welcome to the dollhouse
Whenever I’m unsure of how to face the world, I reach for the most potent/slash/unassuming armor I can think of. It’s the [relatively vast] tributary of my wardrobe that
regresses harkens back to our young girl selves and isn’t ashamed to find style inspiration in the Alices in Wonderlands, the Lolitas, and the little ladies of the worlds of Mark Ryden, Yoshitomo Nara, et al.
Mark Ryden’s The Fountain
It hasn’t always been this way. For the majority of my life, I distressfully revolted against my puerile features and [non-]stature (first-world adolescent problems, yes, thank you), painfully grimacing when some stranger offered their unwelcome exclamation of how young I looked. Somewhere along the self-discovery way, though, I
grew tired of accepted my Peter Pan syndrome (equal parts mind and body) and embraced peter pan collars, sleeves capped and poufy, babydoll dresses, and ladylike shoes. Now that I’ve gotten over the hump, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it gives me a strange feeling of strength and, um…moxie? I guess, though, it doesn’t really matter what you choose to wear, as long as you cop a devil-may-care ‘tude about it (“own it,” as they say), being open to the world getting a glimpse of you are.
I may or may not own multiple versions of this shoe…
“I brake for birds, I rock a lot of polka dots, I have touched glitter in the last 24 hours, […] and I find it fundamentally strange that you’re not a dessert person. That’s just weird, and it freaks me out. And I’m sorry I don’t talk like Murphy Brown, and I hate your pantsuit. I wish it had ribbons on it, or something to make it just slightly cuter, but that doesn’t mean I’m not smart and tough and strong.” (The New Girl)