Summer nails.

For your nails to stand out in pretty sandals, they need a fresh manicure and pedicure every two weeks. In a bright colour. Here I'm wearing a bright pink (whose shade name evades me as I type this in the dark far from my nail kit) by Essie.

Today's look.

The statement blouse. @ Radio Days Vintage Boutique (JHB/EL)

Nautical: what I wore

One of my all time favourite looks in navy and white. #classicNautical #ZaraBlazer #sissyboyShorts #countryroadSandals #mrpBasicTee #ForeverNewNeonNeckpiece

Keeping Up Appearances...

The not-so-pretty flipside of being a fashionista

Words by: Afika Avathe Lulo

My "Ivy League" (read UCT) friends always thought I was ditsy & unintelligent. And pretentious. They thought I was unintelligent because my daily modus operandi was more of a moda operandi. 

You see, I became better acquainted with make-up brushes and colourful clothing rails when my school shoe days reached their long awaited end. I found myself - a fashionista in the midst of people who thought caring about the clothes on your back was a habit of the superficial.

I recently bought a 1991 (year I was born) issue of American VOGUE and in it was a feature story on how women who dress well are perceived. Coincidence? I think not. The words: “Is a fashionable image empowering – or does it undermine authority?” triggered in me the oppression I often felt from my peers for coordinating my outfits well. Of course, this may sound like the cry of a preschooler who runs home to their mom saying, “they don’t like me cos of my hair,” but the truth is that our playground notions of ‘what is different should be mocked’ far outlive our education levels.

“Why should a woman repress any aspect of her personality?’ Woody Hochswender questions in this VOGUE piece. Sadly, I succumbed to the perceived ostracism for the sake of being heard in the dining hall (because res). Of course, this was at a time when I actually cared about being liked by people. When your own friends question your ability to grasp basic concepts such as that of laissez faire and your use of elementary words like “ambivalent”, you start wondering how much of a helpless princess aura your manicured nails and white pussy-bow blouse are exuding.

My guy friends told me it is highly unlikely that I am a feminist because I wear freakum dresses when I go out, tight jeans during the day and I listen to Hip-Hop (a genre of music that somewhat hates women). My opinions were downplayed at Gatherings, I got jabs about my Kings College (school in England) sweater not belonging to me because I couldn’t have possibly been smart enough to wow a panel of interviewers into going on exchange. There was a sense of a trivialising of my blog,  comments like “I had no idea you even knew that many words” and the yawn inducing question whenever a girl walked into the dining hall, “what do you think of what she’s wearing?” when I’m not even thinking about said girl at the time. 

These are examples of the remarks that made me feel like I would have an easier time stifling one of the very things that define me. More importantly, though, these are portrayals of what happens when you judge a book by its cover – you take that book and place it carelessly somewhere between international tabloids and children’s fiction before you even open it to read the first page.

“I would much rather you think of me as nothing more than a well coordinated outfit so that you may be shocked when I accomplish my trivial feats.” I subtweeted once in passive aggression.

The misconception about women who take care of their outward appearance is that they do it for the audience or to sartorially mimic the likes of the Kardashian/Knowles sisters, but never themselves. Now I mentioned that there was a point at which I cared about being liked people (not an anomaly might I add), but I never placed that need on my passion for material. Me being runway inclined had everything to do with how the textures, tags and trims made me feel and nothing to do with how others would feel once they saw me. 

Though metrosexual men also sometimes fall prey to the labels of applause-seeker and peacock, it never affects how they are viewed professionally; instead we use words like “dapper” and “gent” to describe them. Women, on the other hand receive all the labels that do nothing for us from a professional standpoint: sexy, sassy, bombshell, vixen and insert any other adjective that will eventually allude to a woman sleeping her way to the top.

The logic here is that a woman who is style literate cannot possibly have space in her head for anything else and therefore does not have the mental capacity to build a career meritoriously.

Former president of the American Civil Liberties Union, Nadine Strossen, said, “The more empowered I am, the more I dress to please myself,” and further elaborates on her point by stating that, “there is no way one can divorce one’s appearance from success.” Coming from a family that won the genetic lottery of good taste and aesthetics, Strossen’s words make me think of how impeccably the ladies in my family dress for the workplaces in which they hold leadership positions in male-dominated fields. They don’t hold these positions because their male colleagues were distracted by their sheer stockings neither do they dress well to get their way around the office. We dress this way because what you project on the outside is a reflection of what is happening inside you.

There's this double standard about the workplace. A woman dressed in a Margaret Thatcher banker’s grey suit does not necessarily guarantee a good work performance. Playing down your femininity to win the respect of your male counterparts is an unnecessary evil birthed from the false dichotomy of; femininity equals sexy equals weak or bad at what you do vs. masculinity equals merit & credentials equals respect/power. A man with an unbuttoned top button and loose tie at the end of the day is hardworking and admirable, but a woman with a loose bun can’t handle the pressure.

The problem with receiving compliments such as "sexy" or "bombshell" puts you in the “all pout-no clout” box (just coined that by the way).

They say a woman should always take care of the way she looks and Elizabeth Arden said, “To be beautiful is the birthright of every woman,” and I’ve always believed that there is no such thing as an ugly woman – only a lazy one. 

I love fashion. I love talking about it. I’m enthralled by its visual appeal. It is also unfortunately a misunderstood culture. Though misunderstood, I never felt that my love for it warranted an explanation to my friends (anti-establishment males, mostly, who represent a part of society that equates a full closet with an empty mind). I will say this though - Being a lover of all that is vogue does not make me its victim. There is a multitude of fads that I will never dabble in.

When you see a book cover, you don’t concern yourself with the font on the cover and put it back down because the illustrations are too evocative; instead you flip it over and you simply read. Try that next time you see a walking Vogue cover.

Hair Today, gone Tomorrow...

Growing up I never had much hair. I was not one of those babies with a hairband around a miniature afro. Don’t get me wrong, I was cute, but my hairband was around a few strands of baby hair rather than an afro. My hair only grew to a decent length during my pre-teen years when I discovered the joys of tying my hair up in different ways. My obsession with my hair is no different to any other black girl’s obsession with her hair. 

I also believe that almost every black girl’s insecurity or pride & joy has something to do with her hair – it is the bane of our existence. It starts in our formative years when our black parents buy us Barbie dolls with long, silky, blonde hair. My sister and I used to wash that hair, brush it and even plait it – in an act of living vicariously through these plastic models. These seemed easier than the extensive treatments our own hair has to go through. 

“Ethnic” hair requires that we chemically straighten (commonly known as relaxing) it every four to six weeks to give it that silky texture. I personally am not opposed to this practice (regrowth irks me), but what I have always been offended by is the fact that the packaging for these products has girls with hair extensions on them. It took me very long to realise this, though. All little black girls grow up under this impression. Is it any wonder we have such a love-hate relationship with our hair?

Beyond the hair relaxing and my hair length (yes, it is quite long now beneath a million braids), my major dispute is now with my hairline. After years of tugging and pulling every time I get braids or a weave (human hair extensions) installed, traction alopecia has crept in and so has another insecurity about tying all my hair back. Traction alopecia is commonly referred to as a receding hairline and it is most common amongst black women because of all the hair extensions we plant every other month. 

I remember tweeting the following one bad hair day: “Changing my hairstyle every month like I’ve been promised a new hair line,” and “Braid it and forget it,” explicitly portraying the frustration with my hairline, yet also fearing how much longer I have until I start balding.

The Oxford Dictionary gives the definition of “recede” as: “go or move further away from previous position” and “to gradually diminish.” The former explanation is what has literally happened to my hairline and the latter figuratively denotes what happens within us when this occurs – after some time the value we place on our hair diminishes and so does that feeling of grandeur, of running your fingers through your hair and posting enviable selfies on social networks. 

The more we try to salvage our hairlines, the further we push ourselves into that hairline abyss. It’s a vicious cycle. Hair loss may seem like a trivial matter to some, but when you've grown up aware of the "your hair is your crown" notion and suddenly when you look in the mirror, you see that some jewels have fallen off your crown, the gold is chipped and your reign is drawing nearer to an end, your self-esteem takes quite a knock. At the end of the day, hair loss is to a black woman in her prime what acne is to a teenager. Alas, we all have our insecurities.