Pretty in Pink

Willabelle’s sixteen from Australia with this effortless thing going—blue blazer over a floral dress, silver chain. You see a lot of teenagers trying to construct a look, performing fashion, and then you see someone like her and it’s just there. No labor in it.

Tony’s another thing—twenty-six, living in Paris with an artsy girlfriend and a kid, and his whole feed is this enviable life. He photographs well, dresses well. Blue shirt, tattoo, beard. The kind of guy who makes you want to be better looking just by existing.

Fabienne’s got a Mogry tattoo, that little Final Fantasy creature inked right there on her skin. Topless, patterned dress. I was sold immediately. Something about someone caring that much about something so specific and nerdy. I’d marry her, get the whole thing started. That detail short-circuits something.

Agnija’s fifteen from Latvia and already dresses better than most adults—red jacket, light top, white shoes. Same effortless thing as Willabelle. You see enough people who look like they’re performing fashion and then you see someone like this and remember that some people just have it.

Then there’s Justin. Colored beads, painted nails, fake horns, facial piercings everywhere, some boring tattoo. Fashion sense that would make Ozzy Osbourne’s corpse roll around in the grave. Sometimes you look at someone and just understand they’re lost. Not in a poetic way. Just lost.