New York City has a population of 8.3 million, give or take that .3 million at any given time. Ninety-nine percent of these people wear clothes when they leave the house. In New York City, fashion can get pretty interesting, because if you’re a person who has a deep need to be seen and/or counted, one of the only avenues you have in a city this big is to wear yourself on the outside.
This morning, I woke up extremely late (after 9am) and needed coffee desperately. Here’s what I wore to schlep down to the nearest coffeeshop here in the East Village:
extremely oversized white Brooks Brothers shirt I slept in
burgandy jacquard jacket (tailored)
And then there was my hair. I’m blonde these days, for one thing. Yesterday morning, I took a shower and realized I had no brush or comb, so my hair dried into a frizzed, knotty shrubbery on my head, which I braided into two braids and wrapped around my head. That worked out pretty well, actually, but I took out the braids last night. I woke up several hours ago with that familiar knotty shrubbery, only now it was kinked, too. I tied my shrubbery into two low, poofy pigtails, popped some blusher on my cheeks and went out the door.
In the East Village, it all worked.
Did I look slightly like the crazed homeless woman who lives between Avenue A and B on 12th? Well…no, actually. I looked like that crazed homeless woman’s slightly glamorous kid sister. I got my coffee and no one blinked an eye; I even caught a be-suited fellow looking at me, though that could’ve been a result of the shrubbery.
Coffee temperature = perfect. Morning in New York City = so far, so good.