[dropcap type=”full” ]T[/dropcap]he other day I was invited to fashion party by a brand I once modeled for. I never really had a thing for these kind of parties but for once I decided to give it a try.
The party was held at one of the most populair nightclubs in Amsterdam. Because of this I decided to wear my high heels instead of my shredded Vans that I prefer above all. I slipt into a simple little black dress and quickly put on some red lipstick before I hurried to the event.
When I entered the club, it was filled with pretty faces and I quickly got introduced to many people.
Some of them had familiar faces, and some I had never seen before.
But there was one thing they all seemed to have in common; They were all wearing clothes of the most respected labels and complimented my simple yet sophisticated style – their words, not mine.
They talked about things I knew nothing about. About what is hot and what apparently is not. About how cute my dress was and how my style seemed to be so different and ut of the ordinary. About how the girl in the corner looked like shit and about that good looking man that was entering the room.
All with all they seemed more concerned about the outside appearance instead of the inside.
It’s something I can not relate to.
I had trouble to keep my attention and really listen to the words they were saying. While I saw their lips moving and got distracted by the way too loud music the deejay was playing , I was wondering what it is they see when they look in the mirror.
Do they see what I see?
And all of a sudden I felt like I was on a set of a bad movie, watching it from the outside. And I didn’t fit in. Non of the conversations really interested me. And I really didn’t feel like small talk all night long.
I felt myself getting slowly sucked into a vibe that was just as fake as most boobs and lips I was surrounded with that evening.
There was no one who seemed to care what was behind my seemingly pretty face. They all loved my shoes, but they didn’t seem to give a shit about the person who was walking them. There was no one who actually talked to me because they cared to listen. They just loved to hear themselves speak. So I left. I got my brandless vintage leather jacket and left. I couldn’t wait to kick my shoes off. And just be me again.
I walked home through streets of my beloved city. It was raining and the cold wind was messing up my hair. I could feel my feet hurting because of those pretty, beautiful but oh so uncomfortable shoes and I think I never missed my fucked up pair of Vans more. But I couldn’t bother to get a taxi.
I needed fresh air after all those hot air bullshit conversations.
I started to think about fashion, style and beauty. It are such personal and relative things to me. What one might think is cool or beautiful can be not even noticed by another.
Who actually decides the fashion rules? I seriously do not know and honestly I do not care. I have just one simple rule when it comes to fashion; wear whatever the hell it is you feel comfortable in and own it.
I think it doesn’t matter how beautiful or stylish you may look, or how your make up is “on fleek” or your clothes are on point, if you act ugly or shallow you just appear horrible to me.
Orson Welles once said:
Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.
And I totally agree with him. And no, Mr Welles wasn’t a well know fashion designer, blogger or fashion magazine guru. He was a respected writer and filmmaker and I bet nobody at the event knows his name or his work.
And I’m okay with that I won’t judge them over it. I just prefer to spend my time with people who won’t judge me by my shredded Vans and prefer to discuss quotes rather than clothes.