And like every other stereotypical new year new me chant, I happen to have fallen victim to what’s considered the most distasteful slogan of our time. Perhaps on the basis of a much unrelated context but then again I’m pretty certain the majority would argue that the odds are quite similar.
Last week I finally got the chance to visit the sitting room…you know the kind of places where only the potbellied, gray haired, musky individuals with really flashy cars like my dad and yours like to hang out chugging down bottles of tusker and nyama choma?
Luxury brand designers have over the years brought their savvy mastery of pattern drafting, dexterous hue combinations and impeccable taste in fabric samples next door through acclaimed retail stores to bring to the hoi polloi “affordable” makeshift pieces that drive people to almost delirium on open days all in a desperate effort to snug a sketchy stamp of hotshot personas just to brag and stroke your fashion ego that you’ve officially been branded.
Not to be mistaken for the typical trend offender but if Beyonce had an open casting to join her girl squad, here’s what I’d gear up in – this is war!
The week is nigh!
As is custom by now, the profound vacuum in my chest having spent close to a century (or at least it seems so) from your audience makes me wanna broadcast just how much I’ve missed you! No seriously it doesn’t get any more pretentious than this unless of course you follow Dj Khaled on Snapchat then let’s just say my 1% vanity inspired catalogs and humdrum salad selfies are null.
Fall 2016 New York Fashion Week saw rise to models of color strut down the runway almost exclusively courtesy of Posen among others. His bold move to incorporate diversity on the show that has over the years received strong criticism and backlash over alleged racism resonated deeply with me and that not only made Zac Posen’s collection one of my favorites but continued to affirm my life long dream.
The sensation New York Fashion Week gives me is almost riveting. There is something oddly promising when watching the strobe lights flicker and models begin to descend the runway in peerless silk and lace combinations so magical Alice in Wonderland would need a lifetime to reclaim its spot in my childhood memories. From Victoria Beckham’s seamless collection to Tommy Hilfiger’s nautical inspiration, the only thing not attractive is the price tags swinging politely backstage.
Contrary to what most people believe, mine wasn’t a story of epiphanies or self discovering journeys but instead a tale of an impulsive teenage girl searching desperately to derive meaning from a passion for fashion. With nothing but a doomed report card to show for it, it occurred to me that life was much more than double failure and two hour lectures from my dad
Valentine’s Day is a loony ideology curated by Western economies to boost their total GDP with sky rocket sales from cute fluffy teddies, overpriced dresses, streets flocked with bodabodas criss-crossing the city rushing to get the next order of basic bouquets, aged wine and chocolate gift bags delivered with the risk of being considered the biggest ‘L’ for bae of the year depending on how grande a gesture you make.