ZAYDE’s love

My belongs to my Daddy!

Fashion is as contradictory as female gender roles. An outfit says everything, is she a slut? Is she lazy? Is she absolutely crazy? Every woman understands the feeling of not having anything to wear. They limp around in one high heel and one flat, rushing from closet to mirror, and while simultaneously stripping and accessorizing in between. ‘If only something would match the way I want to feel!’  Women search for that perfect reflection, that rush of high when a black silk tunic looks just right. The other night I could not find that outfit. I found myself frustrated in front of a closet full of clothes. Adjusting her hair in the full-length mirror, my friend Lauren asked, “Well do you want to look hot or pretty?” The proposed differences between those options are loaded with meaning. I looked down at the pile of silk and sequin encircling my feet, and thought ‘seriously?’ That is the thing about fashion: it sucks girls up and spits them out in thigh high boots. Shameful, maybe— but that euphoric high, the dopamine that surges through my body as I strut, is worth the search party.  I found that outfit in a pair of jeggings, (a hybrid of jean and legging) a white tank, and a covet worthy chain linked bag. It was not until the next morning that I allowed myself to contemplate the question that had rolled naturally off Lauren’s tongue, “hot or pretty?”

There is something so demeaning yet empowering about that question. The empowering part is the simple fact of knowing exactly which outfit to wear to achieve the desired look. The part to focus on however is the demeaning, because within that proposed question resides the contradiction of female gender. Fashion is not just fabric massed together stitch-by-stitch, it is full of hierarchy and consciously ignites an identity crisis in every woman. There is a degree of participation, and commitment that distinguishes the fashionistas, from the mall rats. A level of reverence for Chanel and an utter disgust for BCBG. Those who worship the pages of Anna Wintour’s Vogue are quite different than those who flip through Cosmo. Fashion is a proposed freedom of expression, but that is as fake as Goyard bags in Chinatown. Fashion is just an easier way to distinguish social class, and with a city as diverse as New York, one is likely to be fashion road kill than obtain that ‘je ne sais quoi.’

Fashion is not as exclusive as it believes itself to be. It is one of the few worlds that every American participates in, regardless of class, race or gender. Every single person must throw something on their body, so naturally a hierarchy has evolved. Some women wake up and climb high into Louboutins, and others simply lace up their Keds. The differences between a coal miner who slings his overalls on, and a hedge-fund guy who fastens his Brioni suit off with monogrammed cuff lings, is merely levels of expectations and price tags. The fact is however that fashion is common ground. Polar opposites such as a conservative Christian fundamentalist and a liberal feminist start their day faced with the very same decision, ‘what to wear.’ The closet might just be the one place where both Barak Obama and I stand. The uniting threads begin to unravel though, as the cashmere separates itself from the polyester, and the ripped jeans become markers for blue collar. The proposed idea that fashion is a freedom of expression is a counterfeit thought, because what we wear, wears us.

Everyone has those days…the moments that feel endlessly lonely. Sometimes that mood sneaks up on me. It catches me outside while walking down Fifth Ave from school. It must be all the family tourists, or the international couples who must hold hands, and take kissing pictures— either way I often escape into the calming serenity of Bergdorf Goodman. As I take the escalator down to the beauty department, the pretty aromas of sandalwood and jasmine fill my nose, and I am greeted by red rouged smiles. A healthy does of attention and suddenly a ballet pink lip-gloss goes a long way. I feel a natural affinity to Truman Capote’s character Holly Golightly.

“You know those days when you’ve got the mean reds…. the blues are because you’re getting fat or maybe it’s been raining too long.  You’re sad, that’s all.  But the mean reds are horrible.  You’re afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of.  Except something bad is going to happen, only you don’t know what it is. What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany’s.  It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there…”

Sometimes though, long after Tiffany’s, or Bergdorf’s has shut its doors, the loneliness comes over me and I might try to text my way out of it. A random bbm to a boy I should have deleted long ago— In reality though don’t we all just prefer to eat our way out of it. I have no shame in admitting that often a distracting bowl of cereal can clear those mean reds. Tonight as I went to seek refuge, I got a real sign. I opened my cabinet and was smacked in the face, but before I could look up or down, cheerios jingled all over my floor. Honestly I could have cried. There I was gathering on my hands and knees, picking up single cheerios from my zebra rug. I finally just began to laugh and I formed a pretty picture from this mess.

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?


This quote found in Alice and Wonderland, completely resonates with me. On the brink of turning 21, I find myself completely lost, and yet completely satisfied. The world I would create would be complete nonsense, just as it seemingly runs today. I’m not dismissing universal healthcare, or Iran’s enriched uranium- but I am admitting that when I walk out the door a whole lot of glorious nonsense awaits my flakey attention. Luckily (for you,) I do not have to make decisions that will change the world. Instead I get to change someone’s day just by holding the door open, my contribution can be as simple as that. And the truth is, that is not nonsense. Little considerations should not be overlooked. I am here in the now, standing at the corner of Starbucks and your street. What I do on a daily basis affects fellow city dwellers a lot more. Create an atmosphere that you want to be apart of,  “One that nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t.” Or at least say “thank you,” when some one holds the door open. 

Lolo Ballerina Pump

Starting at age 4 I was carpooled to ballet class. All jammed into one mother’s SUV, we begged for TCBY on the way home. At that point it was just pink tutus and little feet, but as the years past the carpool became smaller, and I was left to pursue dance seriously alone. It was never forced on me, I naturally gravitated towards it. The Marley floors became my sanctuary, and slowly I began to identify myself as a dancer.

I can tell you this for certain a ballerina’s body is sought after, the long legs to die for… But I’m going to let you in on the secret, and that is Pointe shoes. The boxed toe creates a delicacy, and Christian Louboutin is first to capture this beauty in his ‘Lolo’ pump. I guarantee this is the look to splurge on, be ahead of the trend. The Ballerina toe is going to become the standard; it captures the perfect amount of femininity.