Fashion for Kids for Who What Wear


In March, Vogue published an article titled “Do Seoul’s Toddlers Have the World’s Most Stylish Hair?” that featured nine street style photographs of the three-feet-and-under set snapped during fashion week. Their hair (pigtails, fauxhawks, an abridged Bieber coif) struck me less than what they were wearing (leather jackets, dandy suits, crop tops). If you squinted at the screen hard enough, warping the scale, any one of these outfits could have easily been worn by a human four times their age. It was too on-trend, too hip, too… totally devoid of the mismatched, misshapen messiness that is practically a rite of passage for kids. When you start off with Givenchy at age 4, what on earth is there to look forward to?

Read the rest at Who What Wear.


That Time I Burned a Hole in My Hand at a Modeling Job and Didn’t Sue

I hadn’t thought about them before, the light bulbs. I had been working for this client for the better part of three months as a fit model, which is about as close as you can get to regular contracted work if you’re not a Victoria Secret model.
Most models — the girls you see on runways and in magazines and on big billboard campaigns — reach their peak in their early 20s. That’s when the elastic in your skin is still taut and the wrinkles haven’t set in. After that, the lucky ones, like Daria Werbowy, become the “mature” faces of luxury. The majority of the others fade into obscurity, moving back to whatever country they came from or marrying a rich guy.



You’ve Got the Look… ish


“This is not the look I was going for.”

Towel in hand, the photographer is wiping up the dusty remnants of a weekend renovation spent dividing two windowless studios into three windowless studios. It looks like a stable for animals and something about the encroachment of space has made the task seem less humane. They’ve taken away the sofa in the corner and now everyone has to share the same music while we shoot ecommerce all day.


Continue reading on Lady Clever.


Never Fall in Love with a Street Style Star: Part 2


The following is a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

The bar’s in Williamsburg, occupying an odd slice of an intersection separating a handful of Polish delis, a denim shop, a decrepit video store that supposedly sells coke. It’s a local spot, a nice enough place with open windows and pretty terrible food. You wouldn’t commute out here specifically from Manhattan, and that’s why when I look up at our newest addition to the group, my mouth unattractively wrapped over the end of a fish taco, and see Henry O’Toole standing there in his three-piece suit and his raggedy beard, my blood slows to a crawl—heavy, leaden, resigned to yet another awkward three hours of my life.

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I Got Lame Shamed Out of a Septum Piercing


The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on Lady Clever:

I’m standing in the lobby of a tattoo and piercing parlor on 2nd Avenue, my hair freshly blown-out and blonde from a four-hour salon appointment, my tawny blazer just grazing my thighs. A proper grown up lady. (No matter how hard you try, everyone ends up turning into some stylistic amalgamation of their mother, my exposed midriff be damned.) The telltale buzz of a working gun sings behind a closed door, where I imagine someone sits, trying desperately not to cry, lest they look as lame as I feel right now, a girl dressed up like Business Casual Fridays, wanting to get her septum pierced.

The girl behind the counter, who I delayed and dumbly notice has the piercing I want (“Oh! Ha! Ha! You have one, too! Duh.”) tells me you can turn it in right away. I sense that the fact that I’ve basically asked how quickly I can make it look as though I do not have a ring through my face is indication I should not really be getting one at all. But, in truth, I have work to consider: the occasional modeling job that falls in my lap that does not require my looking like some sort of rebel without a cause.

But I am a rebel! And I do have a cause!


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“See Like a Girl: The Importance of Corrine Day”


The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

There is something about the way the eye of a woman falls on one of her own kind. It is full of an awareness of experience, devoid of accidental exploitation or perplexed observance—that distanced watching of flamingos wander about a cage, beautiful birds in a gilded zoo. That knowing gaze is something documented, purposefully or otherwise, by female photographers. You’ve been there. I’ve been there. We know. All of it, encapsulated in a simple frame.

While male photographers can gamely attempt to encapsulate the experience of what it means to be girl, too often it’s a mere piecemeal projection of the various things women are capable of being. There are Steven Meisel’s powerhouse vixens, Juergen Teller’s blown-out and over-exposed icons and ingénues, Paolo Roversi’s beautiful ghosts. These all represent parts of women told in stories too brief. And no matter how close these guys come to getting it—I meanreally getting it—there is always a sense of distance, a mark just barely missed.

And then there’s Corrine Day.

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“Instagram and Coachella: #Confused”


The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

Weren’t at Coachella this weekend? Great. Neither were we. But it was 70 glorious g-damn degrees in New York so who cares? Also, abstaining from what has become one of the country’s #1 shitshows probably means you don’t have one of a number of things acquired over the last few days, namely a sunburn and a fun STD. If you’re still bummed you missed out on the fashion photo opp of your lifetime a weekend of amazing music, we’ve dug through the, like, million of unfortunately tagged photos on Instagram and found the worst of the worst to suck that salt right out of the wound. These shots will make you happy you just stayed home and made your dog brunch.

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“Never Fall in Love with a Street Style Star” on The Style Con


…three years ago, my own ghost came in the form of a bearded, tatted up man with stick legs and Prada boots. A fashion dude. He was a handsome nobody—anonymous and available, occupying but a few short rows of a Google image search query. He traveled the circuit—Milan, Paris, London, New York—sitting side-by-side with those famous fashion bloggers, the It Girls, buyers from Bergdorfs, but nobody cared about him yet. He, like most normal people, slipped under the radar. He emailed me from London the first time he was shot for the Sartorialist, looking solemn and gray in front of a stone wall, blue coat belling around his narrow frame, hands crossed politely in front of him. “Don’t make fun of me,” he begged, as I sent him the choicer of the comments already swiftly developing beneath the image, delighting in the panty-dropping hysteria my sort-of-boyfriend was capable of causing.Click here to read more.

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“I Regret Everything I Ever Said About Modeling. Maybe.” on Lady Clever



The following is an excerpt from a piece seen on Lady Clever:

Over the last six years, I’ve done my fair share of complaining about modeling. The weird bones that have presented themselves on my feet because of shoes three sizes too small, the pinching and poking and general forfeiting of my person, the girls with putty brains and mouths filled with nothing: It’s all been annoying, and I’ve been pretty vocal about it. Comments like, “But you could do this forever!” have been met with a lot of eye rolling and “Dear God, no thank you.” I carried around a chip on my shoulder because I wanted to come off as something better than a model, a person not just complacent with being nice to look at–maybe. It’s hard to say how much of my outward disdain for the business is about genuine irritation or obligation to play the straight and narrow, work hard for a good life instead of having it being handed to you. Because over the last ten years, I’ve been handed plenty.

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“Mirian Haney: From Nada to Prada” on The Style Con



The following is an excerpt from my piece “Mirian Haney: From Nada to Prada” on The Style Con:

Sign of the times? California newcomer Miriam Haney started out in late 2013 already beating the industry at its own game, arriving freshly shorn, all bangs and no baggage – just how I like ‘em. Six months later, she’s growing that shit out. Nada to Prada-ing in reverse, as it were. Which begs the question: Is short hair over?

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