Leandra Medine's Blog, page 650

Confession: I Hate My Hair

It’s been ten years since the last time I saw my hair. I mean really saw it.

The image I project now — the hair you know, the hair I know — that’s hair that is manipulated by straightening tools that have been trained to beat the authenticity out of it. I’m not sure when the switch flipped and I conclusively decided that my natural hair didn’t suit me (when, really, who’s to say that my opinion knows better than my own DNA?) but I do remember the first time my mom ever straightened my hair with her blow dryer. I was 9 and we were going to my grandmother’s for New Year’s dinner. (Subsequently, it was the only night of the year for the following five years that I was allowed to have my hair straightened).

On that day, I felt this unusual sensation for the first time — like when I looked in the mirror, I saw a version of me that was better than the one I had known. I didn’t know I could manipulate my primordial features to better align with the adolescent-girl-wanted features of my fancies and when it became clear that I could, all bets were off.

I have hypothesized two possible reasons I hate my curly hair.

1. It’s not cool. I know there is substantial evidence that debunks this conjecture (case in point: Diana Ross, Ms. Solange Knowles, my own personal hero, Gilda Radner and New York’s most discernible fashion icon, Sarah Jessica Parker), but frankly, I feel incredibly self-conscious when my hair is left to run wild. Like a messier, less-in-control version of myself. Maybe this is because in my youth, all of my friends had pins, as opposed to looping straws emerging from their heads. Maybe if I’d known then that it’s okay to be different, even kind of cool to be different, I’d have adopted a different relationship with my head.

But I digress.

Reason #2. My mom’s hair is fairly curly too. Not exactly like mine but curly enough that I distinctly associate the smell of burnt-by-a-dryer-hair with my being a kid seated atop her toilet while I watched her wet strands transform to straight locks. It looked like magic fostered by the large gun-shaped tool she would put to her head while she combed her fingers through her hair, watching with satisfaction as the change progressed.

She has often told me that “hair matters. It can change how you feel about yourself.” I know that when she said this, it was to offer a solution to my young frustrations with myself (and maybe, too, to counter a disinterest I exhibited early to eschew showers in favor of oily hair) but I’m realizing that I took her words to mean that with curly hair, I’m not good enough.

I’ve filled in the blanks and come to believe that with straight hair, I am.

But this is an emotional handicap I am dutifully trying to overcome. Specifically because the relationship I’ve developed with my hair runs counter to the Man Repeller ethos. Here we shout: Be yourself! Embrace your flaws! Love who you are for who you are! — and I believe all of this, of course I do, but how can I expect macro-change to be set in motion when I am displaying symptoms of such wild insecurity that has been patched up by years of Band-Aids on a wound that has probably needed stitches.

Maybe hair is how I try to compensate for my fragile relationship with makeup. Ultimately, the goal is to feel good, right? So we should do whatever that takes. Whether that means straight hair, or no makeup or so much makeup or none of those things is irrelevant — these are just the practices that we put in place to achieve greatness.

Today, I’ll try something new. I’ll wear my curls out, I’ll fake pride until it almost feels real and every time I catch my reflection, I’ll smile.

Broad City Season Finale? Yes, Queen!

You take the good, you take the bad, you put it together and what do you have? News that Broad City’s season finale will air this evening. It’s an emotional two-parter for the obvious fact that on the one hand, it’s Broad City Wednesday. The show has made the otherwise monotonous day considerably more fun (strap ons! Kelly Ripa! adventures in babysitting!), and it’s provided a halfway happiness point to focus on each Monday.

So where does the bad come in? Right here: “season finale” means no new episodes or friends for at least a few months, and I don’t know about you guys but I’ve already consumed every rerun (including their OG web series) faster than a Pad Thai leftover discovery at 3 a.m., post-tequila bender.

But rather then panic, let us celebrate Abbi and Ilana’s standout success. The duo of comedic royalty deserve no less than a slideshow dedicated to the empowering catchphrase that Ilana’s protégé Oliver recently discovered:

Shall we begin? Scroll through the above (thank you to Esther and Charlotte who assigned each throne), and then don’t forget to add your own coronation ceremonies in the comments down below.

Consumerist Society: All The Things We Want

In a landscape that no longer promotes escapism with the same zest that it used to, we’re left to our own devices to mock up that kind of pit-in-belly excitement that gets the wheels of creativity so deeply in motion, you are almost compelled to forget that on March 19th, you’re still wearing mittens. You’re so excited, by the way, that you don’t even realize the year is 2015 and according to the rules of adulthood, you were supposed to suspend mitten-wearing the same year your mom stopped clipping them to your jacket. (If she still does this, I’m not judging you, but where does she buy the clips?)

But immobile fingers aside, it seems that a good way to get excited is to imagine a better future, starting unilaterally — one where the clothes flow like clean water in a Brita and you maintain complete control of your projected personality because in this future, the Internet is your closet, the currency is measured in $0.00 mouse-taps that get you 30 minute-long bouts of ownership at the hand of digital shopping carts, and anything can happen.

Confused? Let me clarify with an example.

Forget the weather! I refuse to indulge in these feelings of inadequacy, to give the wind what it wants: ownership over the wrinkles forming as a result of my furrowed, cold brow and ugly, sensible shoes that will not freeze my toes right down to their nails. I’m better than that. I’m hypothesizing a new me. One who can wear…

Suede sandals!

And an extravagant cotton smock blouse.

With the twill blazer of reasonable (though certainly not cheap) dreams

And a profusely charming red lace skirt that says, “I’m here for the gang bang but can’t stay long.”

I might involve this clutch, too, because as you know: if you can’t beat them you confuse them.

And therefore while I’m at it, maybe these shoesmake more sense.

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Amelia, Esther and Charlotte are doing it too. Follow the Javascript road through our slideshow to get a better sense of what these weird women want to look like when the sun comes up, the wind goes down and we’re priming at a consistent 65 degrees Fahrenheit.

Then get involved because it’s a fun time to consider what you’ll want to wear and therefore who you’ll want to be. Rile your shopping carts up and treat the below comment box like the cathartic confessional we hope it to be.

Bringing Texting Back

I am technically a millennial, but these days I feel increasingly out of touch with the media narrative of a typical 20-something. I’m fairly loyal to Instagram and Twitter. I have Snapchat, but I never used it. I won’t download Fling — the concept of strangers from all parts of the world sending me selfies (some of which are just Not Suitable For Life) totally bewilders me. And in the past few months, I’ve noticed that more of my friends are ditching communication over these newfangled platforms to go back to the old school. No, not phone calls — text messages.

We don’t show a lot of respect to the text message, the old safety pin that held my adolescence together. When I could only keep seven texts on my Nokia, it meant prioritizing conversations (“Where r u?” — delete) and treasuring certain people’s words (like a prized love letter along the lines of “*Buks nxt wk?”). There was a fine technique to texting, an etiquette, an appropriate window to wait before replying. It was a medium that considered everyone in our lives – work colleagues, family, friends, love interests. It was so simple.

But then we got Facebook and Twitter and WhatsApp and Snapchat. Our conversations became fragmented and because of that, some were forgotten. What started as a Direct Message may have gotten lost between FB Messenger and GChat because streams of thought no longer occur in one central location.

There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with connecting on multiple platforms — communication is fundamental to human beings. I don’t believe our children will grow up silent, speaking with each other solely through staccato messages under 140 characters, and I definitely don’t buy the scare story that we’re forgetting the art of communication. But I do worry that the plethora of conversational options is moving us away from the roots of interpersonal dialogue. It’s the disconnect that leaves people cold.

We need to bring back the text message — a private exchange between a select group of people where there’s no third party present to “like” it, no room for conversation to get lost in translation from one app to another to another.

If we were engaging in witty banter, texting offers the fifteen minutes I might need to come up with a line to match yours. And if we were arguing, texting would allow a whole hour to conjure up a shoot-‘em-dead rebuttal so poisonous it hurts to read. Without an “opened” notification or the double check of WhatsApp, you’d be free to think I was skydiving, or writing a novel, blissfully unaware of your message. I’d have time to think, and you’d know my response meant something.

More than anything, texting expresses a genuine desire that Person A wants to connect with Person B — so much so that we wouldn’t want the words and pictures exchanged to disappear after ten seconds. “*Bucks next week?” would once again become a happy token to cherish.

So let’s celebrate the text. It’s close as we’re going to get to non-selfish communication, for now.

Homepage image by Tommy Ton.

Limbo Weather Styling Idea

I am exceptional at beating horses until they have died. But not the literal kind — I would never actually kill a horse. This, in spite of how strongly I stand for (despite my aversion to animal cruelty) Amelia cruelty.

But horses are cool. Specifically in that they have necks long enough to really show off a turtleneck but don’t wear them because they’re humble (speculation) and thus don’t want to ruin something good for us plebeian, regular-necked mortals. But never mind that; this particular horse is metaphoric, people — a euphemism for limbo weather and the dressing cues it incites.

If Monday revealed the details of an outfit that seemingly forced a commenter to ask if I was sick, today might present the same question with this sliver of advice: if you’re ready for your off-the-shoulder blouses but find that it’s still a bit cold and you haven’t quite recovered from that bite the turtleneck bug chewed into your aorta, why don’t you make like Caroline Constas and wear the two garments together? Here I did it with vintage Levi’s and sparkly shoes but I’m sure you can come up with something more interesting.

This is exactly what I meant when I suggested you get a head start on fall last month, but now I’m feeling like maybe we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, so just call this the horse’s wink.

Vika Gazinskaya top, Topshop turtleneck, Levi’s jeans, Valentino heels

The Trajectory of You as Told by Your Jeans

Are we what we wear? Nah. Not in the present tense, at least. They might reflect who we want to be, tell the stories we’re not quite willing to, but at the bottom line, we are who we are. Point blank. Jeans are a different animal, though, they tell a great deal about who we were. Consider them a series of bench marks, a marker similar to the photo album perched between War and Peace and Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In on your book shelf that possibly retains the memories you didn’t care to remember yourself. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re tragic, often they don’t make it past the five year mark but fundamentally and definitively they are always an iteration of you. So what does that say, right?

Boot Cut

Picture, for a moment, your year-2000-self. You danced to “Toxic.” You watched The O.C. You were 99% angel and layered your polos. You lived for the sound of your crush signing online. Your jeans, meanwhile, hung aggressively low, but so long as you weren’t getting detention, you didn’t care. The part below your knee flared out just enough so that it could hang down over your Rainbows and onto the ground, and you naively assumed this style would never fade out…

Skinny

“There’s no way,” you said to yourself. “No way I’m trying jeans that suction-cup to my ankles. My legs will look fat, guaranteed.” For years your calves had room to breathe, until suddenly, the trend bended skinny.

But then the skinny jeans grew on you. You bought a pair from Old Navy as your starter pack. They looked “cute” with sweatshirts, and flats, and party tops, and flip flops. They made you look a little more polished. From there the addiction grew — All pants must appear painted! — and before you knew it you relied on old faithful like a crutch.

The Editor

College skinny jean transitioned into post-graduate cool with a color change (black) and fabric (waxed), and for the Francophiles, a lower waistband. Emmanuelle Alt was the immediate inspiration. You wore them to creative job interviews, dates and to “go out.”

These jeans lived, however, during the birth of the “boyfriend,” and for the first time in a long time two denim silhouettes shared your closet’s spotlight. Both styles were leg tested, editor approved and looked good with your one-paycheck-per-foot pumps.

Overalls

Those boyfriend jeans were like a gateway drug. You started craving nonconformity and refused to be boxed in. No longer were jeans about looking sexy for you. Instead, they became a game of sartorial birth control. Why cover up one private part when — with the clasp of a shoulder strap — you could cover them all? Perhaps you also read a certain book.

Cut Offs

…But everyone knows that if you give a mouse a pair of overalls, she’s going to want to go to Glastonbury, which will remind her of that one time at Coachella. It was there in the California desert that you had your epiphany: nothing says music festival and youth like high waisted cut offs with fringe at the thighs.

You later learned that cut offs more-than-proved their worth in urban areas, too, where transportation does not include shoulder riding. Instead of a crop top, you wore a striped shirt, and instead of combat boots: a pair of flats. Your Alexa Chung phase commenced, and it’s possible you never looked back.

Super High

…Though chances are, you gave in to normcore. The shorts above were just the beginning of your ’80s resurgence: super high waisted mom jeans proudly declared that you gave zero fucks about your ass, and also, perhaps, that you were a victim of childhood wedgies. But they also opened you into a world of Saint Laurent’s practically-sprayed-on take of the the aforementioned college skinny.

Lady Cropped

If you remained a skinny jean loyalist but considered yourself a Charlotte (as opposed to a Carrie), the cropped ankle look provided that ladylike Audrey Hepburn effect.

Ripped

And then, the 90s-redux set in. Your jeans looked incomplete without a little bit of grunge. You retained that post-Abercrombie complex bestowed upon you via your parents (“You could buy the same pair of jeans for 20 bucks, you know. Try doing a little yard work — it’ll rip your jeans for free.”) and yet you boldly maintained that you were in your artist phase. For about three months, you wore a plaid shirt around your waist like it was a fanny pack and you? A Disneyland dad.

Flares

…But then it hit: the 70s. As a short girl eternally in search of a longer leg, you got down on your knees and thanked the platform gods. (Then you re-watched That 70s Show and secretly compared your butt to Kelso’s.)

The Cropped High Waist Flare Leg Combo Platter

Or, for those born tall/anyone in-the-know at all, denim’s pièce de résistance currently resides in the form of a sartorial portmanteau (shout out to the style of Marcia Brady) whereupon the jeans are not only flared, but also cropped. The waist, high. The morale, higher; and you at your current stage-of-life, debating whether or not you’ll try out that whole Brooke Shields thing come spring while you silently pray the boot cut of year 2000 — still hanging between Lady Cropped and The Editor — has a fashion-adapted comeback. If only for the thrill of the memory.

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Find out what more of your stuff says about you here.

5 Things the Internet Gave Us Today

It’s 5 p.m. and you realize that you haven’t checked BuzzFeed yet. This is arguably the best part of your day. For the remaining 60 minutes of work, you’re free to take as many “Which _____ Are You?” quizzes as you’d like. There are 24-hours-worth of creepy lists for you to consume, and where would the mind-numbing hour between five and six be without animal GIFs?

5 p.m. is basically the Internet’s twilight. The lighting dims and your brain starts to doze off…

Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah! The five things that saved the Internet today. Are you still with me?

Jimmy Kimmel and Matthew McConaughey Saved a Video Store 

Before a trip to Austin, Jimmy Kimmel — being the patron saint that he is —  posted a tweet offering to make a TV commercial for a local, struggling business. Vulcan Video heard his cries, and Jimmy visited the store soon after. The resulting commercial featured a cameo by one very special Texan actor who goes by the tagline, “Alright, Alright, Alright.”

[Vulture]

Michelle Obama Answered Questions for The Skimm

Surprise! Michelle Obama’s in your inbox! The first lady answered questions about the Let Girls Learn project and even threw in a good book recommendation for good measure. Oh, and tomorrow’s Skimm subject line will be courtesy of Michelle too.

[The Skimm]

Lizard People of New York

For a while now, Humans of New York seemed untouchable. It was a rare and uplifting corner of the Internet where people could browse photos of everyday people accompanied by inspiring conversational snippets. The widely popular account is now being parodied by Lizards of New York, a snarky Facebook page that takes HONY’s photos and allocates different captions to them.

[Facebook]

Justin Bieber Got Charred at His Roast

Apparently our plea to stop bullying Justin Bieber was a flop since a lot of funny people had very mean things to say about him at his Comedy Central roast. Guys, I think he needs a hug.

[Vulture]

Starbucks Baristas Are Encouraged To Save the World

 

Starbucks is trying to improve race relations by encouraging employee-costumer interactions. CEO Howard Schultz is spearheading the proposal. His goal is to motivate constructive conversation over racial tensions. Something to ponder the next time you go in for your next triple shot of espresso.

[Fortune]

Are you rejuvenated? Good. Daylight savings means one more hour of sun each day (theoretically). That’s one more hour to mull over your wardrobe, consider some new basics, read a really cute love story, or get to know a grool new designer.

None of My Boyfriends Know We’re Dating

The plight of our generation is that no one is willing to define the relationship. We’re constantly Seeking Susans, permanently convinced that the ass is greener on the other side. Avoiding committed relationships for fear of complacency has become so universal that our parents have finally accepted us as nomads of the romantic world. We’re not not dating, we tell them; we’re just also not not single.

My situation is a little different. As of this year I’m in 5 different relationships. The cool term to use is polyamorous. Many loves. The biggest problem I’ve found, however, is not so much explaining to my grandmother why I’m so popular nor is it the logistical headache of balancing a variety of priorities. It’s coping with the emotional strain of having 5 boyfriends who don’t know that we’re Official.

For example, the delivery guy who works at my most-ordered restaurant seems to give zero weight to the fact that we share custody of a baby. He picks up my food from kitchen daycare and then delivers it to my apartment. This is a holy transaction; I’m trusting him with my dinner. One misstep and that burger is on the floor. One hesitation at a yellow light and my fries are cold. I see him at least 3 times a week. I call on the phone and speak to a human to place my order — this is way more serious than Seamless. But still, he refuses to stay over.

Then there’s my tailor. Jack. Some days it’s like he doesn’t even recognize me. We’re both super busy and our work hours don’t exactly align (I work 10 to 7 and he’s open “whenever is most inconvenient”), but when we do see each other it’s super intimate. He’s seen me in my underwear. He knows my bra size.

Speaking of intimacy, there’s Standing and Eating Guy. SEG. “Seg” lives in the 5th floor of the building adjacent to mine. I see him every day and pause to wave as I take a quick breath on my building’s final flight of stairs. He is always standing, he is always eating, and despite our daily repertoire, he acts as though I don’t exist.

The bartender at the vodka-ing hole I frequent flirts with other women right in front of me. I think he does it to make me jealous — and yes, I’ve given my number to guys in front of him, but that doesn’t give him the right to make light of our very obvious connection. Sometimes I want to shake him and cry, “We bonded over Titos! I thought that meant something.”

Ok, and not to sound crazy, but sometimes I don’t think my coffee guy remembers my name.

Yes my situation is stressful. It’s nonconformist and far from traditional, and it hurts that my own boyfriends don’t know we’re dating. But there are so many perks to our modern relationship (food, hemmed cuffs, strong drinks, etc.) that I’m okay with not rocking the boat. Some things are simply better left unsaid.

What’s More Annoying: Spirit Animal or Girl Crush?

The broom in my right hand has grown larger with age. I’ve become crankier and crankier, my left fist raised higher than ever before as the list of metaphorical children who I want off my proverbial lawn grows. This month I’ve taken issue with the words  “Girl Crush.” It’s my Mr. Wilson’s equivalent of Dennis the Menace, and I want to know where its gosh darn mother is.

“Girl Crush” makes me cringe. It makes my eyes roll. It makes my face contort when I read it in an interview or via Instagram caption (“Blake Lively is my total Girl Crush”; “Girl Crush on this one, bffs!”). My physical reaction when I hear the term is often so exaggerated that witnesses ask if I’m having a stroke. If that were the case, do you think I’d be able to answer?

It bothers me for its superfluity. The “girl” part is unnecessary. Just say “crush.” Or better yet, just say, “I like this person.” “She has great style.” No one will think you’re making a hair doll out of she who you crush if you don’t clarify your intentions with a cheeky wink. No one will think you’re looking for a sexual relationship, or a monogamous one. We get that you’re putting this person on a public pedestal for the sake of social proprietorship — you liked FKA Twigs first, got it — but still. Leave the “girl” at home. Now here comes the swing of my broom: it’s just annoying.

However…

Yesterday I was sitting at the office, shoving spicy caramel popcorn into my mouth with the force of a starved Kirby blob, when Esther stopped my call of duty via an email with the subject line: Important.

Inside it was a GIF. This GIF to be specific:

And I announced to the office that this ninja cat was my spirit animal.

Then Leandra went and threw a basketball in the house, thus shattering its front window and my world. “I hate the term ‘spirit animal'” she said. “It’s so annoying. It’s like you and ‘girl crush.'”

Save for the fact that spirit animals have a more diverse range (theoretically, anything from a smashed can of cranberry sauce to Hermione Granger’s weird otter Patronus could be one’s spirit animal) both terms command the same meaning: I’m claiming this as my own. It’s mine.

So while I look into having a custom monogram stamp made so that I can dip it in ink and stain celebrities I venerate or cats I love with my initials in lieu of using either overused-words, let’s take a vote:

What is more annoying? Girl Crush, or Spirit Animal? And though this isn’t the SATS, it is the Cogitation Station. So my follow up question is…why?

Know Your Labels: Caroline Constas

Something great about New York fashion is the element of discovery that unfolds at the hand of the manifold new designers who tend to accurately embody the spirit of making it in the metropolis. They inject that “intoxicating” sense of novelty that as J.V. fashion critics, we’re always after.

Of course, what is most impressive is when these new designers become the older designers, who predict and then make the ideas that we will project using our bodies the following seasons. On board to join the next chapter’s legion is Caroline Constas, the New York-based, Canada-born designer who is, unsurprisingly, responding to the popular cry for wearable clothes and making what women will, no doubt, describe as the stuff they want to live in. She calls it, “Something new to the market that is of quality and that I myself would want to purchase.”

For Fall 2015, the designer, who was pre-med in college, showed a series of off-the-shoulder blouses styled over turtlenecks and with flared pants that only slightly challenged the narrative (we were bound before she made them to gravitate towards big pants) but did it with enough relish to make you wonder the million dollar question: why didn’t I think of that?

Constas launched in Spring 2013 in spite of a background in the sciences as a reaction to her consistently envisioning clothing she couldn’t find. Coupled with a commitment to “wearable high quality fabrications,” she understood there was space in the contemporary market to inject the kind intellect you’re often wont to find among the upper echelons of the industry by simple virtue of practicing some smart, healthy manipulation.

“It can be tricky in this market because the creative process is dependent on profit margins,” she said, “and I have noticed that the corner that is most commonly cut is in the fabrications. I was always perplexed by this so I created a sustainable, vertical business structure, which would allow me to have free range to design and buy the fabrics I loved by choosing to take austerity measures on the overhead budget as opposed to the design and production budget.”

You get the sense that Constas had this off duty Bianca-Jagger-skiing-and-partying-in-the-Swiss-Alps type in mind when she designed Fall. And it works — though it’s still early, she’s displayed an intelligent understanding that in fashion, you’ve got to play with the tension and the great paradox. Say it quietly but with loud confidence! Stand out while sitting down! Be strong, stay soft!

She calls her woman “feminine but willing to take risks,” citing a thrilling new normal within fashion as her motivational thrust; “There is something very playful about fashion today. We are more open and take more risks. It doesn’t have to be so serious.” There’s a lesson we can get behind.

The spring 2015 collection is now available on Shopbop.

Read about more cool, new designers here.