It's time for a softer approach.
There was a time when my eyes alighted at glittering bands sculpted around limbs and digits; and dressing myself in sleek metals palpitated my heart more than word of a potential Missy Elliott comeback. I lived in a lustrous haze of silver and gold.
My own jewelry creations emulated ancient Egyptian and Grecian designs. I lusted for necklaces like breastplates – gleaming and massive. My fingers impulsively wire-wrapped arrowheads and stone fangs into pendants. I even incorporated the lesser-sought trophies of a kill into my jewelry box; porcupine quills turned into menacing earrings, snake vertebrae became charms, and from a pendant I dangled the bone of a raccoon penis.
Yeah. BONE. There is an actual bone in the penis of a raccoon.
My own jewelry creations emulated ancient Egyptian and Grecian designs. I lusted for necklaces like breastplates – gleaming and massive. My fingers impulsively wire-wrapped arrowheads and stone fangs into pendants. I even incorporated the lesser-sought trophies of a kill into my jewelry box; porcupine quills turned into menacing earrings, snake vertebrae became charms, and from a pendant I dangled the bone of a raccoon penis.
Yeah. BONE. There is an actual bone in the penis of a raccoon.
Yes, I loved cold, hard metal. And, clearly, the genitals of small mammals. But I can't say I know that Michelle anymore. Something changed.
On a soft, bright morning I woke up – and recoiled at every jeweled neck and wrist I saw. I couldn't clasp a necklace around my own throat. I shed bracelets as quickly as I put them on. And my naked fingers never found their way back into a ring of any kind. The logic was lost on me; these were ornaments I loved, but no longer did any of them make sense on my body.
“Why?” bubbled up into my thoughts, but relented long enough for me to finish my last semester of college.
Months passed, and, just as quickly as my appetite had vanished, it hit me: jewelry was a defense. The protective breastplate necklaces, the weaponry, and charms of death were little more than ornate displays of passive aggression. Like a warrior in danger, entering battle, I fastened jewelry to my body like armor. I had mentally protected myself from what I wrongly perceived to be a wholly dangerous world. Where real danger is concerned, armor is an undeniable asset. But living in constant fear of a phantom assailant just runs a mental battery low.
The day I took off my jeweled armor was the day I began to trust my surroundings. Armor that used to be protective had become leaden and oppressive. I had grown out of it like a child who no longer needs the crutch of a night-light to sleep – the light now a distraction rather than a comfort. It was liberating; I was free of spending precious time each morning accessorizing. I could proceed into each new day unencumbered and smug as a woman in white pants on a tampon commercial.
Another layer settled; I exchanged armor for cloth. Resistance for flexibility. My new impulse is to accessorize with textiles and other, gentler materials. I don't know exactly what prompted the shift, but I know I'm not entirely alone. With neck ties dominating the runway and chokers still going strong, a movement of the collective conscious is suspect. I'm jumping on the bandwagon before I'm left behind, and I'm starting with these babies – conceived in the aisles of a craft store in a breathless and disconcertingly erotic frenzy. Should there have been bystanders, the scene might have been taken for an allergic reaction. “No sir, I don't need medical attention – I need all the ribbon so I can make two necklaces I'll probably never wear.”
On a soft, bright morning I woke up – and recoiled at every jeweled neck and wrist I saw. I couldn't clasp a necklace around my own throat. I shed bracelets as quickly as I put them on. And my naked fingers never found their way back into a ring of any kind. The logic was lost on me; these were ornaments I loved, but no longer did any of them make sense on my body.
“Why?” bubbled up into my thoughts, but relented long enough for me to finish my last semester of college.
Months passed, and, just as quickly as my appetite had vanished, it hit me: jewelry was a defense. The protective breastplate necklaces, the weaponry, and charms of death were little more than ornate displays of passive aggression. Like a warrior in danger, entering battle, I fastened jewelry to my body like armor. I had mentally protected myself from what I wrongly perceived to be a wholly dangerous world. Where real danger is concerned, armor is an undeniable asset. But living in constant fear of a phantom assailant just runs a mental battery low.
The day I took off my jeweled armor was the day I began to trust my surroundings. Armor that used to be protective had become leaden and oppressive. I had grown out of it like a child who no longer needs the crutch of a night-light to sleep – the light now a distraction rather than a comfort. It was liberating; I was free of spending precious time each morning accessorizing. I could proceed into each new day unencumbered and smug as a woman in white pants on a tampon commercial.
Another layer settled; I exchanged armor for cloth. Resistance for flexibility. My new impulse is to accessorize with textiles and other, gentler materials. I don't know exactly what prompted the shift, but I know I'm not entirely alone. With neck ties dominating the runway and chokers still going strong, a movement of the collective conscious is suspect. I'm jumping on the bandwagon before I'm left behind, and I'm starting with these babies – conceived in the aisles of a craft store in a breathless and disconcertingly erotic frenzy. Should there have been bystanders, the scene might have been taken for an allergic reaction. “No sir, I don't need medical attention – I need all the ribbon so I can make two necklaces I'll probably never wear.”
They're easy to make: cut a ribbon or trim you like to the circumference of your neck (accounting for the length of the clasp), loop each end through one side of a paracord buckle, and finish with a few stitches.
With the SS16 collections on my mind, I married Christopher Kane's buckled shoes with Fendi's floral motif - hard with soft, masculine with feminine.
With the SS16 collections on my mind, I married Christopher Kane's buckled shoes with Fendi's floral motif - hard with soft, masculine with feminine.
If chokers and fabric accessories aren't your thing, there's still a message for you here – and it's on your body. You can take your psychological vital signs by studying the way you dress yourself. The details of your outfit are no mistake. Your style choices, both conscious and unconscious, represent what's circulating beneath the exterior. Take note of personal style transformations – they are symptoms of intrapersonal revolutions. If you're looking for new insight, find a mirror and see what your clothes have to say about your frame of mind today.