Fashion. This is a word that to me means: stuff people hang upon their naked bodies to make them relatively less naked. Sure there’s “bad” fashion, Haute Couture, Target/JC Penny wear, etc. but I must highlight my favorite of all: Individualistic. Now this, to me, is a genre of fashion all on it’s own - it cannot be defined by one characteristic, or even many definitive characteristics, individualistic fashion is defined by it’s sheer lack of a characteristic definition. Case in point: a female in my geology class this semester (I say “female” because I feel uncomfortable calling her a Lady, Woman, or Girl because she is a] not classy enough for the “Lady” label, b] Not apparently old enough to be a Woman, c] Though she is not masculine, she is not feminine enough to be called a Girl).
**Clarification: I am in no way shape or form making fun of this poor gal. I do, in fact, admire her courage to stand out as much as she does.
This female (her name escapes me, though I’m sure I once knew) has her hair cut and died in the Skunk style that was popular with “Hipsters” and “Punks” for about a week last year, but it’s so damaged that she actually appears to have a multi-colored skunk atop her head. Her hair is died black (judging by the white-white-white paleness of her skin I must speculate her to be a natural blonde) with a darkish purple died in the mid section and blue adorned throughout. Did I mention this look is a mohawk? Yes, she does have the sides of her head shaved, but so shallow that it doesn’t feel right calling it a mohawk. Reverse mullet, maybe?
On one particular day I took a tally of her entire appearance from head to toe because it was just so phenomenally wacky that I had to remember every detail. In her left earlobe she wore a giant green rose earring reaching her shoulder, and in her right earlobe: a smaller red rose earring with purple ribbon adornment reaching her other shoulder. Upon her neck lay a thin black rope with a fairly large wooden cross pendant and several gold, black and silver chains tangled around the rope. On her wrists she had an assortment of small black bracelets amongst large black wristbands with white skulls. All these bracelets were semi-hidden by her black arm warmers.
She wore a black, velvet peacoat with marching-band-esque buttons and a bright blue fuzzy pen in the breast pocket. Hanging off her shoulders was a purple scarf with large pink polka-dots. Under the jacket she wore a white sweater with big black asymmetrical hearts sewn throughout, a blue-flower green-feathered shirt under the sweater, and a blue strappy tank-top under the shirt.
As if the chaos that was her torso wasn’t enough, Andy Warhol graced her with his presence in the form of multi-colored Marilyn Monroe patterned leggings and (I kid you not) soup can decorated ballet flats. Oh and I mean soup cans. Not pictorial, actual Campbell’s soup cans cut and pasted onto her shoes. On top of all that, she rocked some black, flowered ray-bans and a bright fire-engine-red purse.
I wish I could draw this out for you, but I honestly wouldn’t know where to start. If anybody out there wants to take a stab at it, I’ll let ya know if you got it right. It was a true sight to see.