Growing Up a Fashion Girl

      

      This is an essay I’ve written about a year ago. Forgot all about it so I decided to put it up here on ze blog! Although I’d love to revise this (this really needs a lot of work haha), I want to preserve my thoughts and feelings at that time. Cheers to fashion!

      Like all teens, I had my friends come over all the time. We would follow the routine—watch a movie, take some photos, have pizza, and maybe even bake. One time, two of my friends were laughing about something, but I just couldn’t catch their drift. Oh well. A little while later after a hearty viewing of Lizzie McGuire The Movie, they were laughing about something they stumbled upon on the internet. I couldn’t relate, and so I just smiled and brushed it off. After a couple more of the same instances wherein I would just nod along to their references, my friend commented:

      “You’ve been living under a rock!” 

      I must confess: I got hurt. I got over it quickly and just let it slide. She’s just kidding, I told myself. Moments after, while we were probably laughing at something on Tumblr or YouTube, my friend found my collection of photos on my desktop. She browsed through them, and her face lit up as if seeing something for the first time. She looked up at me, and said: “You have your own world.”

      This world of mine was sprawling with runway shows with different species of women such as the Balenciaga babe, the Lanvin lady, the D&G ditz, and even a Jean-Paul Gaultier gal. (insert something all continents blah blah) They were all clad in the finest of fabrics and the most glittering of jewels (they had a change of wardrobe of course when Fall/Winter came around). Aside from the bam bam sound of their mighty heels, one could hear the faint laughs of models backstage, and afterwards, the sound of Monsieur Lagerfeld explaining how “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants.” Brimming the halls of these catwalks were the curious street creatures who were just as interesting as the collections themselves. Their colourful layers were quirky and witty, sweet yet snappy. As they pounced the streets, their capes and Celine bags moved boldly, and so did the world we all lived in. It was an overwhelming spectacle. And I’m glad that it was all just a click away. (Thank you, STYLE.com.)

      On the other side of the universe lied a very chill but sometimes crazy, Chatime-fueled planet wherein girls such as my friends banged their heads to The Jonas Brothers. They would snap photos with digicams---side swept bangs hung loose, tongue out, and were all wearing the uniform of choice: denim shorts and tank tops. The glorious voice of Hannah Montana can be heard everywhere because nobody’s perfect and you gotta work it. The Biebs and Breezy were also battling over who could steal more hearts. And curating Facebook albums was a full-time job.

      When my friend took a glimpse into my world, she lifted a screen that revealed a shocking new place for me: reality. It was a reality to be different from everyone else because it just so happened that I was in their world.

      Different. I was different.    

      I was a young fashion girl (just in case you haven’t grasped that yet) caught in between swarming peer pressure and freeing passion. I chose to play it safe and achingly chose to lock up that precious part of me away from everyone to see. And so I wore denim shorts for a while whenever I went out with friends. I also listened to Jason Derulo and to every other artist that told the DJ to drop the beat. My attempts at “blending in” became a routine: go on Tumblr, watch viral YouTube videos, stay updated on the latest #hashtags and slang words, and keep your fashion mouth shut. That was my stream of consciousness, the daily grind in this world. However, the silence maddened me and I caved in.

      Why did I need to repress myself? Why should I hide who I really was? These questions may sound like a coming-of-age film, but that was the truth. Conformity, in all its communal spirit and assurance, was not as comforting as it should have been. If Coco Chanel withdrew from society’s standards of dressing, created a nouveau look, and clearly got away with it, then why can’t I do the same? Why can’t I wear layers of bangles? Why can’t I put a turban atop my head? Printed pants…a little jewelry, perhaps? Throw on a cool jacket in crazy colors, and I’ve gotten myself a revolution.

      Revealing my passion was a careful process, just as a caterpillar undergoes metamorphosis. My cocoon cracked open, bit by bit, and the wing excitedly peeped out from underneath. The first step was to allow my clothing to truly represent me. Goodbye, tank tops! And as I cultivated the art and practice of dressing up, something blossomed out of it: style. Having style just doesn’t involve putting on a little black dress and calling it a day. It’s something innate that runs through the veins, and to be fully aware of such DNA only means that one truly knows one’s self. Next, I became vocal about fashion. (True story: I once tried to hide the fact that I was taking sewing workshops from my friends.) My favourite designer, my favourite collection, and even my favourite models began to be topics of conversation with my peers. I could have been the next Tim Blanks! Through my newfound confidence, I finally shared my passion to the public, posted photos on Instagram of my latest sewing projects and even started a blog to share my thoughts and ideas. Word’s out: I AM A FASHION GIRL.

      The warm rush of happiness, however, was accompanied by a sort of loneliness because I was still living in their world, lest I forget that. I was still different. There they were, and here was I. Bieber and them. Fashion and I. Thus, certain difficulties and challenges came in tow. In the mall, I would feel the stares of people as I pass by them in my moody long skirt and equally androgynous top. Why was she wearing a hat? One person asked my friend. Wooow, dark lipstick! Looking funky today, huh? Aside from the comments, there was also the invisible riff between my friends and me. Now, of course, there was an established mutual respect between us, but they didn’t know who Nicolas Ghesquiere and Raf Simons were. They couldn’t share with me their thoughts on the latest it shoe or bag. Was I the only one who didn’t like Prada’s sandals? No answer.

      Amidst the struggles that came with loving normcore (and watching too many fashion documentaries), one question arose and demanded an answer: Why? Why bother with trends and shows when others don’t appreciate them too? Why wear weirdly proportioned outfits only to be mistaken as a manghuhula? The sneering and the eyes, the judgement and the frowns… I had to make sense of it all. And upon reflection, with my hand on my boxy tee-bearing chest, I realized that this was all out of love. It was as simple as that. I was (and still am) in love with fashion---and not for the reasons people may imply. The glamour and the luxury never held any true power for me. The real power came from the stories behind the clothing. A Dior couture dress, though seemingly simple, is actually designed by Raf Simons after a rigorous process of studying the house’s archives. The artisans then interpret the design, create and shape it with fabric as a sculptor breathes life into clay. There is something magical in transforming inspiration as banal as oil spills or corals, into something wearable and comprehensible by a woman. And I liked that idea---the philosophy, that cracks on the street, the waves of the ocean, and the stitches of a dress can hold a lot of wisdom. I guess I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to view the world in a different light, and wearing the fashion of the times gave me the spectacles to do so.

      Now, I still believe in the power of fashion. And I don’t think that will ever change. My peers greatly respect my passion and direction, and always encourage me to be as fasyon as I could be. However, there will always be people who judge you based on your outfit in the mall. I don’t have the gizmo to zap everyone’s brains to make them all appreciate the art of clothing. What I do have is the respect for anyone’s opinion, because I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s also safe to say that I’ve reached the optimal level of sartorial confidence, and I have social media to thank for the democratization of fashion (woohoo bloggers!).  In this journey of living up to who I am, I’ve met a lot of fellow fashion folk along the way whom I proudly call my friends. The Philippine fashion scene, I believe, has found its niche in modern society, and I could only hope to contribute to its growth in the future. But right now, I am simply me, still living under that same old “rock”. The only difference is that I wear my heart on my sleeve…and it’s looking brighter than a Balmain blazer.

(Main image: Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris, Getty Images)