Pink is the new black now or something. I don’t really care. I almost bought a pink trench coat just because it was there. I almost had a religious experience at Goodwill this afternoon. It was my first second hand shopping adventure with a supermarket cart, carefully browsing through all the aisles: shirts, dresses, skirts, pants, blouses, coats, shoes, pyjamas, night gowns, hats, gloves, bags and scarves. Sometimes I stumble upon trends and what’s in style just to find myself making fun of them. Or just to give them a little twist. I bought these amazing pyjama pants because they were bright pink – maybe not the pink you see on the catwalk, but who gives a damn anymore? Also, they had this insane print – dogs or so – and they are fluffy, with an unflattering shape. I added some black velvet pointy low heels. They’re from Goodwill as well. Why not? With me, it’s almost never about matching colors or matching patterns. I get bored of looking neat or looking clean or looking decent. Am I decent enough yet? I’m almost sorry for not owning an even brighter pink lipstick. Just to spice things up. I wear pink not because I want to be a cute little princess. I wear pink just because I happen to like it. I had a whole obnoxious phase in high school when I would only wear black, red and army green. I was trying to pose as this misunderstood, yet fragile and dark soul. Most of you have been through this as well. Most of you are hopefully over it already.
I’m not sure about what I want to be anymore. Oh, you think fashion is always about who you want to be? Well, it’s not. “I want to be a rock chic.” That’s what I said to my best friend when we were both fourteen years old. It was a matter of what and not of who, get it? So I started painting my nails black, wore black eyeliner, mainstream rock bands T-shirts, leather collars, All Stars, long black skirts or baggy pants. Even Andreea Bălan had a rock chick wannabe phase. Remember it?
At a certain point you tell yourself you’re into fashion or something like that. You suddenly cannot live without it. Whatever fashion means. Right? If they can do it, then why shouldn’t you ? You start posting pictures of yourself wearing cute outfits, your right hand showing us the peace sign – with the predictable captions : ’’I ❤ fashion.’’ or „Style is my life.’’. Then you start inserting inspirational quotes about how life should be lived to its fullest or something Coco Chanel is thought to have said. You don’t even check the accuracy of the quote or the accuracy of your English. Fuck it! Fashion blogging is the opportunity for every girl to show her remarkable English skills, isn’t it? Grammar and spelling, even witty metaphors : there’s nothing that cannot be done when it comes to these delicate and passionately beautiful fashionistas. Everybody is a friend as long as they read the blog and participate in the mindnumbing and endless giveaways. Of course, there’s always a little trashing of other people going on or even some trashing of each other from time to time. It keeps the spirits high. And it harms no one. My darlings.
So I also bought this silky black floral robe from Goodwill today. Made me think of an 80s rich lady talking on a cordless phone somewhere in Florida while going through a horrible divorce with her millionaire and bald husband. These kind of images somehow manage to make me happy. Maybe because that life is not mine, only the robe attached to it. I don’t want to be a fashion blogger anymore. Yet the second I write this, I become that and something more. Still a thing. Still close to nothing. Sometimes I like to think that I can transcend my own superficiality by reflecting upon it. And it works.
pictures taken by Ion Sterpan