In my other life, I am Audrey Hepburn in a black sweater and black cigarette pants. I am cool, graceful, rabidly chic. I stroll along the Seine, peruse dusty bookstores in St. Germain, dance in the dark with a man I haven’t yet realized I’m in love with.
In this life, the black sweater makes my face look grey and lined, and the cigarette pants….well, the less said the better. Mon mari (an otherwise wonderful man) doesn’t dance, the closest body of water is a concrete-lined drainage ditch, and my strolls are limited to twice daily dog walks around the neighborhood.
In this life, wearing the colors that are my best definitely gives me an emotional lift. My skin glows. I feel prettier, energized. Even so, I can’t imagine myself in head-to-toe color; it overwhelms, it’s too much. I’m still most comfortable in neutrals with a pop or two of color. The Francophile part of me gravitates toward the understated and chic, and my next wardrobe update will be to overhaul my neutral basics to the charcoal greys, taupes and chocolate browns in my palette.
Style at times seems to be a balancing act between what objectively looks best (most flatters our figure and coloring) and what speaks to us on an emotional level. Giving up wearing black altogether feels like giving up that part of me that dreams of Paris and dances in the dark. Donc, I’ll probably never banish noir completely from my closet.
When if comes to your own style, do you sometimes sacrifice flattery for self-expression or visa versa? Or does your inner self align with what looks best on your outer self?
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