A lesson in self hatred and the cure therein.

.. For years, I tortured my hair into blonde, addicted to the light. Ha ha bad pun. Now, I have let it grow out to it’s naturally dark, almost black brown color for the past year. And I LIKE IT. Anyone who knows me, knows what lengths of madness I went to twist myself into a pretzel to be blonde. If you want to be blonde, go ahead. Have fun. I’m cured. Who was I fooling?

And my eyes to which I never really paid much attention to are blue green with a darker blue ring around the eye. As a frame. How could I have missed this? Oh, yes I remember….too busy trying to turn into someone else. (Busy tearing off doll head)

Pale. Yep. Cannot tan. Great. Take my place, you can have it. Things that are greased up and broiled usually are found in the deli dept at the groceria.

So, to bolster my pitiful lack of self esteem , there’s going to be great enjoyment in discovering  what had been overlooked. Yep, it’s my party from now on. I jest LOVE ME!  And you’re all invited, any old way you choose.

Black lace. Red anything. Dangerous perfumery. The dance begins! Jezebel is out of the Barbie closet. Damn that doll. I am of the 19th century. Next, adventures in corsetry. Hatpins!

And for the finale, an ouevre from San Francisco. Many, well about 12 years ago, I was shopping in the Goodwill off of Market. It is a barn of a bldg., an old coca cola bldg with magnificent skylights. When I made SF my home away from home, it was my first stop when the urge struck. I was picking in the bins and noticed this older woman, hair balayaged gently, up in a topknot/chignon, wearing a black sweater, black sweater vest, long black skirt, and boots, with a delicate necklace. I would watch her and envy her style. Not quite ready to attempt such deadly chic, would watch her, and wonder how one gained such self confidence. I then complimented her on her attire, we got to talking, and voila, of course, she was French and lived in the neighborhood. I found a sweater there, boatneck, which is in storage and I love it to death.Just because it the sweater similar to hers that brings up fond, lovely memories. We’d say hello on occasion, one’s attention being directed to THE FIND in all this wonderment of discarded garmentry, a dollar, 1$ american for all you could fit into a gigundo hefty trash bag. I have some lovely plates, with gold rims and white calla lillies against a black background on the lip from there.

I bring this up because now that I have gotten over being a pretzel, I see this style in Elle. And by heaven, with the time I have left, am going to dress as that wise woman. Of course, living in SF would be proper, but that is yet to be, but will BE. Because I have come to terms with myself. St. Marilyn is still my patron saint and I know she’ll understand.

And no, I don’t know what perfume she wore, if at all. She inspired me and worked what subtle magic was there to be had.  I learned a lot up in SF and all of it flies. Still.

Even down to catching a trolley at the old Transit Bldg, in the fog, and seeing someone dressed in 19th century garb, disappearing into the fog on her way to something. Or maybe it was a ghost. I’ve never been quite sure of it.

 

 

And the only other woman I know who possesses that je ne se quois is Violet, and I do apologize for my mangled Francais. She rules. Period. NO if, ands, or buts about her style, and unapologetic zest for it all. I hope she writes a book on her philosphy.

To finish, trite as it may sound, love yourself while you can. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

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