I have yet to come upon a bobby that I don’t like.
There was first Bobby Fischer, who got me into chess, and then there was Bobby Moynihan, who got me into drunk uncles on Weekend Update. There is also Bobbi Brown, who taught me about the merits of facial brushes and there is my brother-in-law, Bobby, who is a decent human being.
Most pertinently, though, there are bobby pins, which have proven themselves an incredibly useful styling hack for the kind of woman who can’t sew, is too impatient (and hypocritically cheap) to wait on a tailor and believes enough in herself to set a change in motion — enter the below.
What you see in addition to a white poplin blouse layered over a black cotton turtleneck, paired with pants that both canonize and destroy the female fupa is an issue of length — one I wouldn’t go so far as to permanently adjust but that requires the aid of something in order to execute a crop. Enter the bobby pin. The mere placement of one on either side of the dedicated area I’d have liked to tuck into my pants but couldn’t because they were so damn tight, achieves the edit.
Amelia did this cool thing last week where she stole her male roommate’s pants (in order to maintain ownership, I suggested she tell him she got her period in them which I think worked famously but she will either confirm or disprove) and came to work looking like a shrunken car salesman who rides horses. It only got worse when she attempted to roll them up, rolled too high and therefore looked more like an outgrown car salesman who has just landed a role as an extra in Downton Abbey. Until, that is, I bobby pinned her. At this point, she looked like the satisfied Goldilocks equivalent of said car salesman.
This trick works effectively anywhere.
Say you’re layering a feather peplum under a button down a la Esther: crop the button down with bobby pins.
Sleeves too long? Flare leg too wide? Hair in your face? Bobby pin. It’s like the New York equivalent of Portlandia’s bird, only Fred Armisen has nothing at all to do with it.