In eighth grade, I became infatuated with fashion. My parents were old hippies who hadn’t a clue who Tom Ford or Karl Lagerfeld (let alone Liya Kebede) were. With their input, my wardrobe was a constant repeat: ponytail, t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes. In my ignorance, I was completely happy – I thought. Then I found outward expression.
After careful observation, I opened my eyes to the world of fashion. I spent hours studying Vogue, analyzing anyone in sight, and searching the internet for runways that portrayed the best looks of the season. It was like discovering a fascinating new species. Feathers and jewels, a-line skirts, stilettos, totes – how could I have been so uneducated? But eventually, I became unsatisfied with simply keeping up with Miuccia Prada. I wanted my own style.
As my finances would rise and fall with the trends, I finally got a terrible credit and stopped taking Vogue. I started relying on my own imagination and closet to perform the magic I had once found in pictures. So what if bangle bracelets or colored tights were out? I had uncovered my own style. This venture made me feel like an ingenious artist - everyday before school I would start with a blank canvas, then step inside my closet. Some days I’d pick a brilliant array of colors with heels, leggings, and a too-big, mismatched shirt. Other days, I would be completely satisfied with rain boots and a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt. I made an outfit to match my mood.
I have partly gone back to my state of ignorance – minus the fact that I acquired something of my own during my short-lived revelation. For me, fashion is a chance to show my personality and flairs, not someone else’s epiphany. I use my outward appearance as a gateway to my inner self. I dress my emotions, and I’ve never been happier.
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