an un-pc fashion.

i try to be a pc person, i don’t like to offend on purpose, but sometimes it just doesn’t work.  sometimes i too say things and then i want to put a foot or two in my mouth afterwards.

the fashion industry is definitely not known for being pc either, but unlike me they really don’t care and only when sales numbers are in danger, will they issue a public apology and suck on a louboutin. remember that i was part of this industry? that’s my only excuse i have for this story…

i have written about how my obsession with hole-y tank tops started. and yes, for the sake of the story i will continue to call them tank tops and not vests (south african for tank top), because otherwise the americans will get confused and as the story happened in nyc i think it’s fair to humour them. my obsession however is not exclusively with old, rugged, dirty tanks with holes. no, i love them all and i have in my days paid shocking amounts for perfect versions. people will only shake their head slightly when you tell them you paid a month rent for a pot of la mer or said louboutins, but tell them you spend it on some tank tops and they will use terms like loony for you. in my defence these tank tops have lasted me way longer than a month’s rent and quite a few have made their way to cape town. however lately i have noted that it might be time to replace a few. you know when end up wearing something with more holes than fabric? we are there. 

now you need to understand if you are like me, finding the perfect tank top is by far not an easy task and money is not even an issue here. there is a fine line between perfect looking and perfect looking when worn. a line, if crossed, condemns a tank top unworn in my closet for eternity.

by far the hardest to get right is a wife-beater. you say lbd, i say a white wife-beater is a quintessential item in any girl’s wardrobe.

there. ups. i said it again.

Punked.

I had an ex who used to call me Punk. He called his baby nephew punk too so one can argue if it was endearing or insulting. Yesterday it was time for the Met Costume Gala again and they went with the theme .  Punk: From Chaos to Couture. Again one could argue if it was endearing or insulting. Creating a punk themed red carpet fashion event was the antithesis of punk itself as Kristen McMenamy argued. "Punk is not putting it on. Punk is angry. Punk is not pretending. Punk is real. This is like a costume party for punk." 

At least Debbie Harry admitted "I'm not really a punk, you know. I'm just a schmuck," though the way she looked, she at least got the memo. A lot of others didn't  Or did and in the true regard of punk didn't give a damn how they looked like or whether their looks worked in the parameters of punk-y chaos and couture. There was an overwhelming amount of flowers, which I didn't get at all, and I am not even having a go at poor Kim K. Let’s just blame it on her pregnancy brain and an overwhelming desire to please her stylist boyfriend. Personally I think Anna Wintour’s flower look was worse. She really had no excuse not to know and do better. 

 

As far as the others were concerned I seem to stand alone with my thoughts on who got it right and who didn't  That’s fine. I will stand by me when I say that I think Anne Hathaway rocked. And Sarah Jessica Parker is the best dressed queen of punk. And though January Jones looked a bit creepy, she also looked unbelievably cool. And that I have to shamefully admit and usher the words I never thought would pass my fingertips:  I liked how Miley looked. I thought it was cool and appropriate. Please don’t hate me.

 

 

Then there were some who tried and failed, but they can be forgiven and get a little gold spike for at least trying. And so do the ones who ended up spike and mesh free, but pretty enough.

However then there were the ones who played it safe, but ended up looking…how-should-we-delicately-describe-it? …weird! Yes, weird is the nicest word I can find.

Cameron Diaz was one of them.  Mind you, I don’t like her much to begin with; my mother and I both agree that she has a frog face, so I might be a bit prejudiced. But really… if you want to play it safe, don’t you at least want to end up looking gorgeous?

Gwyneth Paltrow also got shy after making too many headlines, at least for her liking, last week with no underwear underneath little fabric. I personally liked her better then. But it could also be that though this dress is a Barbie’s dream-come-true, it is just too pink to be any good in real life.

 

Last but not least my all-time favourite and go to person to hate: Kirsten Stewart. Now I think we can all agree she has a sour puss face doesn't like to smile much. She usually sports a face a bit angry and devoid of happiness. A face made for punk and dishevelled hair to match. And instead of embracing a perfect opportunity to shine in darkness and embrace her inner Morticia Adams, she wears this:

This leaves only one question. Why?

All pictures from style.com and vogue.co.uk. See my last year’s best and worst here.

The boy above my bed.

Guys, this post is really not my doing, again I am little more than a translator here. All the wit and linguistic splendour really comes from my delectable friend Julia, the cotton candy girl. This is my much preferred job description for her these days as I find plain old journalist just a tad boring. And though I will admit that whether you know the story behind the name or not, it has the slightest stripper notion attached to it, I still like it and know she doesn't mind.

I ended my Tuesday last week with a Facebook status saying Today yoga kicked my ass, YSL broke my heart, and now poor pasta has to make it all better. I should add that I don’t mind at all having my ass kicked in a yoga class. What happened on the runway at the Saint Laurent F/W 2013 show I did mind a whole lot.

Let’s start from the beginning. I adore Yves Saint Laurent. And more than just the brand I adore him as a person and what he has created and inspired over the years. I have a picture of him in Morocco over my bed, which admittedly has raised some eyebrows of men guests who have shared stayed in my bed. I think why not? Though not generically handsome, he is endearing.  A bit nerdy, a bit innocent; a hipster in the true, original meaning of the word. To call him the godfather of all hipsters would make sense. He made it cool to be uncool way before it became cool to be uncool. He was also a prime example many times that really anything is possible if you set your mind to it. An awesome combination if you ask me. Why not have him to be the last thing I see before I go to sleep, so I can dream and spread my wings with his inspiration in mind?

Over my years in New York it was part of my job to watch and attend shows.  Whoever was designing for YSL at the time, some collections I liked, some I was indifferent about, but I pretty much always felt that I had missed out on the best part of it: The time when Yves Saint Laurent himself designed and pretty much made fashion history with each and every collection.

Now my fashion days are long over and I don’t really care all that much anymore. There are few collections I still watch, but I view them completely different now. I can get excited about Hedi Slimane’s first collection under the Saint Laurent name just because I had found a new future wedding dress when I saw his Witches of Eastwick dresses. It didn't matter to me that when you put them in context with the history of brand, they didn't quite spell YSL, I just liked them for me.

But when I looked at his latest collection, I actually just wanted to curl up in bed, clutch Yves’ picture to my chest, hold him tight and say I am sorry, I am so sorry! Then I wanted to write a letter of condolences to Pierre Bergé who had to sit through the show and put on a brave poker face. Nothing felt or looked right about it, nothing even whispered YSL. 

What made it worse was that nobody but me seemed to care at all. Maybe I was a day late with my reaction, maybe critics weren't overly enthusiastic either, but in general I felt rather alone in my dismay. That was till I got a message from Julia. She started the conversation by telling me she found a wedding present for me. Which was exciting because it implied that there is at least one other person who has not given up on me eventually finding Mr Charming (I call him Mr as being a Princess seems tedious work, so I don’t want a Prince.) Then she answered my unspoken question and wrote no, under no circumstances would I get it as a birthday gift, I would just have to wait and find HIM first. Then we spoke about yoga and after we moved swiftly on to the actual important part of the conversation, which inspired this post:

Julia: And btw: can we talk about Slimane. I almost - and that’s NOT fashionjourlistexaggertaionnonsensetalk (her word not mine) – started to cry this morning and (now she is moving into German, I shall translate) hope they kick him out of Paris latest by day after tomorrow. I would throw him in the Seine. Though that would be sad for his photographic skills.

Here comes the time for me to admit that I always mix up Hedi Slimane and Raf Simons. Scorn me if you want though I am pretty sure I'm not the only one. There is just something about the two that makes them like Tweedledum and Tweedledee to me. So I wasn’t quite sure yet whether to agree with her, because I didn't mind the Dior show all that much. Just because it didn't blew me away, didn't mean he – Raf as it turns out – deserved a future as French fish food.

Me: He is the one doing YSL? I always mix him up with the other one. If yes, then I will help kick him out. Pierre Bergé surely started crying?

Julia: I thought about this immediately and Madmoiselle Deneuve probably got a fright and went for a smoke first. Mon dieu! (that’s how she writes – don’t you love her??) But we will talk about this horriblehorriblehorrible horror tomorrow in detail.

In case you wonder, yes, this whole conversation happened on Whatsapp but we already had a Skype date lined up to discuss further.

Me: I am so happy you exist… I couldn’t even find anyone on Twitter to gossip and share my sorrow with.

Julia: True! But those are all cretins (Her word, not mine. I didn't even know it existed and thought she made it up. Sorry if you are on Twitter. Don’t be offended, I'm sure you weren't one of them and just really busy last Tuesday not to respond to my tweet), who cannot differentiate between something they would wear themselves or something that puts the entire identity of a fashion house to the grave. Love you!

Me: Wise words though if I wanted to look like Courtney Love I would buy Marc Jacobs!

Julia: Funny! I said exactly the same today. But we knew already that we are soul mates!!

And that we are. Detailed report from the two candy cotton soul mates about the current state and future of YSL to follow.

P.S. As it is now a few days later I can report that there was no talk of Mr Laurent whatsoever during the Skype conference. We decided boys in our bed were more important to discuss than the one above it. 

Golden...ish.

So yesterday was the night of the Golden Globes. I didn’t care enough to invite myself to someone who has a TV, but I do care to look at the red carpet fashions today and to give my professional personal evaluation of the looks.
As Amy Poehler, one of the night’s hosts was saying: "It's the only night of the year where the beautiful people of film rub shoulders with the rat-faced people of television.” The fashion seemed to reflect that and as per usual there was some good, some bad, and some really ratty outfits, which were definitely not exclusive to the TV peeps.

Last night unfortunately saw:

A Zaubertroll.

In case you don’t know what this refers to – this is a Zaubertroll:

Hard to believe they were once a popular toy and anyone would volunteer to wear that hairstyle.

 

A knight in semi-shining armour.

 

Which is really not a good look for a girl ever. Especially if she clearly shares the same hair stylist with Miss Zaubertroll.

Yet another Oompa Loopma.

 

 

Is it the eye-shadow? Is it the spray tan? I don't even dare to ask.

The couple formerly known as hot.

 

Clearly got married and thus lost their hotness as all the regular married couples do. Her dress? His sunglasses? So sad!

Luckily there was also this:

Post break-up, show him what he is missing, and clearly the boy must be banging his head against the wall for being so stupid to mess it up - dress No 1.

 

Jennifer Lawrence in Dior Haute Couture.

Post break-up, show him what he is missing, and clearly the boy must be banging his head against the wall for being so stupid to mess it up - dress No 2.

 

 

Taylor Swift in Donna Karan Atelier.

Pocahontas Barbie was allowed to the ball.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I am aware that Lucy Liu is not Native American, but I still think she would make a great Pocahontas and as weird as this Carolina Herrera dress is somehow, I love it nonetheless and would have totally spent my pocket money on a Barbie like her.

 

Last but not least there was My dress:

 

 

Dior Haute Couture yes please! and I wouldn’t mind looking like Marion Cotillard either. Aah, a girl can dream…

Holier than most.

Today I wore my new Djellaba while spring cleaning my closet. Why? I like to say you can take the girl out of the desert, but you can't take the desert out of the girl. But maybe that is pretentious. I think I just wore it because it is comfy, I don't have to pull my stomach in (which is still in much need of pulling in after my share of the average annual 16kg/person of Moroccan sugar consumption), and it makes me feel happily nostalgic.
I also got nostalgic when I started to sort through my tank tops. Or vests as the South African would say. Or wife beater as I once called one in unfortunate incident with a black sales woman in New York. Whatever. For me they are my life and holy as well as holey.

I blame my old boss GC for the obsession and so does my credit card. He impregnated on us – his devoted ants squad – that only a holey tank top was a worthy tank top and the holier, the worthier it became. The same went for stains as they may have met Mick Jagger over a late night spilled whiskey, or tears which screamed of adventure while trekking through deserts and crossing oceans, and in general any demise fabric could show that looked the excitement of sex, drugs & rock'n roll. We rummaged through flea markets in the country, secondhand shops downtown, fancy vintage stores uptown, and sometimes even our own little NYC closets, realizing we might be sitting on stinky, ripped goldmines ourselves. You would be surprised what some people pay for dirty, old scraps of fabric.
Eventually designers caught on and our job became somewhat easier. Everybody was doing fancy jeans and unfancy tanks and tees. Sweat and blood came out of a bottle and a machine cut the holes to match. Not to make it too easy for us, these pieces was never good enough for GC. They needed to be real. Authentic. I hate the word. It made me spent hours scrubbing and rubbing, dusting and staining. We had an entire special stain kit with different shades of mud, dust, and street gravel. I remember a few jobs sitting on the pavement rubbing jeans on concrete as this gets the most authentic results of wear and tear. Just to be clear – I was wearing the jeans while doing this! The other trick was washing. Over and over and then once more. One time as it was late and I wanted to speed up the process I added bleach to it. I went to set the next morning shamefaced and with a load full of sample jeans looking like the Milka cow. Talk about starting new trends.
But however much work and money it took to either find the holy jersey grail or to make it thus, I have loved clothes looking old, worn, and full of stories ever since. My most favorite pieces are my most torn. Little surprise there that once again I didn't throw out any today except for a new t-shirt I bought last year at H&M. It's still all shiny and new and I don't like it because of it.
I think most people will think me a slop; I think I like holes, stains, and their sentiment. So when I come to your next dinner party in a top with holes, don't just judge; I'm sharing my love and appreciation for you by wearing it as my plus one.

A strut and a skip.

Before I dive into a full  report of my recent experience with Cape Town Fashion Week you should know that I don’t like fashion week in general. Ever. It is not because I never got invited, because I usually did or could have, but because I don’t like most fashion people that crowd these shows. Especially the really important ones which make every self-respected designer start his show an hour late. I don’t care if you are the devil who wears Prada, my time is valuable too and I don’t care that you need to share a Diet Coke and chat with Mr Lagerfeld before gracing us with your presence.
Though I might get annoyed by these Anna Wintours of the world, those are exactly the people you put on a fashion show for. You don’t put it on for some ordinary girls who buy a ticket for R 150 to feel important for twenty minutes, but who can never afford to buy your clothes afterwards. Tell me international fashion peeps – is there any other country than South Africa that sells tickets to their fashion shows? I think there would be quite a few ecstatic New Yorker wannabe it-girls, paying a little fortune to sit front row at Marc Jacobs or some nouveau riche Parisians to get a close-up look at Dior. But they can’t. Because that is not what a fashion show is for. Unless you live in South Africa, but then there is no MJ or Dior or any worthwhile reason to see a show either. Except you have a teenage niece like myself and it’s her birthday.

Yes, one could say that I went into the whole experience already prejudiced. In addition to the selling tickets part, I don’t hold South African fashion in high regard in general and think they should just let it go and concentrate on making beautiful furniture and home accessories. But hey, that is just me…

My prejudice got confirmed however upon walking into the CTICC and seeing a display by a Kim Gush with her collection called The Immortality of Devine Rule, which was in her words inspired by what black South African women wear and New York City. And in case this didn’t make sense for someone like me, it further explained This is what I would wear as a South African woman, coming to New York, but wanting to keep my own identity*. Considering what just happened at the Batman premier I didn’t think it was a good idea to wear a muzzle, clad in black leather when out about in Soho, but what do I know? I snapped a picture for Julia and sent it with the comment And this is Cape Town Fashion week for you to what she replied Thanks for adding the explanation, I thought it a Darth Vader Zeitgeist contest.


Darth Vader hip and happening.

At least the display of Dark Age appropriate dressing for New York kept us entertained enough till the actual show started. I had left the choice to Gabi as one designer means as little as the next to me and she selected Spero Vilioti. I thought he at least looked like the best of the bad options with puffiness, sparkles, and drama, so I expected to see a show in the true sense of the word. That was till the curtain opened to … a Resort show. Bummer. At this point I already wanted my money back.
To me resort shows are in their concept the pinnacle of decadence. If the idea that you buy a whole separate beach wardrobe to go on holiday somewhere warm when the rest of the country is freezing is not decadent, I don’t know what is. Unfortunately these shows never reflect this decadence as they are usually just an array of bikinis, beach cover-ups, and ugly sunhats in either tropical print or nautical themed colours. This show was no exception minus the tropical print, which may have just brightened the whole sombre affair.
What can I say? The clothes were mainly plain and boring themselves, but I giggled at the thought of what would happen if the guys actually got wet in their white, tight spandex swim shorts and I giggled a bit more at the sunhats that came in wagon wheel size only. I thought for a collection lacking any attitude at all, the models should have worn killer heels or at least skipped and danced in their generic, white flip flops. Nope, they didn’t. It made me giggle a bit more that most slumped across the runway in their flats, sporting a strange back arch as if they were walking against strong winds. One wonders why some designers haven’t realized yet that a fashion show is not real life and most outfits look a bit drab without a heel and a strut.
Luckily fashion shows are short and the finale look came quickly. I kind of respected the designer for being so old school that he showed wedding look to close the show. Of course here this meant a white bikini, a veil, and choice of groom. Then the model turned around and I felt more than giggly. Now I know that in the South African fashion world you can have a flabby ass, but still be chosen to walk down the runway in a bikini and show the world your inner beauty. And what is not to love about that for an ordinary girl like myself?

*Yes, I am paraphrasing as didn’t have a pen to write it down and I can’t find it online anywhere. Just in case you wonder if such a thing could be actually true, it is - I am good at paraphrasing!

Of models on fire and Helen of Troy.

I was just told that I am funny and should become a female Perez Hilton. This coming from my journalist friend Julia, I feel really flattered and so here you go…

My first question which I was still good to ignore yesterday – what are all the models doing in Cannes? I do understand the symbiosis between fashion and film and thus the mingling and meddling of models and actors, but seriously? There shouldn’t be more models than actresses clad in silk and lace on the red carpet. And yes, I still count Diane Kruger to the former. Thinking of her as Helen of Troy still makes me grind my teeth. Or take Milla Jovovich – has she done anything noteworthy movie wise ever since the Return to the Blue Lagoon? They are by far the best examples of models turned actresses as they have actually put foot on a movie set or two. I guess that in itself gives them sort of validation of being at Cannes, but the rest… Surely there are enough hot actresses that the eye candy factor is taken care of, non?

Anyhow, excuse the little ramble… I just had to get it off my chest.

So now back to the glitz and the clothes and oh wait, the first is actually the perfect combination of the above mentioned ladies. Because back in the day when I was little and playing Helen of Troy or Greek Goddess or something to this extend, I would take a nice sheet, wrap it around me and end up looking something like this:

I did not take the sheet, wrap it around me, and pretend I was an actress on a red carpet. Just saying.

And if you are model, just a proper one, not a model turned actress, and yet you feel the need to grace the world with your attendance, please try to look different than an Oompa Loompa in her boilersuit.

Cheryl on the other hand looks like Katniss, the girl who is on fire.

I like how her dress is melting into the red carpet. Kind of cool, so it doesn’t even matter that I have no idea who she is or what she does or if she has any good reason in my books to be there.

That was all that was new and exciting for now. On a final thought though, I just wish to add: Sneaker shoe still life - I did it first, Mr. Big Shot Cannes Photographer!

Left: sneakers in Platbos forest, May 11th. Right: sneakers in Cannes, 2 weeks later.

A fashionable thought.

When I meet new people and they ask me what I blog about my usual answer is Pasta, men, and yoga – in no particular order. I feel that I have left anything remotely fashion related far in my past so I don’t look at fashion magazines, I don’t look at shows on style.com, and I definitely don’t feel any desire to write about it.
Today I do. Though I am just wearing a stripy jersey with jeans and don’t feel particularly sparkly, I do feel quite inspired after browsing through the pictures of the Met Costume Gala. As usual it was glamorous and fabulous and definitely fashion-y (unlike the Oscars and many other red carpets). Therefore I do question the attendance of some guest i.e. The Jonas Brothers. Have they ever a) been at the Met b) do or wear anything fashion noteworthy or c) even know who Schiaparelli was? With the current exhibit being Schiaparelli and Prada: Impossible Conversations that should have been a pre-requisite to score an invite I think. Needless to say, I would have gotten one.

Anyhow here are my thoughts on the outfits. In no particular order I give you The good, The bad, and The let me quickly avert my eyes…
Little to say when something is just right…and beautiful…and new…and breathtaking…and simply the best look No 1:

Christina Ricci in Thakoon with Thakoon.

The other best look No 1:

China Chow in Jean Paul Gaultier Couture.

I usually don’t care for Diane Kruger. Well, I actually still don’t. She is just too blonde (= blah) for my taste. I also think that though I adore anything Prada, I think it is a tricky choice for evening. This one though…this isn’t just a dress, it is mucking afazing dress (can you tell I carried a Charlie’s Bakery box twice this week?):

Diane Kruger in Prada.

I remember I was the only one wearing a short dress for my matrik ball. My favorite teacher, Herr Grund, gave me the doubtful compliment of commenting how very little fabric it had for a dress. There were a lot of dubious scenarios of skin-showing at the Met this year, but this dress especially makes me wonder what Herr Grund would have said:

I think she looks straight out of Lady & The Tramp and she is not the lady. I might be biased with her. I have never liked her and I never will. I blame an ex (you know who you are!) who loved her and called her Scarlywarly, not that I think she would have been impressed by this nickname. Still I think this outfit calls for the corner pub and a beer in a can.

Almost enough with the bitching. This one actually makes me a bit sad. I am such a fan of Blair, don’t like Serena, but Blair just does it all right all the time for me. But what the flip happened here with her face? She actually looks like an Oompa Loompa and reminds us all – even spray tans are bad for you

Do you know what I mean?

Last but not least – my dress:

Farida Khelfa in vintage Schiaparelli. 

That was me for today and now police and out.

P.S. I struggled a bit with my credits, so help me out if you can. All pictures taken from www.style.com , but I only credited the people and the dresses I liked as you can see. Not out of negligence, but it just seems a little mean to name and blame in one go. Tell me if I’m wrong.

Fashion Chronicles - part 4.

Dedicated to all (my) fashion lovers & haters from all times and places.

Bad Hersfeld

The one distinct fashion item I can remember was also one of high embarrassment: Buffalo shoes. The platform heels went high and higher and everyone was wearing them. At some point even I couldn’t resist and bought a pair of ankle boots with 10cm heels, 2 sizes too big as per usual since I needed them in time for a party. My outfit and the party was a smashing success and made me go a bit crazy since I felt the need for a second pair afterwards. This time the fashion police should have been on my high, high heels as I got a pair of mint coloured, suede clogs. I have nothing to say in my defence.

New York

The devil wears Prada and so did we. If you had the honour to work at Vogue as a fashion assistant, you would manage to walk around wearing little Chloe dresses with some very fashionable high, high heels. Why? Because you work at Vogue and it’s not too hard to walk in heels if you have a town car at your disposal to get you around. I didn’t work for Vogue and had to use the subway – therefore Old Navy flip flops or vintage motorcycle boots with the Chloe dresses. The one time I attempted to walk in heels on a New York sidewalk, I literally ended up flat on my face and deep in humiliation.

Cape Town

I am waiting for a guy to show up not wearing shorts and slops on a date and girl to say to me at the supermarket “Wow, what a beautiful bag. Is that Pucci?” I have been waiting for a long time. I haven’t given up yet. I’m still waiting. In the meanwhile I hope that the guy who stole one of my Pucci bags, was in fact one of the ignorant ones, threw it out so now some old lady, who found it at the side of the road, is walking around with a funny coloured bag in Gugulethu.

More tomorrow – what should it be? I’m thinking food, art&culture, sex, and favourite pets. What are you guys thinking?

Me & My Oscar.

Everybody seems to agree that this year's Oscar fashions were quite boring. Everyone played it safe and not not everybody got even that right. I'm not going to go into details, other websites have done that en masse, but just to add my two cents in three points: too much sequince, too much tousled hair that just looked messy (mind you, that coming from me, I am the queen of messy hair) and too much aging make-up (shame, poor Sharon Stone looked like 70 and should fire her make-up artist immediately).

Today I was browsing style.com and after seeing all the Oscar disappointment, I found this to-die-for Bottega Veneta from Fall 2011:

Me ♥

Dear Mr. Maier*,

One day in the near future I am planning to become a great actress, make a great movie, be nominated and then awarded with an Oscar. For this occasion I would very much like to wear your dress. I have attached a picture of the dress I like, but I am open to suggestions from your side.
Please send the dress to my office (I don't have a doorman at home) in due time for next year's Oscars:

MMP Office
Gardens
Cape Town.

I will gladly send you a picture of myself in your dress holding little Oscar. Many thanks in advance!

Sincerely,

Any

Does anyone have his email?

*Should I call him Tomas? Should I write in German? If I write in German must I call him Herr Maier?

I'd rather go naked.

Than not wear a scarf.

Due to the fish cake debacle yesterday I realized that I missed the single most important item on the What I Wore Today list: A scarf. And then I decided that it is actually worth a post on its own, because....drum roll...I love scarves. I adore them. I won’t leave the house without one. Ever.

 I had a friend in high school who always wore turtlenecks. We teased her whether she would also wear a bathing suit with a turtleneck attached. I am the same with scarves. I will wear one in any weather and in any situation. In the summer big cotton wraps, in the evening silk squares, in winter (yes, even in Cape Town) anything cashmere. Nothing completes an outfit like a scarf, nothing makes me feel cosier and for no other item of clothing can I justify a bigger spending budget.

Now after years of cramming them into a box or drawer I finally have a place that provides the perfect spot for my collection:

There are probably a few more strewn around the flat who missed the photo-op, but this is essentially it. It’s a small but precious assembly.

The scarf love may be another trade I get from my Mum. Since I can remember she will wear a silk scarf rolled up and tied around her neck. Last winter I got very lucky as I asked her for hand-me-downs from her own closet. Even luckier when I realized, the guys who robbed all my money out of my bag upon return to Cape Town, had left the real treasure: a tiny bundle of silks with the tiny printed names of Emilio Pucci, Yves Saint Laurent and Hermès.

My favourite scarf these days is this little striped beauty. I got it in NY last August and haven’t taken it off since. That fact led to the following conversation with my little niece...

Olivia: Why do you always wear the same stripy scarf?

Me: Because I just got it and it’s my favourite.

Olivia: Aah (not sounding very convinced).

Seeing my scarf collection in all its’ glory when she came to visit led to this interlude...

Olivia: Why do you have so many scarves?

Me: So my little niece won’t bug me that I always wear the same scarf.

Olivia: (giggle)

Children are easily amused. Me too. As long as I have my scarf.

The way we wore.

The other day I stumbled over a fabulous little blog called What I Wore Today – in Drawings. I would have applied immediately with my outfit du jour, but unfortunately I can’t draw to save my life except maybe fashion renderings that will make me look like a Barbie (and even this would need some serious practice first).

Therefore I decided to make my own little What I Wear Most Days – in Photos.

a Sheer tank. Soft tank. Oversized tank:  Any tank, any day.

b Guinea fowl feather head band:  My friend bought this for me in New York. I love the fact that it actually looks like a DIY project with one of my cousin’s guinea fowls.

c My favourite Piazza Sempione cuff and super glue: After dropping it one too many times the centre rhinestone finally gave up and fell out.

d Coco Extreme:  A waiter told me the other night I smelled like Malibu. I got a bit offended (even though I will openly admit that I love Malibu!) as I thought he was implying I smelled boozy. Lucky for him and his tip, he quickly realized that he needed to clarify to make his point.

e Dark, skinny jeans with f: The right amount of frayed hems.

g Havaianas in matte gold: I buy a pair every season. Unfortunately for the rest of the season I can only remember them fondly – due to a broken strap I had to bury them already and there is no other pair in my size to be found in the whole of Cape Town.

The “winter” edition will follow in a couple of months. I don’t think much will change. I am a creature of habit. I may just throw in a bit of cashmere for good measure.