Leandra Medine's Blog, page 670

The Two Minute Face

It’s rumored that Pamela Anderson’s trademark face took 15 minutes to complete. Her makeup artist, Alexis Vogel, used this as a selling point during late night infomercials for her eponymous line of beauty products.

Now, when Putzie in Grease asks Danny Zuko, “Is that all it takes? 15 minutes?” he’s technically referring to sex as opposed to a contouring routine, but I’m with Danny and Sonny when they respond by whacking him on the head. Do you know what you can do with 15 minutes?

Here’s what I’d do: not be awake.

The whole makeup shebang — primer, foundation, under-eye concealer, blush, highlighter, shadow, sea salt, quinoa — it gives one hell of a result but it’s tough on the arm muscles and makes falling back into your natural skin a hard reality. Also — it takes forever.

And no one has that much time. All any of us ever really have is two minutes, which is exactly what you need to get a face that says, Hey world! Maybe I am hungover, and maybe the pimple on my chin isn’t “covered up” artistically, but at least you can see my freckles, complimenting my “heathly” glow. Bonus: you don’t even need a mirror.

Here’s what you’ll need:

1) A foundation so lightweight you could spill a bit in your coffee, drink it, and not taste it.

2) A pink or berry stain for your cheeks and lips that goes on smooth but gives you, like, a second to chill and then rub it in.

3) A matte bronzer, because when you did or did not go on vacation is no one’s business.

4) A fluffy brush to go with the above. (Nothing stiff — you don’t want to start too heavy and then have no choice but to keep evening out the color.)

5) Your favorite mascara — though lashstensions will cut your two minutes down to one, guaranteed. Hint hint.

6) A highlighter that shines (but doesn’t sparkle).

7) A brow comb — the unsung hero. (Grab a few from Sephora; they’re free.)

Now watch:

Warm up a small bit of foundation between your fingers, then apply to your face like lotion. If you have spots, use the sticky part of your foundation (often in the cap) for thicker coverage.

Next: Do your best Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen impression, then swipe the stain on the apples you’ve just created. Rub in, then apply the stain to your lips. (Apply lip balm right after.) Rub in, then resist the urge to wipe your now-red finger on your probably-white jeans.

Fluff the bronzer over your face. Just fluff. We’re bringing ourselves back from the dead, not the shore.

With your pinky, dot the highlighter on the inner and outer corners of your eye, in your cupid’s bow, at the corners of your mouth, the bottom of your lip and then drag the remainder over your lids.

Swipe your lashes — once on the left, once on the right. No repeating.

Then comb your brows and boom: You did it. You’re a beauty queen. You looked like a damn angel before but now? Now you look like yourself in X-Pro. And it only took two minutes, which means you’re totally on time.

An Ode To Men’s Jeggings

The last day of summer, and what a day. Out on the beach, a quiet stretch of Sagaponack, children played beneath a rainbow parasol. A gentle breeze whistled in the brush. Beside me, a friend dozed on a chaise longue.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But where did you get those jeans?”

He lifted his fedora to reveal a knowing smile.

“These are no jeans,” he said in a low voice, as if I’d stumbled on the gates of a secret fraternity. “They’re jeggings.”

For much of history, getting dressed was an unhappy occasion. “In modern times,” wrote the late Joan Rivers, “women have used bustles, hoop skirts, petticoats, corsets and girdles to shrink the waist and boost the bottom.” How many feet were bound, ribs crushed, ankles sprained in the name of high fashion.

But, for women at least, much has changed. Ladies I know strut about in sneakers — though sometimes disguised as heels. Stretchy pants stand for any occasion. “Athleisure,” so-called, is ushering in “a new aesthetic of casual comfort suits,” writes Véronique Hyland on The Cut. Wearability is all the rage. Clad in this “third wardrobe,” women are both chic and shrewd, like sheep in wolves’ clothing.

On Instagram the other day, a woman I follow posted a photo with the caption: “Pajama bottoms slowly replacing jeans.” A commenter agreed, “Story of my life.”

This boy’s life?

Not quite. Men still cling to their suits like armor. Neckties remain a noose and a nuisance. Dress shoes hug the ankle, shackle-like, as ever. Our lapels are thinner, spectacles thicker, socks more patterned, and none much the cozier. Perhaps the biggest culprits are those on our legs.

Jeans are, and may forever be, de rigueur. In this decade, denim will reach a global market of over $50 billion. I remember fathers cheering at soccer practice in the same Levi’s 501s favored by Steve Jobs. Quite sensibly, my mother refused me JNCOs — those billowing 90s abominations. Boot cuts tend to shred at the hem, and years later, the soul. I owned splotched, scarified pairs which left their owner, too, feeling “distressed.” Then came the skinny jean, raw and rigid, leaving little room to wiggle and less to the imagination.

What’s worse is the upkeep. I know fellows who freeze their blue jeans overnight. Others prance in the ocean with the pant legs turned inside out. Many decline cleaning outright (a lesson I learned the hard way when my housekeeper reduced a 31 Skinny Straight to a 26 Tall Toddler). In the early aughts I owned a nearly perfect pair, which, I retired after one season for fear of deterioration. For a time I preferred A.P.C.’s petit standard, until my friend Izzie Lerer cried out, “I can see your peeper!”

So, emboldened by my chaise-lounging peer who had looked so at ease in his stretchy pants, I found myself on the third floor of Uniqlo once the leaves changed and fall commenced. “MEN LEGGINGS JEANS” read a sign. I  plucked a pair from the shelf and carried my contraband to the fitting room. What can I say? They were marvelous, like trading a catheter for a condom. Aside from the obvious merit — that is, the give — the jeggings were straight-leg, slender, and of a uniform wash. Less jeans, more pants.

$29.90 got me the goods (though I parted with nearly that much to shorten the hem). And since then, I’ve never looked back. They fit like a glove, dress up or down, and come out of the wash entirely unwrinkled.

Non-believers tend to scoff at the “girly” name, or conflate jeggings with skinny jeans. But to the contrary, these tickle where denim chafes yet appear identical to the naked eye. They’re versatile. They’re a second skin. They add bit of spandex to your step.

My advice to the men: torch your wardrobe, beeline for the jeggings aisle, and grow a pair.

Rob Fishman is the co-founder of Niche, and previously an editor at BuzzFeed, Aol and The Huffington Post. You can follow him on Twitter here.  Image shot by Tommy Ton

The Rules of Style by Solange Knowles

So great are the moments I have attempted to enlist the unwitting help of Solange Knowles in getting dressed, but so scarce have the successful executions been. Blame it on my hair, which is frizzy when un-ironed but not quite cool. Somehow, my preferred method of breast covering — a white t-shirt or striped blouse just looks better when paired with a thick of ring of secrets — and no doubt cool ones — that encircle the human head.

And then, of course, there’s the juncture at which prints meet and ineluctably mate.

Pants are optional, prints are not.

In my thinking I had a decent sense of precisely which plaids should be paired with florals, which versions of animal prints deserve glitter counterparts and so forth, I have done okay, but not nearly well enough by the standard of one bartender who has gone so far as to implicate sunglasses that are geometric and blindingly colorful, next to, say, gingham shoes.

And your nails — asking if you prefer them short or long, round or square is like suggesting you prefer your squash in the form of spaghetti or butternut because between the options, there are the manipulative procedures that completely transform one or the other. One makes spaghetti, the other makes soup and with your nails — while this comparison is slowly revealing itself as indubitably nonsensical, I’m just going to go ahead and say: they should be trained to work — and look — like claws. Claws that will protect you from the critics who will scorn: you show too much, you show too little, you show a little bit of everything and a chunk of nothing, too.

And you, yellow in the face, will say, “Flake off, Toby.”

And that — that color. Yellow, which has heretofore meant nothing but jaundice to me. And that Coldplay song, too. And, I guess, the sun. And corn. And this one painting in my grandparents’ Florida home, which is supposed to depict the life and times of a bottle cap.

Now, though, yellow is the color of passion. And of air conditioning. Of that flicker you can make out in your reflection when you know you’ve accomplished an outfit that moments earlier, you set out to achieve. You might not have a tail or gratuitous chiffon plackets, but you have a dream.

And when you get married, if you get married…

When you propose to yourself in order to fulfill the dress code requirement, you will wear a cape.

Because

Solange

Said

To.

(And also, Jenna Lyons was there.)

What’s the First Thing You Notice About Someone?

The first thing I notice about a person is their hands. It’s not a judgmental observation — it’s more of a mental scanning process where, in the quick span of five seconds, I’ve taken note of finger length, nail shape, nail beds, how wrinkled the palms are plus the freckles and markings on top. It’s the first thing I remember about a person when later trying to recall their name or face. What typically comes to mind is how their hands moved (or if they didn’t), whether or not their fingers were double jointed, or if they had on a coat of polish.

You may be relieved to know that unless a paint job looked truly battered, I rarely remember a chip.

It’s possible this makes me a freak. What’s confirms it is that I used to spend a lot of time focusing on eyebrows. I was an eyebrow girl long before I was a hand scanner (brow shape, areas in need of plucking, length, color) and before my days of noticing hairy twins I could often tell you about a person’s ankles, pending weather.

Those two earlier observations of mine were based on the insecurities I harbored at the time. I cared about my weight and my skin and my ears and my teeth, but in 8th grade it was Annie with the skinny ankles and Tess with the perfect brows. I had neither, so my focus held.

Then one day in high school this girl in my math class told me about hands. I thought it was so weird she noticed hands first. Weren’t everyone’s the same? Weren’t they relatively boring? But as with the phenomenon where someone points out a type of car and then suddenly it’s the only one present on the road, I adopted hands as though she’d mentioned a 1980s wood paneled hatchback and since then, my focus hasn’t strayed.

It’s possible I’ll never recall a person’s name. But I will remember their hands.

Your turn: what’s the first thing you notice?

Image shot by Krista Anna Lewis

Esther’s Picks: Stiletto Heels and Sweats

If 2014 was the year of Normcore: New Balance 574’s paired with the kind of jeans typically ravaged with oil stains; “GAP” sweatshirts and socked feet beneath Adidas slides, then may I be so bold as to declare 2015 the year of Normcore’s remix?

New Balances are still here, but they’re to be complemented by spaghetti strap slip dresses. Kitten heels will bottom out the shredded hems of your dirtiest peg-leg jeans and if Jamie Lynn Spears has any say in the matter, Uggs will soon be widely accepted as an au courant black-tie wedding accessory.

Athletic wear is the new brunch uniform and brunch is the new Happy Hour. Turtlenecks have not only survived a graduation from Catholic school uniform and ultimate foray into style editor-staple, but has passed with flying colors. As in, yellow and green and red and orange. And while Zara – er, Zéline – has zero intention of retiring the “fashion sweat pant,”  I remain unconvinced of their purpose. But as things go with Zara, all it takes is one really good sale for you to abandon your style principles and renounce dairy forever.

The marriage between the aforementioned sweats and the Sophia Webster mules (pictured) are a manifestation, I like to think, of the Normcore Remix; a union only made holier by the anterior’s $209, plus an additional 20% off, Net-a-Porter price tag. They are exactly the kind of shoe I never thought I’d wear, which makes them my most accurate blackout sale purchase.

Cheers to a year poised to deliver more mashups than a Girl Talk album.

The Secret Society of the Fake Eyelash Sisterhood

Hair extensions were a big thing in college. Everyone had them but no one talked about them. There was a code of etiquette surrounding the clip-on manes that while “all girls knew,” it was impolite to call attention to them. But I was not a member of that tribe. There is so much hair on my head that I’m legally required to get under-shaves so that my neck doesn’t snap while driving.

My eyebrows could make tiny wigs for an entire farm of ants.

My lashes, however, are another story. They’re thick but the tips are eternally bleached, so if I’m not wearing mascara, I look like a blinking mole rat. It’s never been a major concern of mine. Mole rats are fine. But I do notice other people’s lashes, and recently, I’ve noticed that other people’s lashes have gotten extremely long.

Without blowing up individual spots should the be-lashed wish to remain anonymous, many of my fashion-industry friends have “confided” that they get fake eyelashes professionally applied as if they were confessing that they like fedoras on men. My understanding was that everyone does it, but no one talks about it, and I wanted in.

One fiscally-savvy faux-lashed friend suggested I run a search on Groupon for eyelash extensions where I came across a coupon at Bling Lash for like, 90% off. (At 90% off anything, reviews could contain the word “arsenic” and I’ll be like, “Yes!”) Then she prepped me for the following:

1) They will ask you if you’d like a C curl or a J curl. Go with a J curl, it looks more natural.

2) They will ask you to select your length based on a scale of 8 (snooze) to 20 (Aloysius Snuffleupagus). Though this is based on personal preference, I was instructed by many to go with 10-12.

3) They’ll ask if you want a full set: 80-100 lashes per eye which can take up to TWO HOURS, or a half set: 50 per eye, about one hour to complete — this sounded more reasonable. And cheaper. Boom.

4) This last bit is important, and I am glad I was prepared. You will be asked to lie down on your back where they will tape your lids closed and you will feel like Hayden Christensen in Awake. But you won’t be awake. You will fall asleep, because this is the first time in about 10 years that you will be unable to look at your phone for one hour.

I entered Bling Lash looking like this:

AND LEFT LOOKING LIKE THIS:

It was unbelievable. I looked like Enrique Iglesias. My beauty routine was cut in half (no mascara!) and when I went completely bare-faced I still felt like a prince. It was hard to keep my lashes dry for the recommended 48-hours post-application because I wanted to cry tears of joy.

The effect lasted about three weeks (I woke up each morning with a few spare lashes on my pillows; the slow tick of Cinderella’s clock).

No one commented on my new look, which was frustrating, but at the same time, wasn’t that the point? In fact, isn’t that always the point of modern beauty fads? To shell out a lot of money to look like you’re completely natural — juuust a little, unpinpointably fresher.

The Fake Eyelash Sisterhood said yes. They used words like “enhance” and “natural beauty,” and described the effect as giving yourself that extra “je ne sais quoi.” When I asked about secrecy, every woman I spoke to — including those who I overheard at the eyelash bar — said that they would never offer up the information, especially not to someone they were in a relationship with, though on the occasions where etiquette is broken and it is asked, “Are you wearing fake lashes?” they’ll (I’ll) answer truthfully.

More subtle than a new outfit or highlights or shoes or even a wax, it’s one of those things that’s completely for you. (Possibly also for Enrique Iglesias.) I’d do it again. It definitely feels addicting. I just hope that after this article goes live and I’ve shared the big secret, I’m still eligible for The Sisterhood.

TLC’s T-Boz and Chilli on Their New Album, Kickstarter, and Fans

An iconic band repeating that it “all comes back to the fans” can sound like a gimmick; the sort of social etiquette that comes from a great manager and perhaps strong parenting — but that’s been TLC’s unofficial mantra for as long as they’ve been around — women truly humbled by their status as idols. Maybe it’s because they’re too real to be “idols,” who typically live on a pedestal. Certainly they’re legends; they pushed the boundaries of a musical genre, pulled conversations in directions they needed to go and placed pins in the maps of fashion history.

Yet, in person, Tionne and Chilli are at once the silly, outspoken women the media has portrayed them as (upon walking into the room for introductions they were dancing) while simultaneously projecting the kind of confidence and openness you’d expect from a close friend. That realness — the sense that you’re talking to a genuine person and not a personality — is best reflected in their appreciation and respect for their fans. Which is why funding their final album via Kickstarter is not a gimmick. It makes sense.

In addition to the full creative freedom TLC will subsequently have with this album, crowdsourcing directly from those who care is the ultimate way to connect. “We want to say thank you to the fans,” said Tionne. “This album is about them; it’s why we want to do this together.” And they mean it. Rewards for pledges range from TLC recording your voicemail, to a slumber party, to a photo shoot. “Our fans are the greatest,” Tionne said. “If I got to do something like that with Michael Jackson, I’d be flipping out. I think it’s a great opportunity, and it’s really different and unique.”  TLC fans agree: one day post-launch and they’re already two-thirds of the way to funding the album.

A huge part of TLC’s appeal has always been their eagerness to address serious topics, paired with the uplifting message of independence and strength. The lyrics of T-Boz, Left Eye and Chilli are both relatable and inspiring. “We’ve all been there,” said Chilli. “We’ve all experienced those things; it’s why we’re able to perform those songs.” Tionne added, “You get a message and you can jam at the same time. It’s done without seeming like you’re preaching to someone, through dancing and entertaining, and it’s a good feeling. I think it’s inviting that way.”

TLC’s message of empowerment is carried through their wardrobe, as well. From the beginning, their outfits were whimsical, bold and futuristic, with an undercurrent of self-assertion and confidence. It wasn’t about tight clothes and high heels for them — though similar to the MR credo, they believed that “you should do you.”

“We wanted to make the statement that whether or not you wear form fitting clothes, you can be just as sexy and pretty in the baggy ones too. It’s about being comfortable in your skin; about not compromising style for anything,” said Tionne. “I think we made girls feel like they could walk into a room with a sweatsuit on and feel beautiful.”

“The thing I love about this group,” she continued, “some celebs have to turn into to somebody else…and some of them don’t know how to leave that person [on stage]. The thing I love about TLC is what you see is what you get. Here and up there [on stage]. I’m gonna do my hair, do my nails, but I’m gonna tuck my skirt in, get on a motorcycle, climb a tree.”

Dedicated followers remain curious as to how Chilli and Tionne will navigate the process without the late Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, a central figure in the group.

“The three of us were meant to be,” said Chilli. “Replacing her was just not an option.”

“We like to always keep her memory alive,” said Tionne. “Especially on tour. When we perform it’s like a celebration. People are dancing, crying. We wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re going to work hard to make this new album exciting — we’ve already sampled a lot of Lisa in the past, and it’s important that the lyrical content fit. You’ll feel her presence in the album.”

“Having the fans involved,” said Chilli, “they carry us. They always tell us what our songs have done for them, but they have no idea what they do for us. It’s why this project is a very special and important one. I know Lisa is so proud that we are continuing on, doing what we’re doing, still interacting with the fans because that’s what she was all about as well.

The fans feel like they know us. In many ways, they do.”

It all comes back to the fans.

On who they’d like to work with:

We would love for Taylor Swift, or Adam Levine, or Bruno Mars to write a TLC song. — Tionne

So we’re going to put that in the universe, “Bruno, Bruno…Taylor, Taylor…Adam, Adam….woo woo woo woo!” –Chilli

On their favorite TLC video:

Waterfalls, because it meant so much. And then, Creep, because I liked my hair. — Tionne

On their favorite TLC song:

It’s still Hat 2 Da Back. I just love it. To me, that was like the epitome of the three of us, and Lisa’s raps! Those are my favorite raps of hers. — Chilli

To learn more about the TLC Kickstarter and how to donate to this piece of musical history, visit their Kickstarter page here. Photos by Charlotte Fassler, Polaroids are from Chilli and T-Boz’s personal archival photos, courtesy of Vann Alexandra.

What Your Profile Picture Says About You

The “Candid”:

Very few flattering candids are ever true candids. Most are taken at weddings by a professional, and as a rule, they are terrible. On the rare and miraculous occasion that a friend should take a beautiful shot of you at a party, it is assumed that she will never upload the picture, nor will she remember to text it to you. You will never see it again.

The faux-candid pro, however, understands the value of a DIY. She’s a social media Martha Stewart and believes there’s no shame to the game so long as it’s not a creepy MacBook Photobooth shot filtered in low-quality grayscale. She exercises her right to use a Selfie Stick unironically. She’s also been known to enlist the help of a patient parent or friend while she poses in various states of contemplation and/or laughing-while-the-wind-is-blowing.

As the old adage goes, if you want something done right, do it yourself.

The Young Professional:

Nothing says, I’ve erased all evidence potentially detrimental to my future political and or academic career quite like the corporate headshot.

The Traveler:

A click through The Traveler’s profile pictures is like flipping through National Geographic and realizing your friend is the silhouetted image in every single shot. She’s great at the humble brag for this very reason: instead of posing front and center at Every Worldly Monument Ever, the traveler remains inconspicuous enough that you can’t really knock her for doing a tree-pose in every single shot, nor can you see that she hasn’t showered in whoknowshowlong. Frequent comments under her pictures include: “I want your life,” and “Do you have a job?”

The Street Style Pic:

Screw hair and crop the face — this photo is about the outfit. Her motto: let the photographers do the stalking; let the clothes do the talking.

That Couple:

You know them. They both have slightly alternative versions of what’s essentially the same photo where they’re staring into each other’s eyes. The date they met is probably the caption, punctuated by periods as opposed to back slashes: “11.3.08.” They’ve probably both commented “love you!” at some point.

You’ll notice neither hosts this picture at the same time. The one who isn’t rocking the When Are We Getting Engaged? photo typically posts a solo shot wherein he or she looks super hot/suspiciously single, and the consistent toggling has consumed (or bored) their “following” with an online guessing game of Broken Up, Back Together; In a Fight, I’m Sorry Babe.

That’s Not You LOL:

Rare is the person who opts out of the one opportunity where it’s okay to self-promote. (Although technically, it is fairly self-promotional to make your profile picture a screen grab of some event or party you’re hosting.)

This person is either very cool (the photo is a reference so niche not even Google Image can locate its origin), making their political opinion public (the photo will immediately inform you of their cause), obsessed with Marisa Miller (caption: “Not me LOL.” Comment: “No shit.”), or hilarious and weird (the photo will be of someone random, like Fabio. Caption: none. Comment: “That’s not you LOL.” Response back: unnecessary.)

The OG Selfie Duck Face:

She’s team Rihanna, knows her angles, loves her “~*BeTcHeZ*~” and doesn’t care what you think.

The “My Friend’s Building Her Photography Portfolio” Shot:

Typically involving a graffiti wall or field of wheat, this earnest pose in a dramatic outfit with excessive makeup is often the calling card of a budding model/amateur photographer duo. Very often there will be a watermark in cursive at the bottom right of the photo. What does this say about the person who makes this their profile picture, though?

They understand the value of mutually beneficial relationships and know when to take advantage of a free airbrushing package.

The Athlete:

You want to hate the athlete because her profile picture is a daily reminder that your gym membership is a $75 keychain and your “get fit 2015” resolution is an as-of-yet empty promise. But you can’t. She’s lifting double her bodyweight and could fight a grown lion. Like Ron Burgundy once said, you’re not mad. You’re impressed.

The Group Pic:

Not only does she-who-group-pics have friends, she has multiple friends, all of them who’ve spent years perfecting their “Sides” and height order within these photos. You’ll notice that though the seasons and scenarios change, the poses rarely do. The Group Pic-er should be commended for her dedication to friendship and lack of narcissism in comparison to her cropped, solo-shot peers. However, one should keep an eye out for the girl with a hidden motive. See below…

The No Mercy for Your Friends:

There are two kinds of No Mercy pictures. The first is a group pic (see above) where the blatant self-love is masked by an army of friends. While there’s no shame in the Damn-I-Look-Good mindset — after all, a profile picture is supposed to be about you — watch out for the girl who has zero regard for the rest of her friends in the picture with her. Everyone else has lazy eyes, weird smiles, smoosh-arms and bad hair days? Too bad. If this girl looks good, she’s posting it anyway.

There’s another No Mercy girl: the ruthless cropper. So what if the group photo was a momentous occasion where best friends who hadn’t seen each other in years reunited? Chick needs a new Tinder picture, and she’s not about to go distracting her potential suitors.

Respect.

The Halloween Picture:

It’s January 20 and this girl’s profile is still boasting her Halloween costume from October 2012 when she had abs and a carryover tan from a family trip to Mexico. By the time March rolls around, she might swap to a Christmas pic featuring her in leggings, a Santa hat, festive glitter and an ugly sweater. She is the human equivalent of the house next door to your parents because she refuses to respect proper calendar etiquette, but her end goal is looking awesome — not keeping her following informed of the date. That’s what iPhones are for. Leave her alone.

The Loner Laugher:

The is the holy grail of profile pictures: caught mid-LOL while in a conveniently great outfit with an even better background. It is technically a candid, though many argue that 9 times out of 10, the LL knew the photo was being taken and interrupted her own pose mid-laugh.

The Loner Laugher is telling the world: I have friends because A) someone is taking this picture and B) someone has made me laugh, but where she excels is in her ability to post a photo of just herself without looking completely narcissistic because she’s just “casually cracking up” as opposed to posing with her elbow on a tree a la Senior Portraits ’06. If she’s single, this is her Hinge photo. If she’s in a relationship, then you’ve considered — at least once — using this as your Hinge photo.

Illustrations by Charlotte Fassler

My Nose Ring

Have your nose pierced whilst traveling at your own peril, my friends.

When I was little, I believed everything my parents said. Like, “If you get any extra piercings you will not be allowed in this house.” Six earrings and a nose ring later and I won. It wasn’t until I went traveling after school, though, that I had the opportunity for this almighty rebellion. I was so impatient that had a man been able to pierce my nose right there and then in the arrivals lounge, I’d have done it. Instead, I let my friend dump her bags in our Rio de Janeiro place of residence for exactly 0.2 seconds and then made her come search for a piercing salon with me, in a country where we couldn’t speak even a pleasantry.

I may have swaggered out of the salon feeling more badass than if I’d had the entire Last Supper tattooed across my back, but it was not without its issues. There was so much blood my friend almost fainted and I was forced to spend an entire year afterwards picking my nose. Honestly, the shit that gets stuck up there once you have a piercing — my nostril felt like a landfill site.

Sometimes I think about taking it out. I’m 27 now; am I too old? Is it too much? Is my sweater ever going to get over my head, or will I merely have it dangling from my nose for eternity? I have to take it out every time I have my picture taken for my Sunday Times Style column and when I put it back in, it goes bulbous and red and sore for a week. Which probably isn’t entirely worth it. But then, it’s not like a tattoo, right? People might identify it quickly, but it’s discreet; it’s removable.

Piercings have long been considered a way to denote aspects of the personality: “Oooooh, she’s edgy, she’s got a lip ring,” and so forth. I do notice – like with anyone who uses social media as a platform to promote their work – that people call my nose ring “cool,” as if there’s a sad way to look and a badass way to look, when in reality there’s just one way or another.

It’s thrilling that something so small can have such an effect on public opinion, and for me, it is a way of controlling other people’s perception, which is something I think we also do subconsciously through clothing choices, haircuts, makeup preferences and even body shapes. I’m small and have a short blonde bob and therefore fall into a detestable category known as “cute” – I don’t want to be cute. I don’t think it matches who I am. So I’m on a constant, gradual and subtle endeavor to offset that adjective.

I give the color pink a wide berth; a nose ring certainly, undeniably, helps.

When you get your nose pierced, the hole never actually closes up. So one day when I’ve jettisoned all my metal accouterments and I’m still able to trace my finger over that vacant spot, I do wonder if I’ll wish I hadn’t left in my nose a hole that no foundation can cover, no doubt with sweet nostalgia.

Pandora is the Fashion Features Editor and Wardrobe Mistress at London’s The Sunday Times Style supplement and founder of pandorasykes.com. Follow her on Twitter @pinsykes.

Images via pandorasykes.com

Do You Wash Your Jeans?

The topic of denim cleaning is a relatively moot point among the simultaneously hygienically neurotic and indigo-enthusiastic. So the story goes, Chip Bergh of Levi Strauss fame says one should never, ever machine wash their jeans. Maybe the indigo bleeds? Maybe they stretch? Maybe they don’t? Maybe they wear too thin? Is there truly such thing as a pair of jeans that have worn too thin in this era of frayed everything?

Some jeanoisseurs recommend freezing denim over night in your ice box. This proposition obviously comes from a climate where 2mph gusts call for a parka. Other aficionados-in-the-making say washing them cold and allowing them to air dry elongates their lifespans while I, I have jeans that I have been wearing for years — some that have been washed at least 100 times and others that haven’t been washed once, ever. Sure, the fit on the unwashed ones might seem a bit more seasoned but ultimately and frankly, I’ve seen a little difference. So, really, what is it? Should we or should we not wash our jeans? Or better yet, should we all buy drum sets and start marching?

Image via Elle Spain, image on the right shot by Terry Gates for Grazia France