The Bravura in Black
How are you going to stand out in a sea of black garments?
I’m not trying to make you feel worse about the Polar Vortex all up in your shit but because I am a huge asshole, here goes: maaaaaan am I glad to be in France right now. It’s almost…kind of…hot here. So much so that I could very well step out in the above outfit and even sweat if I walk too fast or far a distance.
As a matter of fact, I did do that. Yesterday. And frankly, this is only a point of victory for one streamlined reason, and something tells me you already know what the object of this sentence is going to tell you: that I was confused for a French person not one, not two, but three times (man once, woman twice) thus far. I’m actually playing this really fun game where every time that happens, I congratulate myself with a wheel of cheese — two when mistaken for a penis-holder.
But what I’m more concerned with is the fact that I’ve historically eschewed wearing black yet here I repetitively find myself, blending into the night.
And why have I hated it? Because of how it looks against my pasty-ass January skin and dark hair plus eyebrows and because the color is practically the bravura of all that which is blasé. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing worse than being told you look bad is being told you look boring which is an adjective almost em-black-matic of you know what.
In New York (and, you know, Paris), however, and especially during one hell’uv’a wicked winter, black is a hard default to dodge so what you’re looking at is actually my trying to solicit a little quelque chose épicé for the dark hole by utilizing five unassuming, self-proscribed style tips or cues or credos or what.
The first and second: Add a pair of white sneakers. Duh. It takes weight off the rest of the outfit and if you have neat striped socks that come in charcoal and black, add those too. Cheat your pants to appear cropped if they’re not so that you’re exercising your proficiency in one of the few predominately male tricks that we can actually, successfully pull off.
The third: Hold a clutch, don’t wear a purse, unless you really need or want to, in which case, deflect your instinct and do the chroma dance. (In order to do the chroma dance you just have to pelvic hump while holding a primary-colored container.)
The fourth: Wear, duh, lots of jewelry. My propensity is toward pinky rings, layered neck adornments and cuffs that are commonly thicker than my eyebrows.
The fifth is sort of the fourth. Wear a neckerchief because while your neck rules, that should remain a sanctity that tethers you to your aorta. Kind of the same way you’re privately married to your vagina. Knaaamean?