There’s No Wrong Way to Wear a Ribbon
Except, you know, the way that is wrong.
I have been told on a number of occasions that I maintain the symptoms of a disorder that is prominently evident in toddlers. The name of this disorder has yet to be determined but the details include the process of receiving a gift and finding greater interest in the accoutrements that festoon the gift vis-a-vis the gift itself
Consider this prime example: a shiny white package, tied neatly with a long, red satin ribbon lands at my doorstep, right? Rather than race through that ribbon to see what’s inside of the concealed, sacred box, I stop short immediately after divorcing the wrapping from said box to marvel instead at how pristine and lovely and multifunctional this slender piece of lush cloth is.
I can wear it around my neck like a choker, or my wrist like a bracelet, or my upper arm like a blood pressure device and that’s not it. Said ribbon also moonlights as a hair tie that makes me feel like Sandra Dee if Ms. Dee had expressed a penchant for shoes that could be mistaken for dead cockroaches.
But wait! That’s still not it. You are always cutting me off.
The ribbon could also be used to harken back to the spirit of Saint Laurent’s debut collection with its floppy, rich bows. Granted, in this iteration, they’re considerably paltrier. It can also masquerade itself as a makeshift belt. One that, when paired with the proper jacket, might actually cause an onlooker to confuse you for Emmanuelle Alt (provided that this onlooker is either legally blind or at least an astigmatism carrier), otherwise it will make your waist look fancy and trim in an otherwise boxy and decidedly long jacket.
And when the opportunities appear so manifold (it can function as a headband when Coachella is on your horizon and you are an idiot), so diverse, so open to constructive criticism and ready to act accordingly, who really cares what’s in the box anyway, right?
Atea jacket, Everlane blouse, Isabel Marant Étoile pants and clear framed non-functional eyeglasses by Charlotte Ronson, which make me feel like a wonderfully kooky gardener from the depths of 1970 SoHo, named Suz.