Leandra Medine's Blog, page 679

Turtleneck Hair Now

Everyone has an opinion about turtlenecks. Champions of warmth will vet in their favor while those who continue to try to disassociate the oft-holiday-inspired outfitting choices of their elderly family members from their current fashion endeavors likely elect to keep them outside of their cosmos. It is a universal truth worth acknowledging, though, that to be in fashion toward the end of 2014 is to accept the turtleneck as your ally. Your comrade. Your best friend. The other form of gift Steve Jobs left for you. A one way ticket to simultaneous flu-expulsion and the nuances that define 21st century cool.

Diane Keaton is, after all, a notable forebear and champion of the garment. So, really, never mind the red and yellow lamé knit that your aunt wore, which still haunts your memory of Christmas dance-off ’94. Different place, different time. Here and now, there’s a new variable at play and it’s your hair, which should boast the idealized ratio of flocculent muffin to knit neck.

Confused?

Take a look.

Forward facing your audience, you should look insouciant. Like you were going to wake up but decided against it in spite of the effortless — and that’s the other thing — strands peeking out from your turtleneck like the brain child of a French woman.

You can pull these out from directly over your ear using your index finger and thumb. What should not happen is the following: triangle head (unless, of course, your head is triangular, in which case: you are so cool) or Kristen Wiig Surprise Party Skit Hair (unless you’ve just cut your hair to mimic that bob, in which case, I admire your commitment).

To avoid this, refrain from pulling hair from any other region of your head until you get a glimpse of your profile, which is from here the muffin should pronounce itself.

The top of your head should punctuate your purpose to such a heightened degree that is impossible for anyone to believe that such a non-caloric marvel for baked goods everywhere could be mere accident, even if your front-facing facade alludes to otherwise.

The curve that separates your neck from your head, where the hair looks like it’s curling in, should stand out about an inch. To achieve this, simply tug at the back of your head.

Massage your scalp gently using your finger tips for two or three strokes to loosen the rest of your head up and then take a step outside and tell me you’re not grateful to have human hair keeping your neck warm.

The Definition of Style

I was wearing a white sweatshirt with Winnie the Pooh embroidered in black. I had bought it at Disney earlier that year, and it was about as mod as a seven-year-old could get at a place that vomited glitter and tiaras and boasted remarkably few roller coasters. My blonde bob had bounced as I walked and, god, I thought I was the coolest kid in town wearing matching denim dresses with my sister who, ten years older than me, has always been everything I have wanted to be and nothing I could ever understand.

My family and I were at my sister’s high school assembly for graduating seniors, watching her perform a dance to what was a Gap commercial at the time. While the other students embarrassed themselves with routines to “I’ll Be Missing You” and danced around in cone-shaped bras like Madonna, my sister and all of her friends owned the gymnasium that day in brightly colored sweaters and blue jeans. She was the essence of cool and fashion and style, and though I admit that much of my life has revolved around all of these things, I know nothing about any of them.

Fourteen years later, still mesmerized by style, the relationship is much more complicated. It is a complete and complex balance between being wholly and truly obsessed with what I’m wearing (if only in the moment) and a packed closet – or the contents of that closet strewn about the floor, bed, chair, and any other available surface – with the all too familiar panic that screams, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR.”

I prescribe to style like religion or a highly addictive drug. It is no opiate, though. Instead, it is the ultimate interactive higher power. Style can allow one to see the world through rose-colored glasses. Literally. The whole world of style is meant to be felt, touched, embraced, and even repelled by. Just when it seems like all of the creativity has been used up, there’s nothing left, that Acne splurge was a huge waste because this style thing is just not going to work out — the most brilliant thing happens: the season changes.

Or inspiration comes by means of an elderly couple strutting down the sidewalk in complementary but not quite matching outfits. Or, at my some days demeaning, other days entertaining retail job, a customer exits the fitting room wearing the one piece I have despised since I first laid eyes on it like she has just put on pure gold, and my entire perception of that piece changes.

Much like the woman I look up to – always ten years ahead of me – style feels unattainable. I strive for and crave it so deeply but can never seem to fully attain whatever it is that she has. It can always be improved, one-upped, or flipped. It is frustrating and (for reasons that some will never understand) filled with heartache. But the creativity, the process of trying on seven tops and thirteen shoes before finding the one despite having picked out an outfit weeks in advance, and the constant inspiration from the most unlikely places is what I have come to understand as style. This entire opinion could change tomorrow, though, because the beauty is in not knowing.

Written by Rebecca Day. See this week’s prompt here.

What Happened to Serial This Week?

Since early October, when This American Life aired the first episode of Serial to introduce the spinoff, the crescendo of both the story and the podcast’s notoriety itself has been spectacular. Each week provided new, confounding information about this tragic case, eliciting emotional and passionate responses from its ever-growing audience. Until this week.

Maybe this is the nature of serialized non-fiction stories, that not every installment will provide a sensational tidbit to hook in to. But I also didn’t feel like this episode moved the story forward. As it turns out, I don’t actually care whether Adnan is a “good” person. Maybe it’s an overly simplistic or idealistic view of what justice should look like, but at this point I’m solely interested in Adnan’s culpability or lack thereof. Perhaps if this episode came earlier in the series, as we were getting to know each player, it might have been more intriguing. However, Sarah Koenig’s done an excellent job of presenting each character, and the curious details around them, without taking the dramatic leaps that could so easily turn Serial into a tabloid exposé. Certainly if we heard the story unfold within the context of Adnan as a potential psychopath, that could color our perception.

The most interesting part of this episode for me was hearing the Truman Show-esque effect Serial has had on Adnan. More than anything, he’s eager for the series to be over. I assumed he would be optimistic about the renewed attention to his case, but he’s understandably wary. More than that, he’s proud of what he’s accomplished while incarcerated, of the person he’s become. I started to think about what life would look like for Adnan if he were acquitted. How foreign and challenging life outside jail would be for a 30-something man who’s been a prisoner since his teens. I’m getting ahead of the story, though; who knows if that will ever even be a consideration.

So, we have one episode left. If the series ends without a tidy bow, which seems to be where we’re headed, will you feel dissatisfied? I have faith in Koenig’s abilities as a storyteller to produce a brilliant finale, and I’m hugely curious to hear what her closing thoughts are after spending so much time with this case. Not knowing is an uncomfortable state for most people, regardless of what it is that’s unknown. If we’ve heard all there is to hear, two things seem clear to me: we’re not close to figuring out what happened, and, given the evidence, Adnan probably shouldn’t be in jail. What do you think?

Moms on a Cruise

When moms are let loose on a cruise there’s no telling what damage could be done.

They’ll definitely hit up the bar first, I’ll tell you that much, only instead of their usual glass-o-Pinot Gris they’ll do something totally wild, like get a piña colada.

With extra cherries.

The last one to grab her drink will throw in a wink at the waiter, too, because mama’s (pretending to be) 30, flirty, and diving into that upper deck pool as soon as her two-sip buzz kicks in.

Moms make friends with other moms on cruises almost immediately. Lounge chairs are more or less adult monkey bars, especially when considering how dangerous the ones are that self-recline. Instead of asking “Wanna be my friend?,” the universal code is, “Which one’s your kid?” The instant bonding begins when she points to her husband.

Once groups are formed they’ll crouch forward conspiratorially, whispering such uncivilized truths as, “I’m not wearing a bra under this robe,” and, “Last night, when the kids were asleep, I snuck to the fro-yo bar and had a sundae!”

“You did not,” the contingent of fellow moms will simultaneously exclaim. And then they’ll proclaim their mantra: “You are so bad.”

The formal dinners each night only magnify their mischief. If you’ve ever been on a cruise then you know that once the sun goes down all gossiping and splashing pauses for nap time. The ship becomes quiet as it’s overtaken by a quick game of shut eye, and then everyone awakens to sunburned noses. Parents get all dolled up while the kids run off to the teen club, and as the dads descend sleepily into the aggressively chandeliered dining rooms wondering how long they’re going to be expected to keep their pants completely buttoned, the moms pass one another with knowing, let’s-break-our-diets smirks.

Scientists have been debating for years exactly what it is that makes maritime mothers so uninhibited and — disgusting mom word, here — naughty, though after much research which involved slinking around in nautical camouflage (hey Fall 15 runways, there’s a thought!) they chalked it up to a combination of cabin fever, salty air, and vacation.

What they didn’t account for is that the attitude of Cruise Moms has a way of sneaking up on young women of the twenty-something set. Similar to Dad Jokes, Moms on a Cruise ‘Tude (abbreviated in legal documents as MOCT, though CMT is duly accepted) is a learned behavior. It tends to occur when the age of being “over partying” has just begun; when you’re finally old enough to revel in canceled plans and find yourself immune to the concept of FOMO.

If you’ve ever conspired with a friend to skip the same holiday party, then clinked your glasses of Chardonnay together in couch-centered celebration, you’re a Mom on a Cruise.

If you’ve ever said, “Oh, why not” out loud to the waiter and then ordered dessert — specifically, chocolate molten lava cake — you’re a Mom on a Cruise.

If you’ve ever postponed a gluten allergy in the name of the bread basket, got a blowout because “you deserved it,” skipped work to get a massage then told your friends you found it absolutely thrilling, or, if you’ve ever accidentally uttered the sentence “We are so bad,” then you’re a Mom on a Cruise, sans the tan, plus the ‘tude.

Welcome to the club. We’re making t-shirts.

Helena Bonham Carter Shot by Tim Walker for W Mag, Cruise via Condé Nast Traveler

The Shitty Elf Gives Gold, Never Coal

The Shitty Elf is mischievous. While I wouldn’t call him the devil on your shoulder dressed in festive holiday garb (besides, isn’t that your aunt Barbara after a Fireball shot and a good song?), I would say he’s like a pocket-sized version of Home Alone’s Kevin McCallister: impish grin, pointy ears, sweet and thoughtful at his core but with a bit of a rebellious streak when denied plain pizza.

On Monday, when you first met The Shitty Elf, he suggested things like a very cool pair of pearl earrings…for your cousin who’s allergic to shellfish. On Tuesday, he not-so-subtly hinted that you get your very single friend a silky negligee. So you can see he has a serious sense of humor, but also (if we may say so ourselves as his caretakers) great style.

Today the Shitty Elf has considered the importance of accessory. He knows that while ’tis the season to be merry and all that, ’tis also the party line up where outfits get frequently repeated. Which is why, in his thoughtful way, the Shitty Elf whispered in my ear (he can’t type because he’s so tiny, it’s really a shame…but also kind of annoying because he basically dictates to me what to type and his accent is super thick, so it’s like having a baby mosquito from the third pole on the reading level of a third grader tell me what to do) that “the holiday thing is all about the word bling.”

You see, the Shitty Elf likes a brand called Artelier who makes very cool jewelry with cut outs of the world map.

What? Talk louder!!! Slowly, you sound like an over-sugared hummingbird. Oh, ok.

Sorry about that. The Shitty Elf wants you to know that he thinks wearing a gold stenciled map-cuff will not only break up the monotony (my word, not his, he said “samsie-ness”) of the party outfits you’ve had on rotation since December 1st. He also thinks that this ring of the NYC skyline will inspire group sing-a-longs involving all songs dedicated to the city on your index finger, and that this hand cuff will be a fantastic talking point and help break the party ice. (As the polar bears in his town love to say, he adds.)

If you’re thinking that none of this actually sounds mischievous at all — that maybe, in the name of holiday spirit, our Sour Patch Kid has changed his ways — think again. When he thought he was off the record and I was no longer typing, he confided in me that he thought it would be really funny if you wore one of these map pieces in the sun and got a “tan line of the world.”

I mean honestly, Shitty Elf, you have great taste, but no shame.

In partnership with Artelier

What’s Your Party Trick?

You could have a birthmark and not even know it. I discovered mine (the size of a pinky-tip, shaped like a footprint) on the inner-west turn of my left-handed arm when my dad, rather roughly, spent at least two minutes scrubbing it with vigor and his spit-licked thumb.

He thought it was chocolate. I once told him his nostrils were alarmingly large, though, so call us even.

But this isn’t about birthmarks so much as it is about self-discovery, with a focus on talent in the topical realm of holiday parties. Namely: a party trick. And like birthmarks, everyone secretly has one.

You just don’t always know it.

I brought up the question at dinner last night with two of my friends: “What’s your party trick?” I asked. Everyone shrugged. They had nothing. If your crew does this to you too, offer their blank responses no mercy. They’re either withholding, as I said, due to unexplored self-ignorance, or they’re imaginary friends, or they don’t want to spoil a potentially party-stopping surprise.

After explaining that mine was both music-related and twofold: 1) I’ve memorized every word to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” 2) likewise, I can rap along flawlessly to Afroman’s “Colt 45,” the others began to divulge.

One was able to make her eyes go in different directions. This, my friends, is quite the thing to see. Another described a strange talent which she called a “safety dive,” where she’s able to jump into a pool while keeping her head above water (the whole time) which means her hair never gets wet and if she’s carrying towels or something (no clue), they stay dry. Obviously, this trick only applies to parties at pools and is mostly important to grandmothers, or lifeguards with perms.

There are all sorts of party tricks out there — I bet you have some super cool weird ones. Charlotte has a friend who can open bottles with her teeth. Maybe you have a friend who can make it sound like a Polly Pocket-sized person is stuck inside his or her mouth.

Friday morning seems like the perfect time to share these tricks, doesn’t it? You’re probably already bored at your desk and trying to not cry or die (what’s going on there, by the way? Work, or finals?).

Tell me. Tell us. Or share a GIF. I think that counts.

Original image of Halston, Bianca Jagger, Jack Haley Jr, Liza Minnelli and Michael Jackson at Studio 54, 1975 via Corbis

Today’s MR Writer’s Club Prompt: Bohemian Rap-sody

Sometimes I find myself apologizing to strangers for the number of times my friends have declared “Juicy” as “their song.” Like okay, Jessica Peters, act like you knew about Word Up! Magazine in the ’80s. Were you even born?

Yet Jessica and co., god bless them, project said lyrics with all their hearts.

I’ve watched as friends rattle off rappers’ lines with studied rhythm and perfect cadence, their chests instinctively ready to inhale before the execution of a long-winded stanza. It’s a thing of art, really, or at least something to admire: it may be one thing to memorize the chorus, but quite another to physically reenact the original studio recording.

Of course, the difference between karaoke and an authentic performance is — as any judge on American Idol will tell you — pure emotion. One has to truly believe that they, like Missy Elliott, are super, duper fly. One has to really live, as Esther did, a day in the life of not just a millennial, but of Macklemore. I wouldn’t feel right reciting the poetry of Mac Dre or E-40 if I didn’t feel a strong connection the Bay Area, and if you’re about to bust out some old school MF Doom then it may be in your best interest to at the very least pretend you know what the hell he’s talking about.

The thing is, rap music can relate to our personal lives no less or no more than some country twang about moonshine and dirt roads (I, for one, don’t think I’ve ever even been inside a proper truck), and just because a girl didn’t have the same televised Canadian awkward teen-hood as Aubrey “Drake” Graham doesn’t mean — and I’m being serious here — that she didn’t start from the bottom nor have any less reason to relish in her rise to the top.

As William $hakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely rappers.” So please, tell us: what rap song do you best identify with, and why?

The blah blah blah stuff: keep your musings as politely close to 500 words as possible. All submissions should be e-mailed to write@manrepeller.com by next Thursday, the 18th, at noon. Get involved via the hashtag, #mrwritersclub and don’t forget that reading your stories is the box to our beat, the fox to our fleek. 

Christian Dior in Tokyo

I’ve only been in Tokyo for two days but I can tell you this with great conviction: it is far. Fourteen hours by air travel but culturally, many moons away.

The city is full of men who appear freshly suited, even at 8 p.m., and women who will bow at you every few seconds until you’ve either entered or exited through the nearest set of doors.

There is raw fish that calls itself breakfast.

But there are also neighborhoods, like Harajuku, where, as if on an even further corner of the earth, women in animated sweaters, printed socks and bright skirts with spikes emerging from their waist lines or conversely, men in thick rimmed eyeglasses and curious hats, wearing army jackets paired with black harem pants and dark blouses buttoned up to their collars use fashion as a mode of deep and breathtaking escape and expression.

Last night, Raf Simons showed his Pre-Fall collection for Christian Dior at Ryōgoku Kokugikan, a sumo wrestling arena that seats 1,400 and for the occasion, sat 1,400. It was hard to divorce the implications of the departed Fashion’s Night Out on the way into the arena, where scores of eager youths stood dressed entirely in either Dior or similarly articulate apparel, on their flatforms and with cameras attached to selfie sticks, presumably hoping to get photos of familiar faces enmeshed with their own.

It was the first ever Pre-Fall show for the house and marked an interesting turning point for Simons. The designer is largely lauded as a man of spectacular restraint, and his affinity for Tokyo, a city he cites as “a place that has been and is so constantly inspiring to me,” seems to reflect that. But traditional Japanese wear wasn’t the intention of the thematic trip and subsequent show. Instead, it delicately treaded the line that conflates uniformity — a sense of compliance, restraint and discipline — with animation. Stand out pieces like sequined turtlenecks worn under thick wool Bar dresses (some with structural boning, some with reversed seams) and coated swing jackets or large-plaid minis determined that.

So did a series of white, lightweight masculine trousers paired with similar sequins under Fair Isle knit tanks and the bravura of the collection — no doubt a set of Fair Isle dresses presented entirely in paillettes — held up against a set of braided pig tail buns and eyelids rendered in thick strokes of black eyeliner topped by thinner, futuristic silver metallic strokes.

Fake snow fell from the ceiling. In certain moments, there were as many as twelve models on the makeshift runway, providing visual stimulation as overwhelming as the neighboring Yokoami. But the real magic of the whole 64-look-thing was a matter of ebullient energy. The unflinching notion that behind these clothes was such a sparkling sense of excitement and adventure, you wonder why it took so long to get here.

All images via Style.com

Let’s Make a Deal & Steal

Alternately titled: “How to Justify Your Purchases.”

As anyone who’s made an impulsive buy knows, the aftermath can be brutal. Like Sunday’s scariest hangover, the euphoria of last night’s escapade soon gives way to dark clouds. You wake up nauseous, slightly dizzy, and with an alert from Chase Bank, who — by the way — promised they’d always protect you.

In sets the innate need to justify your behavior.

Such was the case with last week’s Cyber Monday purchases: a discounted pair of Iro Shearling Moto Boots and Otto d’ame Pinstripe Pants. A Google search yielded the former on a particularly cold morning, when, after a miscalculated reading of the forecast prompted me to walk to work, I realized that I hadn’t invested in a proper winter shoe since moon boots were all the rage.

The Iro boots were — and still are — considerably discounted; a solid 50% off and while still not cheap, I would argue that they’re a sound investment. They’re also at least 50% more versatile than moon boots, so there you have it.

I’ve had my eye on these Otto d’ame “Camelia” pants (and detachable skirt) for the better part of autumn, and so the 40-60% off price tag (and Shopbop’s then GOBIG14 promo) pretty much nailed that coffin. Are they a steal? Debatable. But as a few wise men named Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz once said, “Nothin in life is free.”

Play it in tune with this GIF, if you’re feeling saucy.

Topshop Boutique sweater, cropped polo from Topshop 

Help Feed Another this Holiday Season

A simple purchase, a big impact.

This is the underlying mantra of Feed, a company founded in 2007 by Lauren Bush Lauren to affect the fight against world hunger.

“I think it’s easy to feel overwhelmed in this large world, what with so many issues that can feel insurmountable to comprehend,” Lauren said in an interview about the brand’s holiday initiative. After traveling with the World Feed Programme for the first time ten years ago, it was this feeling that drove her to create a platform that inspired charitable action by providing a way for others to take action. “There’s a good will among folks,” she said. Feed helps channel it.

“The main program we support is the School Feeding Program, which focuses on 62 of the poorest countries in the world. At the very least, we’re able to provide nutritious school lunches which, unfortunately, could be the only meal many of these children are guaranteed to eat. When a school can provide lunches to its students, it encourages kids to go to school, and gives parents an added incentive to invest in their children’s eduction. When a child receives an education, they have a better chance of breaking the poverty cycle they were born into.”

Feed has worked to bring 85 million meals to children in the poorest countries around the world, but there’s still substantial work to be done in the United States. Lauren estimates that about 49 million Americans are food insecure, which means that they consistently rely on food stamps and soup kitchens. “It’s shocking that so many Americans are having to decide, ‘Do I pay for education or food? Rent, or food?’ That there are real life trade-offs to put food on the table. But it’s true.”

Here’s where you come in. Feed purchases help fund the organizations that fall under the Feeding America umbrella and the World Food Programme. “They’re the ones on the ground literally giving the food to people,” says Lauren.

Buying one bracelet that costs $15 provides five school meals. This t-shirt for $33? 10 school meals. For $40, this hoodie provides 25 meals to those affected by Hurricane Sandy. The classic Feed bag — what started it all — provides one child with school meals for an entire year.

Anne Hathaway, Chrissy Teigen, John Legend, Karlie Kloss, and Jessica Alba have already gotten on board as evidenced by Feed’s Come Together campaign. It represents the simplicity of Feed’s mission in that one picture calculates the total amount of meals they’ve provided. (And it’s a lot.)

Get involved — this holiday season, when you’re freaking out over which shoes to wear with your New Year’s dress because you want to look sparkly but not like a human Limited Too hairbrush, and then remember that you forgot to buy, uh, everyone in your family and various group-texts their gifts, consider Feed, a simple purchase, with a big impact.