I am a salt lover. Like, choose a snack sized bag of Lays Potato Chips over a dozen Sprinkles Cupcakes any day of the week kind of salt lover. And this is one salty rosé, and that’s what makes it my favorite rosé of all time. It’s 90% Gamay, and tastes like if you went to Heaven, then went to the beach, then let a bunch of waves crash on your face THEN drank them. Yes, this rosé is Heaven’s ocean. And that’s why you need to take off your bra and live like you’re Rihanna on a yacht in Heaven: topless. Or at least braless, for god’s sake.

For Discreetly Drinking In Public

Pampelonne Canned Rosé Lime, France, $21.00 for a four pack

I’m not into breaking the law, but I am super into drinking in public. Not like getting wasted, but just enjoying a drink or two at the park, or in a dark alley. Whatever. I’m not saying you should do these things but if you would like to, and I’m not saying you should, but if you do, then do it with Pampelonne. It looks like an energy drink imported from a European vacation resort and tastes exactly like Pellegrino Limonata. Yes, Limonata as in the most refreshing, tangy and perfect carbonated drink ever.

This is awesome for the pool because hey, no glass around the pool. It is also awesome for the beach because hey, it doesn’t look anything like alcohol, which is important when you’re drinking in public. Trust me on this as someone who has gotten a $250 fine for just quietly chilling and drinking wine on the beach.

For Daily Drinking (Don’t Worry, It’s Our Secret)

Lorenza Rosé, California, $20

I first had Lorenza this past spring in Napa. A beautiful model on Instagram told me to try it and I will tell you, I was skeptical. It’s not very often beautiful models are giving me wine recommendations. It turned out that model was winemaker Michele Ouellet and that Lorenza is incredible, and now a house staple. Much like Ouellet’s style outside of wine, this blend of Mourvèdre, Carignan, Cinsault, and Syrah is stunning and clean, with peppery floral notes. It reminds me of faint jasmine floating in on a warm breeze. Thank god I have another bottle in the fridge, because I am getting thirsty just thinking about it.

For Celebrating/Dancing In Your Underwear To Drake For No Reason

Graham Beck Brut Rosé, South Africa, $13.99

I love this wine because you can get it basically anywhere but it is so good. The color of it is the most beautiful, perfect, soft salmon. I’m not a huge fan of pink, but god damn do I love a good salmon hue. And it’s so delicious. This 54% Pinot Noir and 41% Chardonnay blend tastes like a bright summer afternoon munching on watermelon and fresh picked grapefruits with your best friends.

The carbonation is bold, which I love, with a really fresh finish. Its serious sparkle makes this bottle feels like a celebration, so you can cheers to a new promotion, the new shoes you practically stole on sale, or that you just showered, because that in itself can be an accomplishment.

Marissa A. Ross is the creator of Wine. All the Time. She’s an LA-based writer, comedian, and self-proclaimed wino. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram. 

Illustrations by Autumn Kimball. 

Did this just make you thirsty? See our picks to the best margarita in NYC. Alcohol not your thing? Try an iced coffee. Or cold-brew it yourself. 

What’s the Most Expensive Beauty Product You’ve Ever Purchased?

Our adventures in vlogging sent us on a whole beauty kick. First it was pre-bed routines, then hair transformations, then skincare. Today, it’s all about the product.

It happens to all of us at least once. That vulnerable moment of consumer-propelled weakness.

Sometimes it is the result of embarrassment — allow me to share an anecdote about Amelia Diamond’s foray into living in Manhattan.

One fateful Sunday morning after a particularly, let’s say, sloppy evening, the newly-minted New Yorker stumbled into H&H: a time-honored kosher bagel shop on the Upper West Side. A heritage brand, if you will. Upon making it to the cash register, she asked for a bacon, egg and cheese at which point the brown-eyed clerk behind the counter looked at her and said, “Miss, we’re kosher.” She panicked and instead ordered a plain pumpernickel bagel. Nothing on it. She hates pumpernickel.

Other times, the weakness manifests as peer pressure. When you’re me, though, it might simply be the consequence of overzealousness.

Recently I was at Barney’s on their underground level — where the truth about good products ostensibly bubbles to the top — when I was convinced by an enthusiastic “lip expert” that I had to try a lip balm by By Terry. I know, I was confused, too. Bye bye Terry? Who in the good name of greetings tries to welcome a customer by bidding her adieu? (Throw tomatoes, go ahead. I deserve it.)

But what did I, uh, do? I put on the lip balm. I was then prompted to react. “Doesn’t it just make your lips feel like they’re floating?” the expert asked. Not anymore than drugstore branded chapstick did, but I wanted to please her.

So I told her it was great, that I loved it and felt like my lips were on cloud 10 — one degree more luxurious than 9. Eager sales pistol that she was, BAM! She asked if I’d like to take it, reluctantly I said yes, and $70 later, here I am.

Yes, $70.

You know what I could do with $70? Get like, two smoothies from The Vitamin Chick.

It’s worth mentioning that I use the balm every day — partly out of guilt but mostly because it makes me feel decadent and self-indulgent in the way only treating yourself to something 100% frivolous can. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I should be typing with an English accent.

But I digress. All of this is to ask one thing: what’s the most expensive beauty product you’ve ever purchased?

Tell your tale. I’m listening.

Skin breaking out? Cara Delevingne’s skin-savior can help. If your beauty thing isn’t so much a product as it is…eyelash extensions, then join the club. Worried about your eyelashes falling out, like, in general? Let’s talk about that as a group.

What’s in Your Fridge: Elizabeth Stewart, Celebrity Stylist

“This is empty compared to how it usually is! I pandered to the photography. It’s normally crazy and stuffed with tons of leftovers. A ton of kids and employees come through this house so it’s always full.

Some of the stuff has been in here for a really long time. Let me put it this way: there’s a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem from 1998, and there’s probably a Grey Poupon from the same year.

These are Gaviota strawberries that you can only get from one grower in California. They are kind of “foodie-famous.” There are only certain farmers markets that have them, and today was one of them. You have to get there early if you are going to get them.

This is lunch for the whole team before our big shoot tomorrow. The food is from the famous Bay Cities Italian Deli, and these are the “Godmother” sandwiches.

People send champagne a lot –I’m a stylist, and it’s a very common gift. I’m a big wine drinker, so there is always a lot of wine in the fridge. I just switched to rosé because it’s May. This spring, I’m planning on making some infused vodkas and gins with cucumber, grapefruit, etc. I like a fancy martini on hand.

Oh my god! I got busted. It’s a tiny bottle of cheap wine! I can’t believe it. I have nothing to say about that…

My condiment shelf is like a history of my family. My husband is obsessed with Atomic Horseradish. That’s his absolute favorite brand of horseradish. My whole family is obsessed with capers and mustard. I use a lot of butter. Unsalted butter. That is my little tip, everybody. We also always always have cheese. Usually really good cheese…my husband Rob has been known to smuggle it in!

This is my disgusting secret habit: Easy Cheese. I eat it on crackers — really fancy, high-end crackers.

My son Ben is like Popeye, although he is 14 and doesn’t get the reference. He eats a bag of spinach of day. And before this shoot I threw out the cookie dough made from garbanzo beans that my daughter Ivy and her friends pretend is ‘healthy’ but has about 200 grams of sugar in it!

I am big into cooking when I have time. It’s hard because I have a pretty tough travel schedule, but I do love to cook and it kind of represents not being on a plane.

In the freezer: the Ready-Dough for is cinnamon roles. The ice cream comes from a local place which is amazing. The salted caramel flavor is the best. The croissantnuts were sent to me by Julia Roberts, who is a client. She’s a big homemaker herself.

The dirty secret is the outdoor fridge. This was hidden away from the cameras. I have three jugs of peanut oil for my deep fryer — I deep fry turkeys and chickens. I don’t do it very often, but I did it for Thanksgiving.”

Follow Elizabeth Stewart, Celebrity Stylist, on Instagram here. Want more fridges? Click here. Love her wine-stash but prefer margaritas? You’ve come to the right Jimmy Buffet concert.

Images by Lauren Levinger of The Food Life

Know Your Labels: Amélie Pichard

“I started by drawing naked women with big boobs at age 9, and now I make my campaigns with naked women who have big boobs at the age of 30.”

It was never about clothing for Amélie Pichard, an accessories designer based in Paris who founded her eponymous label five years ago. “Women’s bodies are the most beautiful things on earth. Why should I put any clothes on them, especially to show my shoes? For me an era is over; now women can assume their nudity, their sexuality, and femininity. I don’t use naked women to sell shoes — I’m inspired by them to design my shoes.” She goes on, “I design for girls with an attitude; sexy ladies, the ones who assume their sexiness.”

It is rare to find a brand that can execute and glorify overt, almost-cliché sexuality while simultaneously pulling it out from under you, but Pichard has mastered this technique with her geriatric-style lace up loafers: the ostensible preferred footwear choice of podiatrists, and pointed-toe, high heel mules reminiscent of the kind of bedroom slippers you might find on an ingenue-gone-bad — an emblem of seduction. In her world, the podiatrist and the vixen dance together as though veiled by the same filter.

It’s befitting for a woman who cites a cross between Pamela Anderson and Laura Dern as the heart of her inspiration.

Though she says she does not want to “revolutionize shapes,” but rather, “make wearable Barbie shoes [that are] masculine and sophisticated,” in convoluting such disparate points of view, she is tuned in to a new generation of portmanteau-designing that is changing the way we perceive our belongings.

We’re complicated women, right? Our objects should reflect that. This perspective is echoed in her fabrication choices: “I believe using real crocodile to prove that a product is luxurious is useless now. I usually work with cork or materials in contrast with more sophisticated ones. That’s contemporary fashion for me. Something chic and streetwise.”

What’s cool about Pichard is that she can say something like “chic and streetwise” and have it sound honest, as though the balance so many designers tack on to their elevator pitches is an actual cornerstone of her design process. Maybe it’s the whole French thing or maybe, frankly speaking, she’s building a difference between herself and the rest of the women who design for other women. Doing that is one thing — but designing to connect, to get to know your customer and fill in her blanks, so to speak, that’s a whole different ball game.

Shop Amélie Pichard at Farfetch, Ssense.com, or through her website. Want to know more labels? What about Caroline Constas, Katie Ermilio, or these five newish designers?

Jay Z Just Cock-Blocked Beyoncé’s Latest “Drop”

Around 5 PM yesterday I checked my Facebook just in case anyone had requested to be my boyfriend. Between the usual slew of BuzzFeed quizzes, mobile uploads and Twitter aggregations, however, sparkled a shiny new Beyoncé x Nicki Minaj video. Only one random person had posted it, which seemed strange — by now my feed should have been flooded with them, no? And so I fell victim to the same naïve trap too many of us frequent commenters on Oprah and Connie Britton’s Instagrams have assumed before: I thought I was “first.”

A word to the wise: on the Internet, you are rarely “first.”

As soon as I went to write about it the Internet had already taken off to the races. This was American Pharoah versus every digital platform, neck and neck with the same end goal of high SEO. Content jockeys balanced atop their own fingers that clicked faster than galloping hooves. Who would hit publish first?

I re-watched the video twice to see if I had an angle. I grew anxious; “Breaking: Beyoncé Surprises Internet” sounds less appealing once there’s an addendum: “Again.”

To Bey and Nicki’s credit, Monday’s a hard day to drop anything that isn’t your cellphone, and this one in particular did not comply with the Beehive’s Non-compete: Kendall Jenner broke the news of Balmain for H&M, and Taylor Swift released her feature film the night before.

(It also starred the entire world.)

Still, something was there. Beyoncé. Nicki. Kiddy pool. I got it! Then just as quickly as I had typed my first sentence — I found my angle, I spell-checked Nicki’s name — Elizabeth informed me that the video had been taken down.

It reappeared later in the form of a 30-second teaser. Meanwhile, the full video for “Feeling Myself” was confined to Jay Z’s music streaming website, Tidal.

Which I do not have a subscription to.

The Internet is supposed to be a democratizing force. After all, that’s what it did for fashion. It’s made global news a local focus and allowed cat fans to unite under the same fur-covered umbrella. It’s supposed to create communities, not divide them.

Perhaps we’ve gotten spoiled. We accept that we can’t download music without paying for it, but with the Internet as our millennial radio we’ve grown accustomed to streaming for free. YouTube has made music videos open for consumption that were once up a time only accessible via MTV. You don’t need a subscription to read NY Mag online, and Style.com brings fashion week to your living room.

What Jay Z has done is cock blocked us. “Feeling Myself” was about to be my anthem. It could have been our anthem. The new “Pretty Girl Rock,” you know?

Jay Z, not cool, man. Not cool.

Update!!! We were able to embed this via Style.com thanks to you guys below, so, a little less mad.

Original image via Tidal // “Feeling Myself” by Nicki Minaj featuring Beyoncé

Ask a Guy: “I’ve Never Had a Boyfriend.”

Dear Isaac,

I am 23, smart, cute, funny, and I have never had a boyfriend. My question doesn’t come from a place of why?, because I know why — I’ve never wanted one. I like being single. I had a good time with guys in high school and college and have had meaningful experiences. It’s not exactly like I’m starving for love.

Right now, I’m the only one in my close knit group of girlfriends who is single — which is new. Usually there are at least two of us who aren’t in a relationship, but that could also be because we all met in college when we weren’t concerned with finding someone. I don’t mind, honestly, because all these guys are great, so I really feel like I’ve just made five new friends. They’re all solid additions to our dynamic, and they all make my friends happy, so I have no reason to complain.

The reason I’m reaching out is because I feel like I haven’t grown out of that college mode. I’m nostalgic for a time when we all favored late night booty calls over flirty texts, when we put more emphasis on building our friendship than any relationship with a guy. It felt like we were always doing things for a story, and I guess I just assumed that would continue after we graduated. But here we are, a year later, and I kind of want what they have. I just don’t know how to go about it, how to get out of that hooking up mindset.

Sincerely,

No New (Boy)Friends

Hello NNBF,

Man can I relate. For as long as I can remember, I lived my entire life for the stories. Having a good anecdote > everything.

Here’s what I honestly think:

Casual hookups are all very good and well when everybody’s laughing and nobody’s getting hurt, but the likelihood of that continuing indefinitely is slim. I genuinely believe that sex is a lot bigger and more powerful than we give it credit for, and that the more we play around with it without being respectful of its impact, the more we are potentially messing with our future happiness (not to mention our emotional well-being).

For example: My male friends who sleep with everything that moves find it almost impossible to be sexually sustained in their long-term relationships, and always feel like they’re missing out on something the moment they get “locked down.” Sure, they’re absolute champions in their fellow male friends’ eyes, but all they’re doing is participating in a self-perpetuating problem, because casual sex is like cocaine; the more you do, the more you need to do.

As far as living life as a series of LOL-worthy stories, it’s important to remember that we’re not characters in a movie. Not every experience is for sharing, and in some cases, sharing the experience cheapens it. It recently occurred to me that if we’re always doing shit for giggles, then all we’re really doing is passively holding everything and everybody at arm’s length as a defense mechanism against getting hurt, and if that’s the case, then are we ever actually experiencing anything at all? Are you there Drake? It’s me, Isaac.

So how do you get over the hookup mindset? Stop hooking up. Try forging an emotional connection with someone before you jump into bed with them. You might end up getting hurt in the process, but you might not. It’s a risk we all take, and good things take time.

Have a relationship question for Isaac? He’s really good at answering stuff. Post your questions below or email write@manrepeller.com with ASK ISAAC in the subject line. Follow him on Instagram here, Twitter here, and check out his website here. However, if it’s wedding advice you need, check here first. 

Original image shot by Annie  Leibovitz for Disney.

The Golden Age of Mom Names

It’s a shame that Gwyneth Paltrow chose to name her daughter Apple, but not — as you may have privately thought — because the word “apple” is most widely associated with fruit. Rather, it’s because she has the power to set trends and establish norms. She’s an influencer, and though you may have not yet a met Mango or a Peach, I’m rather certain that there will be fruit salads in every school across America by the time you, dear reader, have a child.

Gwyneth had a responsibility to carry on her family’s legacy of strong Mom Names. Gwyn’s mother was Blythe, and Blythe’s was Katherine. Kath. These are the kinds of names one expects to call out at PTA meeting, not Apple, for heaven’s sake.

But I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of the Golden Age of Mom Names.

Barbara. Martha. Susan. Darlene.

Diane. Sandra. Donna! Carol. When is the last time you met a 12-year-old named Carol?

Francis. (Fran.) Linda. Pam.

Paulette. Elaine. Edith. Jeanne.

Liz. Connie. Nancy. Tammy. Brenda. Janice. Kathleen.

Our mothers were being kind, you see, when they gave us the names that we have. They were inspired by romance novels, pop culture, European travels and political movements. My mother, Sheila (is that not the ultimate mom name? Sheil.) christened me Amelia, after Earhart, for both its pleasant phonetics and feminist implications. But couldn’t she have thrown me a mom-name bone for the sake of my future womb-enhood and given me Gloria? At least then I could be nicknamed “Glo.”

Too few of us will be Deb at soccer practice. Too few of us with get mad when our daughters call us Gayle. We have names that roll off the tongue, sure. But are they sturdy enough to accompany a hatchback filled with snacks? To merritt respect when we tell the waiter there’s a draft?

Perhaps I cannot see the trees because I’m standing in the forest with Gwyneth’s Apple. But let us take a moment of silence regardless, and appreciate that we are living in a truly special time. Let us consider ourselves lucky not only to know these women, but to know them well enough to call them mom.

Currently on the phone with your mom and want to read her something else? Click here. AND. After you add your mom’s name below, write a story about her for MR.

Throwback Video: Mother’s Day with the Medines

Video by Aram Bedrossian

Happy Mother’s Day to the women who made us.

John Mayer Might Be the Perfect Prom Date

I had the perfect junior prom date: my first kiss.

Things had not progressed romantically after the night our rival-high-school paths first crossed. We’d only talked enough for him to make a passing joke about prom. But for me, a plan was solidified. I presented Exhibit A — the printed transcript of our MSN messenger chat — to the girls in PreCalc the next morning. Yes, they concurred, you’ve snagged yourself a date.

The first time we hung out, I served him with papers. He demolished an entire pizza as he filled out the forms required by my school to bring this stranger to the dance. Between logistical discussions demanded by the big night and one additional rendezvous (tie shopping — he bought nothing), two things happened: I created a date, and the look.

Unlike much of what I wore in high school, I would take this prom dress to the grave. I went vintage, only because vintage guaranteed unique in a town of few department stores and large high schools.

The dress was a piece of work. It was the first garment I ever owned that coupled tangible weight with obvious fragility. It demanded to be picked up with both hands. It was tea length and sweetheart cut, white with a cream and black lace overlay. A full corset, replete with twelve hook-and-eye closures, lurked under the lining. The slashed label read “Carmen Marc Valvo,” a name that set my romantic fantasy in Italy circa 1940. And it was no longer a dress; it was a gown.

As for hair inspiration, I’d saved two clippings: featuring an excessive number of braids, and Gwen Stefani featuring an excessive number of real flowers. I asked my mother to combine them, and my dad was assigned to buy tea roses. (Yeah Dad, these red roses are close enough!)

My date was charm and intrigue wrapped into a rental tux; my imagination supplied the rest. I couldn’t wait to see teachers exchange knowing glances (yes, it was the teachers I wanted to impress). I’d planned every detail of my outfit, I’d labored over every detail of the event itself, and the hope and prospect of where the night would take us buoyed me along the entire way. I couldn’t get enough of prom.

Until, suddenly, it was all over. After getting portraits with my friends (those packages weren’t so bad, split eight ways), I walked up behind him and caught enough of his conversation to understand that he was making plans for later. Without me.

Our night ended with a hug; my night ended with iPod mini headphones stuffed in my ears as I convinced myself that John Mayer was asking, “Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hair?” as I cried myself to sleep over a boy for the first time in all my sixteen years.

Carmen Marc Valvo hails from Westchester County, NY and created his first collection in 1989. Regular roses are significantly larger than their tea variety. The John Mayer lyric is “roses in my hand.” My first kiss would not be my first boyfriend, and prom would not be the greatest night of my life. But prom is about anticipation, planning, and pretending. You try on adult rituals for size: your first nail appointment, your first makeup appointment, the first time a date buys you dinner (even if his dad lent him his card), and takes your arm. It’s about waiting to finally hold the pictures that captured the entire charade. Pictures that, to this day, do not cause me to regret anything — not the dress, not the date, and especially not the full-sized roses inexplicably blooming from my bun.

New to the Writers Club? See the newest prompt and past entries here.