Pretty in Pink
The fashion world has a million rules about what you’re not supposed to wear, and I’ve never understood a single one. Pink leggings after you’ve had kids? Banned. Hawaiian shirts this summer? Apparently they died. Anything that looks like it came from a thrift store instead of a boutique? Burn it immediately and never speak of it again. But the people who actually look interesting are always the ones who just ignore the whole system.
Tiffany’s eighteen from Montevideo and she dresses in these rippled clothes that honestly look like they came straight from her grandmother’s closet. Pink leggings, yes. She doesn’t apologize for it, doesn’t seem to care what the rules say. Just gets dressed.
Lorena’s from Sweden, twenty-two, and she’s the type you want to stay up talking to until morning. Her room is bright, full of clean surfaces and good light. She wears jewelry from Cocoo, these small touches that catch your eye when she moves. The kind of person you’d think about for a while after.
Mavi I’ve only seen in pictures but she doesn’t bother with the designer brands everyone’s supposed to want. She understands that the person wearing the clothes matters infinitely more than the label. There’s a directness to her that reads as intelligence.
Aren’s from Detroit, twenty-five, and he looks like he lives in the woods and only shows up in the city by accident. Tattoos, muscles, hair covering his face. He wears Levi’s and work boots in that casual uniform way that means you’ve stopped thinking about clothes at all. It’s its own kind of confidence.
Liisa’s from Tallinn, fourteen, and she already figured out what takes most people years—that geography doesn’t matter when you’ve got the internet. She knows what’s current, she likes music, she takes pictures. That combination of bored-at-school plus curious-everywhere-else usually means something interesting is developing.
They’re all just wearing what works for them without waiting for permission. Somehow that’s become rare enough to notice.