Dressed

We were supposed to publish something about fashion this week, but the actual fashion police showed up at the office. I’m not exaggerating—they came through, made it clear we don’t know what we’re talking about, and that was that. So here we are running this a day late.

The thing I notice, watching how people dress, is that the ones worth looking at aren’t thinking about the rules. Kasia from Poland just wears things—gray shorts, black stockings, a bike-messenger ease that reads as her life rather than a costume. Dorian’s hairy-legged at twenty and doesn’t pretend otherwise, just wears his skin like a fact. Isa the same way. There’s a freedom to it, maybe, or just clarity. The point seems to be enjoying it, not solving an equation.

Joely’s solving an equation. She’s studied the Taylor Momsen template—the clothes, the shoe polish, the dark aesthetic—and she’s committed to it. Which is fine, that’s eighteen. Everyone dresses like someone else until they get tired of it. Usually takes a couple years to figure out what you actually want to wear.

I care more about a really good pizza than fashion, if I’m honest. Olive, salami, double cheese, the crust crispy and dark. That feels more real to me than any outfit, any studied look. Fashion is something you do because your body needs coverage and you might as well make it interesting. Food is different. Food matters.