When welcoming any new season, I tend to get a bit squirrely with my wardrobe. There’s never a shortage of voices announcing the latest must-have ankle boot or toting this fall’s newest cut of denim. For an unapologetic lover of getting dressed, there’s always the temptation to upgrade.
When I lived in L.A., pre-HGTV.com days, I worked as a fashion stylist and production assistant for a series of high-end sample sales. We’d phone our carefully-culled list of independent designers and rescue their leftover garments from end-of-season demise, then rent out a boutique hotel ballroom to display the gathered merchandise over the course of
The dog days are here. Yesterday, I passed a trio of towheads sitting cross-legged on a grassy front lawn, electric blue popsicles dripping down their chin, elbows, knees. Bikes piled haphazardly in the driveway, garden sprinkler a flurry.
Hair, of all things. I’ve never been blessed with a sense of consistency in the beauty department. As a child, my own grandmother often failed to identify me in family photos due to a near-constant rotation of (admittedly terrible) hair choices: the leave-in Perm, the impromptu bangs, the great Sun-In overdose of 1994.
I used to get dressed in the winter, used to rally against the cold and put together a somewhat-presentable uniform for my weekly grocery run or a library return. Once, lifetimes ago and certainly pre-children, I dressed myself up for an afternoon matinee, heels and all, a double layer of mascara. What’s the occasion? the
(Start here.) I’m a denim girl through-and-through, both for their ease and durability, but when summer starts to shift into fall, I find myself reaching for a welcome substitute: linen trousers. WHY? Call ’em cropped pants, or culottes, whatever you’d like. The fact remains: they’re the single-most versatile replacement for denim I’ve found to date.
(Start here.) My criteria for a mid-summer essential can be summed up in three words: comfortable, easy and fully washable. Sticky banana stains and rogue finger paint are not unlikely in these parts, so I’m continually steering clear of the dreaded Dry Clean Only label. And with frequent walks to playgrounds, parks and neighborhood haunts,
(Start here.) The term crop tank conjures up all sorts of images for me, mainly of long afternoons sauntering around a studio floor in dance class (Motown Philly back again indeed). This is not that, although I sure didn’t mind those calve muscles a bit. WHY? Here’s why I love the crop tank: it’s wildly