Black Betty

A few years ago, a friend of mine stated that I don't really possess a certain "style" because my closet was tent-poled by Bardot dresses, vinyl pants, 70s embroidered jeans, and everything in-between. Crippled by anxiety, I took this negatively. Am I flighty? Does this mean I then lack style if it's not definitive? My relationship with my closet has been my longest. Age has broadened my understanding that my style is ever-changing, with a few common threads connecting the phases. Sometimes I envy those who have found their "uniform" so to speak. I question whether that will ever be me. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying the daily math of outfit formulas that cater to all of my personas. For instance, when I saw these Velvet Underground inspired embroidered jeans at a market in LA, they had to come home with me. The talented stitching of Tatu Gogo always warrants a compliment when I wear this pair. Normally styled with my sandy Converse high-tops and a vintage racing raglan, this time I dressed them up with a white lace-up bodysuit (a summer must-have!) and canary heels to mimic that Nashville sun.

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When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.