Last Fall, I dressed a bit like an elective bum, as though every day were the opportunity to hitchhike to Santa Cruz. I have lived in Santa Cruz, and my affinity towards Wang-ian beanies and ripped knit jersey brought to mind the lackadaisical nature of the collegiate shore. It was last Fall, too, when I chopped my waist-long dirty blonde locks off into a pixie cut that channeled Rosemary's Baby in all the best ways. I had just opened a vintage clothing store in San Francisco, then rapidly severed all ties with my mismatched business partners, leaving me strapped for cash. The Creative Director of Bumble & Bumble offered me a sizable sum to chop off nearly three feet of lowlights and feminine appeal, photographing the process in its entirety.
The haircut was stunning (the man is a genius), but I am far too lazy for the upkeep, which is why this past Spring saw me dressing like a California Gypsy every day, scarves and turbans concealing my awkwardly growing hair. Inspired by Marni and my newfound status as a Los Angelean, I covered myself in ripped denim, sheer prints, and layers of jewelry, accented with gilded shoes and leopard print galore. My blush did double-duty as I dusted rosy-pink in large circles around my eyes, an effort to draw attention away from strangely shaped bangs.
This morning, I sat in my walk-in closet, plopped atop a pile of clothing, lacing my boots while a friend watched with a cocked brow. "You're such a witch," he said. I stood and pulled the brim of my hat down as low as it could go over my face, tucking stray hairs up securely beneath the band. "You were a bum, then a Gypsy, and now you are such a witch." I tossed a fur scarf around my neck. Cavalli for Fall incited a re-obsession with fur.
The Season of the Witch. Rest assured, it's a Donovan reference, not a Nicholas Cage reference. Although let's be honest, there is no better thing in life than Valley Girl-era Nic Cage.
Whatever shall the upcoming Spring months bring?