Full disclosure: I am going to California tomorrow. My trip will start in Los Angeles where I will remain for one night, likely clothed very similarly to the way I outfit myself on New York’s concrete floors.
But come Friday morning, I make the trek to Indio where legions of women will undoubtedly trade in their ballet mid-heel flats (I am projecting) for suede ankle boots and traditional Goody-branded hair ties for flower crowns that ran their course in 2012.
There will be a slew of crop tops that will compliment denim cut-offs so short that they might redefine that denim diaper clause I first instituted in 2010. There will be a lot fringe. There might even be, in spite of better judgement and the Internet’s inevitable and reliable smack down which comes after the fact every single year, politically incorrect Native American headdresses.
And you know what? If you’re going and plan to dress like a desert hippie, power to you. This is exactly what fashion is about — playing dress up, day in and out. Assuming identities that are divorced from your own but can still conceivably fall into the genre of shit that makes you, you.
It’s just that at this point, to adhere to the archetypical dress code of Coachella renders you a stereotype more than it does an individual. So, in a bout of purported iconoclasticism, I am determined to forgo the flower crowns and fringe and dicker boots of yore and do me New York style. If not because I have never looked particularly good clad like a contrived hippie than at the very least to respect Kate Moss, who has had to watch the cues emblematic of her style fall through loops and layers of sometimes dismal interpretation.
Are you going to Coachella? Want to meet at a tent on the corner of reflective lens and white linen wearing culottes and a striped button up?
Let me know. I’ll be there.