fashun

Style is on my mind a lot these days.
I don't know why.
The world is a raging dumpster fire and I'm intrigued by a sparkly bracelet?
And yet.
There is an undeniable power in clothing, particularly women's clothes.
And I've gotten a lot of mileage out of provoking, with my attire.
Not in a sexualized sense.
More in testing the boundaries of appropriateness.
One of my earliest successes was when I was a teenager. My father arrived at the Bellingham Public Library to pick me up, took one look at my fedora and tan corduroy skirt and plaid madras shirt, and send me right back out to the sidewalk. You look so--seedy. He drove off in whatever secondhand sedan we possessed at the time, and I was left to walk the 1.5 miles back to the house.
I felt bad, for the first few blocks.
And then I realized: I hadn't had to say anything. My look had said it for me. And my know-it-all abusive father hadn't liked it one bit.