Ladies and g’s, a moment for Ms. Trunchbull and her ineffable chokey.
Okay! Glad that’s out of the way.
Today TMR takes you on a brief, rather slight journey back in time, but only to one really regular day in the early 1990s when my grandmother laid eyes on a seemingly simple white belt, made interesting and unique only because of a series of metal studs in varying shapes and sizes and different colored rhinestones, following the same shape and size suit, permeating said belt in a manner that all but cried Elvis.
The old adage “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” does not apply to my grandmother. As far as she is concerned, every knick, knack, and bona fide tchotchke that she has ever purchased in the history of her personal wealth forever maintain their status as treasure. Most days, I am slightly embarrassed by her just-diagnosed-by-me hoarding disease. On others, however, I am inordinately pleased to find that deep inside the trenches of her ever growing cabinet of Turkish curiosities, there are almost always conquests from her scavenge as an American citizen that might actually render trash in her eyes, sheer treasure in mine. Case in point: this belt, which is not Isabel Marant and will not be worn as a belt.
Now, I’m not sure if my shorter hair has elicited this neo-interest in wearing chokers or if Tommy Ton’s capturing post-catwalk models, Givenchy’s–and likewise Dior’s–entire spring shows and the previous records of Nina Ricci’s collections have. Either way though, I want them. All of them. And what’s better than buying them? Making them, duh. So why don’t you find an old ass belt and wrap that shit around your neck?
My only outstanding advice is don’t kill yourself.