Street Dress

I don’t understand expensive designer clothes. Wrap shopping bags around your body, grow a hipster beard, throw on some chunky shoes, and boom—you’re setting trends. That’s the whole game right there.

There’s this woman with a helmet on. Full protective gear, hands up in front of her face like she’s bracing for impact. Terrified. But look at her and you don’t think about the fear. You just think she’s beautiful.

Snoop Dogg’s everywhere these days, teaching kids things in places they shouldn’t be learning them. Counting from one to ten like it’s the most natural lesson in the world.

Some people you see and they’ve just got it. A girl in her grandmother’s jacket—she stole the jewelry too—with a cigarette, that smile. You wouldn’t care what she was wearing. She’d make a garbage bag work.

Then there’s the kid with the Hello Kitty chain and the makeup and hair that makes no sense. But he’s got the abs, and he knows it. There’s something almost admirable about making exactly the wrong choice and owning it.

A shirt that just happens to be cool. Curves. No performance. Faces don’t really matter when you’ve got the rest going on.

And somewhere in these moments there’s always a dog. Red shirt, accidentally caught in someone else’s photo, looking like he knows he looks ridiculous. You wonder what he was thinking when the camera went off. I look like an idiot. Probably that.

Street style isn’t about the clothes at all. It’s about the people who aren’t thinking about being seen. They’re just alive. That’s the thing you notice.